My friend Norm lives on a gorgeous beachfront property. A mere stone's throw from the ocean, his house is pristine, with chic architecture, endless amenities, and an overall stately air that's impressively elegant yet still reserved and inviting. It's an enviable home, and I've heard stories of A-list celebrities and other VIPs offering inordinate amounts for the estate. Norm says I'm not allowed to disclose any specific names, but let's just say that there's a reason a certain someone whose name rhymes with Gill Bates doesn't live in South Carolina. Norm has no intention of selling the property — it's been in his family for three generations — and with my status as a close friend, I have no intention of letting him sell it.

Private theater, heated floors, and wine cellar aside, though, the manor's pièce de résistance is its ocean dock. Extending about twenty yards into the crisp water and protected by a small cove, the dock expands into a larger, rectangular platform on which Norm has arranged chairs and a table. It's become a favorite spot of mine for smoking a pipe, whether enjoying an Atlantic sunrise or relaxing as the afternoon heat ebbs into dusk.

Living on the coast can have its downsides though. Hurricanes present the most dangerous of crises, but the cove surrounding the property offers enough protection against severe wind and waves. Trash from beachgoers is also unpleasant, but Norm's beach is private; the only trash he has to worry about is the empty bottles his uncle Kyle refuses to properly discard during family gatherings. (Kyle's convinced that because sand is often used to make glass, the beach is a sustainable place to leave glass bottles, but he also thinks that cheese comes from the moon and that alligators are robotic, governmental machinations. Norm has stopped trying to explain to Uncle Kyle the benefits of recycling, keeps him away from swamps, and simply cleans up after him.)

The most consistent struggle Norm has had to overcome regards the local wildlife. Seagulls and geese have been regular nuisances since he inherited the property, but the various environmentally friendly deterrent methods he employed have proven successful, with only the occasional cleanup of animal waste necessary over the years. However, one particularly ornery tern defied Norm's efforts last year, and the incident nearly broke him.

... one particularly ornery tern defied Norm's efforts last year

It was the morning of February 29th, and Norm was enjoying his morning coffee at the end of the dock. Though the weather was warmer than typical for the time of year, he still donned a jacket and knit hat. The cloudless sunrise he watched predicted a day sprinkled with the hopeful beginnings of spring.

An arched silhouette rose on the horizon, backlit by the half-risen sun and gradually growing in size as it neared. Norm squinted to perceive the arriving form, and a chill wind suddenly swept from the ocean. He raised the collar of his jacket and tightened it around his chin, but still the wind's temper increased. His coffee, wafting with steam just seconds ago, was now frigid, and dark clouds obscured the sun. An otherworldly screech stiffened his spine, combining with the wind and causing him to shiver.

With his coffee cold and his outfit now unbefit, he walked the length of the dock to the beach, sparing a final glance over his shoulder at the incoming visitor. Its shape was visible now: a tern, but unlike any Norm had seen before. If not for its crisply angled wings and distinctive plumage, anyone could have mistaken it for an albatross or other obscenely massive bird. Its body was the size of a pitbull, its wings like palm fronds, and its orange beak curved and pointed like an Ottoman jambiya. The tern's flight was objectively innocuous, yet its presence and dark demeanor informed a prescient dread that grew as Norm returned to the house. From his kitchen window, he could now see the bird had landed on the dock, but it stood motionless and with a stance of confident ownership, its unwavering, sardonic gaze meeting his own.

Upon returning home from work that afternoon, Norm immediately reconnoitered the tern's status. The sight from his window discouraged all hope that the bird had simply intended a brief morning visit. It was no longer alone. Amassed along the dock were countless other birds, from geese and gulls to pelicans and vultures. They covered the entire surface, with dozens more floating in the water beside and circling in a conical formation above. At the apex of this cone stood the tern, perched on the dock's table like an invading king surveying his future dominion, with a coterie of smaller terns along the surrounding chairs.

At the apex ... stood the tern, perched on the dock's table like an invading king surveying his future dominion

Overcome by shock and a sudden urge to defend his property, Norm grabbed a nearby broomstick and sprinted across the beach toward the dock. The tern alit to meet him, the conical formation of birds above now strategically organized fighter jets behind it. They met on the sand as Norm frantically swung the broomstick like a broadsword above his head, but the birds overwhelmed him, baiting him to swing one direction while others flanked him to peck his neck and back as if from some Hitchcock-ian nightmare. In a hasty retreat, Norm fled homeward amid the barrage, the broom discarded and all his energy devoted to escape. They followed him across the back porch and to the doorstep, their scratching and biting ending only once he managed to shut the door behind him. Then, punishing the home with preternatural force, the horde slammed its bodies into the windows and siding and rendered the porch a broken mess of chairs, feces, and an overturned grill.

Norm sought safety in the bathroom, and after several minutes, the pounding subsided. Once he emerged from his refuge, he observed the birds back at the dock in their prior organization, but their warning salvo had been clear. The dock was now their fowl kingdom, the tern their monarch, and the ensuing days saw the beloved sanctuary riddled with fish carcasses and nests of driftwood. Annexed from the rest of Norm's property, the once pristine and inviting dock was now an occupied city state of wings and feathers.

The dock was now their fowl kingdom

The following week, Norm sought more clandestine tactics; any direct confrontation would prove as futile as his broomstick foray. He enlisted my help, and we monitored the birds' habits through binoculars and planned the next offensive. We considered shotguns, but based on the intel gathered from Norm's first encounter, we abandoned the idea: Even with two firearms and a bucket of rounds, there were too many birds. Any eliminated would be replaced by three others in the swarm, and once they closed the distance, the guns would be useless — not to mention the danger of friendly fire when attempting to fend avian attacks from off of our persons. Instead, we resorted to a war of attrition. Any full-fledged assault was impossible, but if we could make the dock inhospitable to the birds, they might consider relocation.

With preparations made and materials acquired, we awaited our moment. The birds typically left the dock around dawn to hunt and probably to plunder neighboring communities, providing a roughly 90-minute window for action. Under cover of the morning's mist, we crept to the dock after its occupants had departed. While Norm covered the surfaces with spike strips, I emptied vials of cat urine around the perimeter — you can get anything online. The lingering scent combined with the spikes were sure to deter the invaders.

We finished just as a cacophonous cloud rounded the edge of the cove, and we hurried back to the house to watch our handiwork's success. Several birds attempted to land on the dock but quickly pulled back when they noticed the studded surface. Others attempted a naval assault but within a few yards were suddenly startled by the feline scent and flew skyward. The tern, however, calmly hovered above the dock and faced our direction. I thought only hummingbirds could hover without a head wind, but this tern was no normal bird.

I thought only hummingbirds could hover without a head wind, but this tern was no normal bird

While the tern remained fixated on our position within the house, the rest of the battalion dispersed. All we had to do now was leave the dock in its uninviting state for a few days, and by that time, the birds would have found another place to terrorize and subdue. The legion's return ten minutes later dashed that hope.

They flew in two divisions. One carried sections of driftwood, pieces of discarded pallets, and other wooden scraps, and the other brought plastic buckets and littered cups. Working with efficiency and organization unmatched by human hands, the birds systematically subverted our efforts. Those with buckets and cups bailed water across the dock, washing away any remnants of cat piss, and the others covered the spike strips with wood, fashioning a second surface akin to the branches of a tree canopy and secured by the foundational spikes. What we had meant to repel them, the birds had used to fortify their position. The wooden surface was now more suitable for their clawed feet; we were the disadvantaged ones. All prospects of assaulting or sabotaging the dock again were gone, and all the while, the tern hovered above his cohort, mocking us.

The wooden surface was now more suitable for their clawed feet; we were the disadvantaged ones

I stayed the night at Norm's, and when I awoke, he was frantic, opening and slamming doors, pacing from room to room in search of something.

"Norm, Norm, what's wrong?" I asked.

"The birds, the goddamn birds. Why won't they leave me alone? Why? And now she's gone. I know they did it. I know it. I've had it. This is—"

"Okay, okay, slow down. Shhh. It's okay. Just relax and tell me what's going on."

"She's gone — Juno's gone, and I can't find her."

Juno, Norm's seven-year-old golden retriever wasn't in her usual spot on the couch, and her food bowl remained full from when Norm had filled it earlier that morning.

"I'm sure she's just outside exploring," I said. "She comes and goes through the dog door as she pleases. You know that. I'm sure everything's totally fine."

"I know. I know. But she's always back by now for breakfast. This isn't normal."

A sudden bark drew us outside, and we could see Juno on the beach halfway between us and the dock. She heard our calls and whistles but defiantly turned and approached the dock. Fearing for her safety, Norm sprinted from the back porch to the middle of the beach, stopping equidistant to avoid inciting a response from the birds.

They roosted across their palace, with the tern on its throne, and the constant tornado of birds circled above. Norm's calls grew louder and more pleading, but Juno ignored them all, scampering up to the dock's walkway. Instead of attacking, though, the birds guarding the entrance merely parted and allowed the dog through. She made eye contact with the tern and, without breaking the gaze, walked trance-like across the makeshift floor of logs and branches to the tern's throne room at the end to sit on the bird's right. Norm's cries were silenced by a growling snarl, and he sank to his knees in the sand. The term's revenge had come swiftly and to great effect.

I helped him back to the house, but he remained quiet. Even after a cup of coffee, he stared blankly at the ground. I left a little later but promised I'd check in soon. He didn't answer my calls or texts for the next two weeks, and I started to worry. It wasn't like him to go completely dark. Stealing a man's dock is bad enough; taking his dog crosses a line, and it can push him to unimaginable limits.

Stealing a man's dock is bad enough; taking his dog crosses a line

Fifteen days later, he finally returned my calls, waking me at five in the morning.

"It's come to this," he said.

"Come to what, Norm? Are you okay? I've been trying to reach you, man."

"I've tried everything, but there's no stopping them. I tried sniping them from the safety of my porch, but they flew together in complicated patterns, impossible to hit. Then they came for me, and I almost lost my eyes making it back inside. I called an extermination service, and they laughed. 'Birds are birds,' they said. 'They don't take over docks and conquer beaches,' they said. 'We can't exterminate them from the outdoors,' they said. That tern is no bird though. It's diabolical. This ends today."

"Ends? How? What are you talking about, Norm?" Silence. "Norm?"

I threw on clothes, grabbed my bag, and rushed to his house. It was just dawn when I arrived, so I knew the birds' 90-minute absence had started. Whatever Norm was planning, he would be executing it now.

I raced to the dock and found him on all fours in the shallow water near the walkway. He wore black fatigues and a black skullcap, and wires sprang from his pockets. Upon hearing my footfalls, he stood up and turned, black grease-paint streaked beneath his eyes.

"You look ridiculous, Norm."

"I'm ending it, Truett."

"But how? We've tried everything."

"Not everything," he said, and held up a small cube with a red button. "The dock is wired with 25 pounds of C4. I told you: I'm ending it."

"The dock is wired with 25 pounds of C4. I told you: I'm ending it."

"C4, Norm?? Where in the world did you get that? How did you get that?"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER. All that matters is that after today there will be no more birds. No more dock; no more birds. Nothing. It's done."

"You can't blow up your dock, Norm. That's insane. C'mon, let's go inside, have some coffee, and assess our options."

"There are no other options. This is it."

I sat down in the sand and retrieved a pipe from my bag. When there aren't words left to say, I often replace them with a pipe. It keeps my mouth from saying things I shouldn't and gives my mind some time to think. Norm joined me in the sand, and we sat in silence as I packed a bowl.

"So there's nothing I can say to keep you from blowing up your dock?"

"Nope."

"What if I pin you down, take the detonator, and throw it in the ocean?"

"Truett, I was a Division I wrestler in college. Also, the detonator is designed to automatically initiate a charge if smashed or damaged, so you'd only kill us both."

"Yeah, I figured it was a long shot. Well, if convincing you isn't possible and overpowering you is out of the question, then let's at least enjoy one last smoke on the dock before you blast it to smithereens. Can you grant me that?"

"I guess that's fair," he said, looking at his watch. "We've still got an hour before they return."

We're lucky no one saw us bear crawl our way across the dock, balancing on the branches to avoid the underlying spikes. We weren't graceful. Clearing the chairs of debris, I handed him one of the pipes from my bag, and we sat one last time on the dock to enjoy a smoke together.

Smoking seemed to return Norm to his normal self, and soon we were laughing and catching up after having not spoken for several weeks. He'd received another ridiculously high offer for the house, but this time he had a logical deterrent. He sent them a picture of the dock and its new owners and didn't hear from the prospective party again. At least the bird occupation was useful for something.

We became so engrossed in conversation that we lost track of time, and before we could act, the birds returned. They came like banshees, a feathered mass of deafening shrieks and caws, and encircled the dock in concentric rings flying in opposite directions — the tern strategically commanding the center. The sky darkened, and waves grew and crashed against the dock's sides, spilling over onto our feet. We were trapped; the water or the precarious walkway were our only avenues of escape, and either would leave us defenseless.

They came like banshees, a feathered mass of deafening shrieks and caws

"So, this is how it ends," Norm said, and raised the detonator in a defiant fist toward the tern.

"Don't you dare press that," I said. "We're not going down without a fight."

Standing on the chairs, we grabbed nearby sticks and prepared for the incoming onslaught, but none came. A few ambitious seagulls dove in our direction but quickly retreated as if struck by some unseen force. The air was still, apart from the legion's cries and our wafting pipe smoke, but nothing explained the birds' hesitation.

The standoff continued until finally the tern descended. Wings back and arrow straight, it beelined for Norm. I watched in horror as Norm ducked instinctively for protection, stick raised in prayerful defense. As the tern swiftly closed the distance to Norm's head, he exhaled a puff of smoke. The tendrils rose in front of him, and the tern's demeanor transitioned from arrogant malevolence to anxious disorientation. It floundered in the air, as if suddenly forgetting how to fly, and ascended and descended in rapid, pandemonious succession before returning to its place above us.

Norm and I made eye contact and knowing expressions replaced our previously forlorn visages.

"Keep smoking," I said. "And whatever you do, don't stop."

While Norm stoked his pipe to emit billows of smoke, I fumbled through my backpack and withdrew three unopened tins of tobacco.

We took turns re-packing our bowls to ensure one always stayed lit, and with every new bowl, more and more birds abandoned the sky above us until only the tern remained. It looked less imposing without its army, and it bore an expression of disappointment — but one free of smoldering anger, just sadness. It, too, eventually left, soaring out over the ocean back to the hell that spawned it.

Continuing to smoke our pipes, we cleared the dock of logs, branches, spike strips, and — of course — explosives, and returned to the house. We kept a vigilant eye the rest of the day, certain the birds would return, but they never did. Juno came back, though, rambling up the porch steps as if nothing unusual had happened. She's her normal self again, no growls or snarls, yet she displays an uncanny, newfound love for birds.

Norm and I have since started a tradition of smoking pipes together on the dock every morning, and no tern or other bird has attempted to overthrow us. On one of these mornings, several months after the Tern War, we reflected on the incident.

"Norm, did you ever figure out what it is about pipe smoke that birds don't like?"

"No, I didn't. It could have to do with disorienting their sense of direction or blurring their vision, but I haven't been able to find any concrete explanation."

"Well, as long as it keeps working, I'm all right with never knowing the reason behind it."

"Yeah, I guess it's just another one of pipe smoking's great mysteries — right up there with 'where's all my tobacco gone?' and 'why do my tampers keep running away?' Plus, it's a real-life testament to that old pipe-smoking adage."

"I guess it's just another one of pipe smoking's great mysteries — right up there with 'where's all my tobacco gone?'"

"Pipe-smoking adage?"

"Yeah, you know the one: A pipe a day keeps the dock tern away."

"Where's that detonator?"