Ever heard of a bird that spends its whole life on the open ocean and only touches land to lay an egg in a dark crevice on a tiny, wind-swept island? It’s real. We’re talking about the Xantus’s Murrelet. If you haven’t heard the name lately, it’s probably because scientists recently split the species into two—the Scripps’s Murrelet and the Guadalupe Murrelet—but for many of us who grew up watching the Pacific, it’ll always be the Xantus’s.
It’s small. About the size of a fat robin. But don't let the size fool you because these things are absolute tanks of the avian world. They thrive in the freezing, churning waters of the California Current. Honestly, it’s a bit of a miracle they exist at all given how many things want to eat them.
Why the Xantus’s Murrelet is Actually a Badass
Most people think of "seabirds" and picture seagulls stealing fries at the pier. The Xantus’s Murrelet is the exact opposite of that. It lives a life of extreme isolation. These birds are part of the Alcidae family, which means they’re cousins to puffins and auks. They don't walk well. On land, they sort of shuffle and trip. But in the water? They fly. They use their wings to "fly" underwater, chasing down larval fish and krill with a speed that’s honestly hard to track with the human eye.
They’re mostly black on top and white on the bottom. This is classic counter-shading. If a shark looks up, the white belly blends with the sky. If a hawk looks down, the dark back blends with the deep water. It’s a simple trick, but it works. Usually.
The Midnight Run
The most wild thing about these birds is their parenting style. It’s high-stakes. They only nest on islands like the Channel Islands in California or off the coast of Baja. Because they’re so vulnerable to predators like gulls or ravens, they only come to their nests under the cover of pitch-black darkness.
If there’s a full moon? They might not even show up. They'll wait for the clouds.
When the chicks hatch, they don’t stick around to be fed. Most baby birds stay in the nest for weeks, right? Not these guys. Within two nights of hatching, the tiny, downy chicks—which look like little cotton balls with feet—scramble out of their rock crevices. They tumble down cliffs, bounce off rocks, and throw themselves into the crashing surf.
👉 See also: 3000 Yen to USD: What Your Money Actually Buys in Japan Today
Their parents are out there in the waves, calling to them. The chicks have to swim through the foam to find them. Once they reunite, the family swims straight out to sea, sometimes covering dozens of miles in the first 48 hours. They never return to land until they’re ready to breed years later.
The Name Change Drama
If you’re looking through a modern field guide, you might find yourself confused. In 2012, the American Ornithologists' Union decided that the northern and southern populations were different enough to be separate species.
The northern ones became Scripps’s Murrelet (Synthliboramphus scrippsi).
The southern ones became Guadalupe Murrelet (Synthliboramphus hypoleucus).
Scientists looked at the genetics and the white patterns around the eyes. The Guadalupe version has more white. Does it matter to the average birdwatcher? Maybe not. But for conservation, it changed everything. Instead of one vulnerable species, we suddenly had two "endangered" or "threatened" species with even smaller populations.
Where They Actually Live (And How to See One)
You won’t find these guys at the beach. You just won't. To see a Xantus’s Murrelet (or its new iterations), you have to get on a boat. We're talking "pelagic" birding. This usually involves heading out to the edge of the continental shelf where the water drops off and the nutrients well up from the deep.
The best spot is the Channel Islands National Park off Ventura and Santa Barbara. Anacapa Island and Santa Barbara Island are the "hotspots." If you take a ferry out there in the spring, keep your binoculars glued to the water. They sit low. They look like little floating footballs.
✨ Don't miss: The Eloise Room at The Plaza: What Most People Get Wrong
Survival is Getting Harder
Historically, these birds were nearly wiped out by "accidental" invaders. Think rats. When a ship wrecked or a fishing boat pulled up to an island, rats would get off. For a bird that nests on the ground in a hole, a rat is a nightmare. A single rat can eat every egg and chick on a colony in a season.
There was a massive effort on Anacapa Island years ago to get rid of the rats. It was controversial at the time because it involved aerial baiting, but it worked. The murrelet population bounced back almost immediately. It’s a rare win for conservation.
But now they face new stuff.
- Light Pollution: Bright lights from squid fishing boats or oil rigs can disorient them at night. They fly toward the light and crash into structures.
- Climate Change: If the water gets too warm (like during a bad El Niño), the krill and small fish disappear. The parents have to fly further for food, and the chicks starve.
- Oil Spills: Since they spend 95% of their lives sitting on the water, a surface oil slick is a death sentence.
Identifying the Murrelet vs. Everything Else
If you're on a choppy boat, everything looks like a piece of kelp or a floating bottle. Here’s how you actually tell it’s a Xantus’s type murrelet:
- The Size: It’s tiny. If it looks big, it’s a gull or a cormorant.
- The "Neckless" Look: They look like their head is attached directly to their shoulders.
- The Behavior: They almost always travel in pairs. They’re "twins" out on the water.
- The Flight: They have very fast, whirring wingbeats. They don't glide. If it’s gliding, it’s not a murrelet.
They have this sort of "startled" look because of the white patch under their chin and around their eyes. It’s pretty cute, honestly, if you can get close enough to see it.
The Experts Weigh In
Researchers like Harry Carter spent decades studying these birds. He was one of the first to really sound the alarm about how vulnerable they were to oil spills. More recently, organizations like the California Institute of Environmental Studies (CIES) have been doing the "grunt work"—climbing around on jagged island cliffs at 2:00 AM with headlamps to count nests.
🔗 Read more: TSA PreCheck Look Up Number: What Most People Get Wrong
It’s not glamorous. It smells like guano. It’s slippery. But without that data, we wouldn't know that the Guadalupe Murrelet is actually much rarer than we thought.
Misconceptions You Should Probably Ignore
People often think these birds are related to penguins because of the black-and-white tuxedo look. They aren't. Not even close. Evolution just happened to find the same solution for "how to hide in the ocean." Also, people think they’re "weak" because they’re small.
That’s nonsense.
A bird that can survive a Pacific winter storm in the middle of the ocean while weighing less than a quarter-pound is basically a superhero. They don't need land. They drink saltwater and excrete the salt through glands in their nose. They’re built for the deep.
Practical Steps for the Curious
If you’re actually interested in seeing or helping these weird little birds, don't just read about them. Do something about it.
- Book a Pelagic Trip: Look for birding boat tours out of San Diego, Ventura, or Monterey. Spring (March-May) is prime time for seeing them in their breeding plumage.
- Watch Your Lights: If you’re ever on a boat at night near the Channel Islands, keep the deck lights low. It saves lives.
- Support Island Restoration: Groups like Island Conservation work to remove invasive species from nesting islands. That is the #1 way to keep these birds from going extinct.
- Check the eBird Data: Before you head out, check eBird to see where recent sightings have happened. It’ll save you hours of staring at empty water.
The Xantus’s Murrelet is a reminder that the most interesting things in the world are often the things that are the hardest to find. It’s a small, quiet life lived on a massive, loud ocean. Next time you’re looking out at the Pacific, realize there’s a whole world of these tiny "X" birds just over the horizon, dodging waves and waiting for the sun to go down so they can hurry back to their rocky homes.