The albatross is less of a bird and more of a 3.5-metre engineering flex. It is a flying machine in feathers. It does not fly in the way a sparrow does. Flapping is for amateurs. Instead, it uses dynamic soaring, which is a fancy way of saying it exploits the friction between wind and wave to stay airborne for years without ever needing to exert itself. It is a perpetual motion machine in feathers. A bird that has perfected the art of doing nothing while travelling. On the water, it is a majestic, ocean-spanning titan. On land, however, the illusion shatters. At places like Taiaroa Head, the truth is visible. They are essentially giant, awkward umbrellas with landing gear problems. They arrive on land with the grace of a collapsing deck chair, purely because they have to put a single, high-stakes egg somewhere. A bird that is elegant only in the air. That egg is a massive commitment. They raise one chick at a time, and they do it so slowly that the parents basically spend a year of their lives as a high-seas delivery service for a giant, sedentary ball of fluff. If that chick dies, that is a year of atmospheric mastery wasted. A bird that gambles everything on one egg. The tragedy is not just climate change. It is the longline fishing industry. The albatross has survived the most brutal storms the Southern Ocean can throw at it for millions of years, only to be taken out by a piece of frozen squid on a stainless-steel hook. The world's best pilots are being killed with snacks. The flight does not ask for permission or poetry. It just happens, thousands of miles from the nearest witness, until the physics finally stop working. The wind blows. The albatross soars, wings locked, covering miles without a flap. The longline trails behind the boat. The albatross dives for the bait. The hook catches. The bird that never touches land is dragged under.