They say you can’t find real help on the boardwalk. But that’s because they haven’t met Dr. Cliff.
Dr. Cliff is a seagull – rotund, salt-streaked, and at least 17 years old if the rumors are true. He’s lived through four hurricanes, a dozen mayors, and the Great Funnel Cake Fire of 2011. He knows things.
Every morning, Cliff hops onto the same bench near the Ship Bottom pier – the one next to the yellow trash barrel. That’s his office. And if you sit still long enough, he’ll diagnose you. Loudly.
Anxious about the wedding? He’ll scream in your face and knock your iced coffee into the sand. Translation: Let it go. It’s not your party.
Worried about your body in a swimsuit? He’ll rip a hot dog from your hand and swallow it whole. Translation: Nobody cares. You’re fine. Eat.
Nervous about your future? He’ll drop a little something on your shoe. That’s life, sweetheart. Wipe it off and walk.
Locals say he’s never wrong. Tourists say he’s rude. Kids think he’s hilarious. And therapists? They should probably start billing him for the referrals.
One woman brought him a french fry every day for a week, then left her fiancé and moved to Maine. Another man claims Cliff helped him quit his job and open a surf shop. (It failed, but he’s happier.)
Of course, there are skeptics. Not everyone believes a squawking seabird is qualified to offer mental health services. But Cliff doesn’t care. He’s not licensed. He’s not paid. He’s just out here, doing the work.
So the next time you’re spiraling about your to-do list while staring at the ocean, don’t be surprised if you feel a sudden gust, hear a scream, and lose your pretzel.
That’s just Dr. Cliff, reminding you that life is short.
And your snacks aren’t safe.
And maybe that’s the point.