The Puffling Patrol in the Westman Islands, Iceland
Late summer in the secluded Westman Islands, known in Iceland as Vestmannaeyjar, marks the start of the Puffling Patrol. During this period, pufflings (the official term for puffin chicks) hatch from their high cliffside nests, and both residents and visitors engage in a cherished tradition that assists these young birds in finding their path home.
Once pufflings hatch, they instinctively head towards the sea but often mistake city lights for stars, leading them to become disoriented in town. Volunteers come together at night, equipped with cardboard boxes, to locate and rescue confused pufflings. The chicks are then transported to the Sea Life Trust, a dedicated beluga whale and puffin rescue organization, where they undergo a health evaluation. Once cleared, they are released back into the ocean, ensuring their survival.
The Westman Islands were shaped by underwater volcanic action occurring 10,000 to 20,000 years ago, and only one island, Heimaey, is populated. Dubbed the puffin capital of the world, the Puffling Patrol has been an enduring tradition for many decades.
Over the years, puffin populations have dwindled, primarily due to warming waters that negatively affect their diet and nesting conditions. As ocean temperatures rise, ensuring the safety of young chicks becomes increasingly vital as more find themselves in peril.
My six-year-old son, Finn, had developed a fascination with puffins, continually expressing his desire to see the “clowns of the sea” in person. My husband and I casually considered a family camping trip to Iceland, but it remained a loose idea until Finn mentioned a trip to Disney, inspired by friends from school. In a bid to avoid what we perceived as a costly manufactured experience, we instead secured our tickets to the land of fire and ice, seeking authentic adventures in the breathtaking wilderness.
Despite visiting Iceland during late August, known as peak puffin season, we journeyed for four days around the south and east of the Ring Road without catching a glimpse of a single puffin. Thus, I felt relieved when we hopped on the ferry to Heimaey, a puffin hotspot.
The ferry ride showcased stunning landscapes, featuring colossal volcanic rocks draped in lush greenery emerging from crystal-clear waters. Above, puffins glided in and out of their nesting areas within the jagged cliffs. While we found joy in this breathtaking scenery, Finn remained unsatisfied, insisting, “They are too far away. I need to see their beaks!”
We pitched our tent at what could be imagined as a Nordic fairy tale location (Vestmannaeyjar Camp Site) and ventured into town. Although we encountered street signs adorned with puffin beaks and bars featuring drunken puffins as mascots, the real birds eluded us. I had envisioned the town bustling with locals carrying cardboard boxes full of tiny pufflings in need of safety, yet it was a quieter scene. Much like any great fairy tale, a quest was necessary—something to progress the story. We were determined to see those beaks.
The following morning, while my husband enjoyed golf at the Herjólfsdalur Golf Course near our campsite, Finn and I set out for the Sea Life Trust, with hopes of spotting puffins along the way. If that failed, my hopes for encountering these delightful birds at the Trust, also a small aquarium, were strong. Given the twenty hours of daylight and the time difference, we rose early, well before The Trust opened at 11 AM. Avoiding the campground, and craving some proper coffee, we headed into town after enjoying our breakfast of skyr (Icelandic yogurt).
We followed the signs heralding the puffins and passed numerous puffin statues, yet still encountered no actual puffins in the wild. While our impending visit to the Trust should have uplifted my spirits, I felt a slight disappointment. I was reluctant to express that I considered visiting an aquarium a less-than-authentic way to experience puffins for Finn’s sake. After all, we had journeyed so far for genuine encounters, not just staged moments.
As the clock approached eleven, we began the walk toward the Trust, our moods brightening at the prospect of meeting real puffins and beluga whales. Above us, puffins glided, seemingly mocking our search. Out of the blue, a fisherman approached, towel in hand. Inside the towel, a tiny, damp puffling lay nestled.
In a classic fairytale twist, our quest concluded just in time, coinciding perfectly with Finn’s hopes. He reached out with delicate fingers to touch the puffling’s beak, an encounter that felt utterly magical.
The fisherman explained the process: he would take the puffling to the conservatory for evaluation. We followed him inside to witness the weighing and examination of our new little friend. Feeling lighter and more connected to the puffin experience, we enthusiastically explored the Trust, greeting other puffins and belugas who had been rescued just like our newly rescued puffling.
On our return stroll to the campsite, my husband called, inviting us to meet him at the golf course. As we arrived, the cliffs surrounding the course erupted with a spectacular show of puffins in the sky. Standing there, dwarfed by the magnificent cliffs and surrounded by what seemed like hundreds of soaring puffins, we felt a spell of enchantment wash over us. “Dad, those are definitely puffins,” declared Finn with certainty. “I met one, so I know.”
