What do you do if you find a baby Bermuda longtail fallen from its nest after the storm? Do you stop and stare awhile then walk on by shaking your head about the sad situation? Or can you do more?

I stood at the long row of windows running the length of our second floor, staring at the huge swells breaking in cascades of foam on the battered reefs of the South Shore.

I squinted through the glass, already opaque from wind-driven salt spray.

The storm was coming. Out there behind a wall of grey a mighty turbulence was wheeling its way towards me.

Untold power circled counterclockwise from an abyss of low pressure hurtling across the warm southern ocean.

I rolled down our metal shutters with their rotating handles. The storm was coming, and I surrendered to fate.

I am in God’s hands, as the saying goes, and not a thing I do will change that. It is time to wait it out. A blast of wind hit the shutters with a fierce rattle.

Hurricane Lee steamrollered by to our west, hidden by night, but the roar of the raging sea made me think of the beach far below us.

Would the sand still be there? Would the cliffs crumble under the force of the giant waves?

The next afternoon shafts of light appeared over the ocean. Radiant beams from heaven, they turned the rolling waves a milky turquoise.

The wind dropped, and Bill and I walked down the concrete steps to a pristine and empty beach.

Huge piles of stone had collapsed from the towering cliffs, but the beach itself was empty, and I felt the cool and pristine sand sink beneath my feet. We smiled at each other in happiness and relief.

Ahead of me, I saw a cute toy left just beyond the waterline and instinctively walked towards it.

“Bill!” I shouted. “It’s a bird!”

A young Bermuda longtail sat quietly composed a few feet beyond the incoming tide. It turned its head to look at us, but did not move. It was such a delicate ball of feathers, sitting like a prim schoolteacher, contained and composed.

“How beautiful!” I whispered. “Why is it here? Why doesn’t it go anywhere?”

“It’s exhausted,” Bill murmured. “Can you imagine what it’s been through?”

We looked up at the cliffs behind the sand, and then at the big incoming waves.

“It will be sucked in, rolled over, and it will drown. We have to move it.”

I knelt next to it and it tried to hop away. It gave itself a push, but hardly went anywhere.

Slowly, I moved my hands from behind and gently pinned its wings to its sides. The young longtail rotated its head and tried to peck me, but I was just out of reach.

I stood up gradually, and Bill motioned me to bring it to the base of the cliff, beyond the tide, where I slowly put it down.

When I let go, it spread it wings and gave another hop, but it was too much effort, and the lovely bird lowered its head to the sand, wings outstretched.

Its wingspan was about 50 centimetres – pure white with black markings on the top feathers. It lay there, too tired to fold them back in.

I imagined this exquisite bird as the aerial ballet artist it someday could be, and I knew we had to try and save it.

Bill and I looked at each other. “It will die here if we leave it,” Bill said solemnly.

I carefully picked it up again and we walked up the four flights of steps to the shady lane below our house.

Bill went ahead and got an empty shoebox. We put the bird inside with the top off and carried it into Ava’s empty bedroom.

The shutters were still closed. It was dim and quiet and warm. I put the shoebox down softly in the corner. The longtail tucked its head under its wing and fell fast asleep.

The Bermuda longtail is a special bird for Bill and me. It is a symbol of beauty, grace, elegance and love.

They mate for life in an aerial dance, soaring and whirling in an infinity of blue sky and towering clouds, high above the turquoise sea and breaking reefs.

After a summer rearing their young chicks in holes in the rocks above the shoreline, the parents fly away.

Then they separate and continue their odyssey, flying thousands of miles to the Sargasso Sea, the Bahamas and into the great unknown of the southern ocean.

In the spring, they fly back to Bermuda and find each other, still faithful to their original bond.

The solitary chick will get hungry, lose a little weight, and then on a mild breeze, it will leap from the nest, spread its wings, and fly.

We looked at each other and called the Bermuda Audubon Society.

Even though it was Sunday evening the Society president, Janice Hetzel, answered immediately.

Without hesitation she gave me the number of a licensed wildlife rehabilitator in Sandys, Lynn Thorne.

When she answered, I told her we were in Warwick, and she said she would be right over.

Now that’s dedication! Drop everything on a Sunday evening, get in your car and drive to a stranger’s house to save a young bird! I knew right away that this selfless work was her passion. It made me smile.

“First,” she said, “I have a few instructions. Do not touch the bird unless it is in danger. Carefully put it in a box or other container with a lid that still allows air to circulate. Do not try to give it water or food. Put it in a warm, dark and quiet place.

“People often make the mistake of trying to feed or hydrate a seabird. But seabirds get all the moisture they need from the fish they eat, and if they swallow a little salt water in the process, they have glands that excrete the salt.

“If you try to give it water or food it will aspirate, choke and die. Their body temperature is 105.5 degrees Fahrenheit, so they must be kept warm and dry. No air conditioning.”

She hung up, and I knew she was hurrying to her car.

Our lost bird now lives in Sandys. We named it “Hope” and it is in the company of three other young Bermuda longtails.

Hope is between six and eight weeks old and was either blown from the nest by the hurricane winds or washed out by the high surge. After a dose of electrolytes, Hope will recover.

Over the next few weeks, Hope will grow bigger – from 6.7oz to 12.7oz. Then, guided by instinct, this stronger bird will spread its wings and fly high over the skies of Bermuda and out to sea.

In three years, Hope will return, an elegant summer resident of our fair island, looking for love and happiness, as we all are.

If you find a young or injured bird, stay with it and call the Bermuda Audubon Society at 735-0441. Remember: no water or food. If you have to move it, keep it in a warm, dim, dry and quiet place.

• Nina London is the founder of Mermaid Wellness Centre for Women and a certified Chi Gong and Laughter Yoga teacher. Her mission is to support and inspire mature women to make positive changes in their bodies and minds. Contact her at www.ninalondon.com and on Instagram: @coachninalondon