Last week, at the quack of dawn, thousands of ducks descended upon campus. Atop tables, gates and flowerpots, an army of tiny rubber ducks assembled. They popped up in gyms, classrooms and even coffee shops. Nowhere was too sacred to be free of the ducks. Or safe. 

One thing you must know about me: I probably love ducks more than anything else. See exhibit A for evidence. So when the ducks appeared on campus, I was initially ecstatic. 

Exhibit A: way back in the day, at the exact point my personal style peaked.

Filled with the usual journalistic drive — it’s called nosiness for those who have never encountered someone from the YDN — I needed to know who was behind the appearance of the ducks. I hoped to meet the other duck enthusiasts on campus. All I wanted was to write a short article for the University desk explaining where the ducks had come from, filled with a shortage of useful information and to the brim with duck puns: simple, snappy, and with a little bit of dad humor. I pitched the article to my editors, and they gave me the green light. 

I did not know what I was in for. 

The first step was to pond-er over it. Why did these ducks appear? First, I exhausted the obvious options. The Odd Ducks, a sketch and stand-up comedy group, was a logical choice. Or perhaps the Yale Birding Student Association was the culprit. After all, they hosted a duck talk recently.  Could it be a rogue faction of students from CS50, a large computer science class that uses an AI duck for problem set advice? 

I came up empty but knew who to go to. 

I asked my roommate about the ducks, and she quickly found an Instagram account. Usually, sourcing for an article is relatively uncomplicated. I meet up with a source, ask them questions and get the answers necessary for an article. Most sourcing does not include the receipt of mysterious coordinates. Most sources do not find out where I live. 

The account was called Ducks of Yale and had hundreds of photos of the tiny ducks around campus on their profile. Their Instagram bio read, “Bringing a waddling of ducks to @yale! 1800 ducks around campus need loving homes! See one, take one! Not affiliated with Yale.” Each duck on the account had a name. Elizabeth was attached to a DANGER CONSTRUCTION sign. Ethan and Adam chilled on separate fire alarms. The account confirmed the observations I’d made in the wild: the ducks were everywhere. 

I’d found our guy.

Naturally, I messaged them, introducing myself as a beat reporter, asking for the egg-splanation about the ducks, and telling them about the timeline for the article. Hours later, I received a message back.

Coffee chat.

Tomorrow.

Okay, not a bad start. I asked them for a time and place. 

8:30 PM. 

My roommate quacked up when I told her they requested a coffee chat at night. In all honesty, I would scoff at a coffee chat scheduled for 8:30 p.m. at any place but Yale. Here, any time seems to be game for caffeine and conversation.

My roommate also reminded me that I should probably find out who I was messaging for safety reasons, especially if we were to meet up at night. I asked who I was talking to.

The ducks organization.

Of course. Well, I figured that anyone with a passion for ducks couldn’t be too menacing. I brushed past the mystery and asked where they wanted to meet up. 

It is imperative that we meet at 41.317767, -72.922554. 

Against my better judgment, I plugged the coordinates into Google Maps. The location was between Kline Tower and Sterling Chemistry Lab, two places that I hardly ever waddle over to, much less for coffee at night. 

I thought about the possible outcomes of this meet-up. In the best-case scenario, one person would show up at the scheduled time and place, giving me a concise, friendly explanation for the ducks. In the worst case scenario, I would be ab-duck-ted. The most likely case was that no one would show up, and I would stand out in the cold for ten minutes before making my way back to cross-campus. 

I ruminated on the possibilities. Meanwhile, the duck flock moved in on its target. 

When I returned to my dorm in the evening, a tiny rubber duck was perched on the sign outside of my dorm. I laughed uneasily. I assumed my roommate decided to prank me, with her being the only person with knowledge of my conversation with the duck organization. I asked her if she was the culprit. She did not know what I was talking about. 

Next, I asked my suitemates. Neither of them put the duck there. One of my suitemates told me she was sitting in the hallway when two guys came by the dorm, waiting for her to leave the hall. When she didn’t, they hurried to place the duck there before flying away.

Unless my suitemate was lying and placed the duck there, the little rubber duck in front of my dorm signaled that their flock had found me. 

When I told my suitemates I intended to meet up with the mysterious duck flock at night behind Kline Tower, they informed me that might be a stupid idea. Perhaps I’d left the nest too soon for my survival instincts to catch up with my newly minted college freedoms, mainly the ability to contact strangers online about my interests and call it journalism. 

Exhibit B: the open invitation for an explanation.

The next day, I moved around campus in slight terror. I contracted anatidaephobia, the fear that a duck may be watching you, which is a real thing. Look it up if you are skeptical. I walked to JE to get lunch. A duck watched me from its station atop a scroll on the gate. I attended a review session in Davies Auditorium. A duck stared from a metal art installation on the wall. When I arrived back at my dorm, there was no relief. The duck surveyed me from the doorway. 

Exhibit C: symptoms of anatidaephobia

No more ducking around. I had to take charge. Up until that point, I was just winging it. That night, I messaged the duck organization that I decided not to meet up but would still appreciate a response for the article if it was possible. 

the duck flock would love to meet you though!

if the location or time is a problem we could arrange that.

Initially, I said no, but upon further consideration, I decided that I had to pursue this lead in the noble pursuit of serious journalism. I asked them if we could chat in a central location, preferably in broad daylight. 

Regarding this request for a meeting under more favorable conditions, the duck organization never got back to me. Ouch. I had to live with the fact that I would never know who was behind the tiny rubber ducks. 

A day after ending this investigative duck-bacle, I lay down in bed and sighed. Although the case was not closed, I could live with the knowledge that there would be no more strange coordinates, coffee chats at night, or ducks perched outside my door going forward. 

I turned over my pillow and nestled in between my blankets. That’s when I felt it. A tiny lump beneath my head. I sat up and screamed. A beady, painted eye stared up at me, unblinking. One tiny rubber duck invaded the last place of sanity I had left on this campus. 

Someone placed a bill under my pillow. And I had not left a tooth there.

I am ashamed to admit that I fell asleep five minutes later, after tossing the duck in the cavity between my bed and the wall, the place where things go and never return. In all honesty, the three midterms scheduled back-to-back the next day terrified me much more than any potential stalker.

In the morning, the culprit came clean. My roommate had found a rubber duck on campus and put it under my pillow. Honestly, I really respect the prank. At least I knew how one of the ducks made its way into my nest. 

If the duck flock is reading this, know that I appreciate your love of ducks and for putting them across campus. Also, know that I live in slight fear of moving into an apartment someday and coming back home to a rubber duck ominously placed on my doorstep. 

And if my roommate is reading this, just remember that April Fool’s Day is coming up.