...besides So Long and Thanks For All The Fish. Obviously.
All this reminiscing about Hawaii brings to mind the "Incident of the Dolphin's Red Leaf" which I shall now relate to you. Dolphins have this mythological aura about them, like they're these smart, kind, benevolent creatures. Almost godlike, they love us and want to heal our diseases with their magic echo beam. Then there's the people that eat them, and classify them with tuna. What I found out in Hawaii is the obvious - first and foremost they are wild animals, living their own animal life, and not at all the fairy unicorns of the sea that we imagine. Just cause humans love them, and are fascinated by their intelligence and ability to play, doesn't mean the dolphin cares.
When I caught sight of my first dolphin pod on the shores of the Big Island, I eagerly swam out into the Pacific ocean to wave a neighborly Hello to a fellow intelligent mammal. I had a suspicion that they were not going to welcome me like a long-lost relative, but still the absolute lack of acknowledgment surprised me. They are the cats of the sea, they will IGNORE you. And unlike the various cat species, they do not see us as food, or as a provider of food, or comfort, or even a danger, so they have no reason to notice us whatsoever. I had come to terms with this melancholy fact after spending some time trying to keep up with a lazily circling pod.
The dolphins come to hang out at the beach-side, much like people - to get some rest. Their version of sleep is quite different from ours, as they sleep only half a brain at a time, they are always conscious enough to keep swimming and coming up for air. They "sleep" or rather - rest, in groups of about 15, and spend the time communicating between themselves, doing flips and jumps when they surface, and yes, ignoring tourists. Also, their idea of "lazily swimming" translates to a person, wearing a snorkling mask and flippers, swimming very hard to barely keep up. And those few times they actually moved at normal speed - well it looked like underwater lighting. I've seen a big and small dolphin swimming side by side, nuzzling each other as they went. Once I watched a dolphin dragging a leaf on his flipper, and when it floated away at one point, saw him double back to retrieve it. I've seen the rugged leader of the pod, swimming apart from the group, keeping watch over the rest. But despite us sharing a high intelligence and ability to play and care for each other, they kept to themselves.
The most exciting interaction would happen if you're lucky to be swimming right above the pod as they decide to come up for air. It's quite a rush suddenly being surrounded by 15 large agile creatures. As they come up, they do flips and spins above water, and I pretend I'm an Olympic judge, grading their "form". "That's 6 points, I know you can jump higher." "Oooh that was 9 points! An almost perfect spin-flip folks!" "3 points - slapping the surface with your tail is Not what I call showmanship" And so on. Then they sink back down into the blue. Sometimes instead of watching them as they surfaced, I would try to show off myself, hoping to get their attention - you know - a wink, a surprised glance at this strange creature who could move their legs like a mermaid tail - SOMETHING. But instead my underwater acrobatics would leave me breathless, and by the time I was done blowing water out of my snorkel, they would all be too far away to be seen through the underwater blueness.
And so I grew jaded and pessimistic, trying to gently let down the eager tourists who asked me for dolphin info. If I heard someone bragging they had an unspoken bond of friendship with the local dolphin pod, I filed those people with the UFO nuts. I resigned to the idea that the dolphin parade was a show to be observed, not a call for participation. They didn't want me and my brimming love and curiosity. But when I spotted a group of dorsal fins in the water, I would still swim out there, a chance to hang out in the company of a wild dolphin pod is not something you turn down. Although most of the time I felt like a creepy stalker. I imagined the dolphins when they got back to the deep ocean after their nap would have conversations like - "Mommy, why is it when I sleep, I always feel like someone's watching me?" or "I've been having this dream about awkward-looking clumsy creatures. And it's like every f-ing time I try to get some sleep! What the heck?"
One day I swam out there and saw the leaf-game again, a dolphin dragging a long leaf on his flipper. It was from the large tropical plants on the shore - a perfect red color, and the brightest thing in the hazy blue glow. I watched him let go of the leaf, and another dolphin swim up to snag it on its fin. I heard myself giggling through the snorkel tube, wondering how they got ahold of a leaf that bright, and how long it had been getting passed around - did dolphins have a Guiness Book of Records? Longest leaf-game, tallest jump, most fish stunned with sonar? As I was wondering this they started to surface all around me, and I dived deep to meet them halfway. We came up to the surface together - me doing my best imitation of dolphin movements. The one with the leaf came closer and I reached out for him, he slid the leaf off his flipper just out of my reach and was gone. With great excitement I scrambled towards that leaf, thinking - "OMYGOD they're including me in their game!?!" I have to carry that leaf on my arm and then pass it on!!! When you're trying to hurry underwater you feel extremely slow and clumsy, so with dreamlike movements I finally pulled that red leaf toward me, it was like a ribbon floating in space. Then I looked around for my benefactor, but they were ALL gone. For a second I felt guilty for breaking the flow of their game, but then realized that They gave Me a GIFT. I returned to the beach beaming with pride. It was as if a Rockstar had taken off his shirt after a great show, and thrown it right at me. This was the acknowledgement of my existence that I've been waiting for all this time. They couldn't play the game with me, I was much too slow and clumsy, but they had gifted me the leaf. The dolphins had finally taken note of me and judged me by their standards - "She's playful and curious, but not really bright enough to talk to, and a pity about the awkward body structure. Give her a leaf to play with or something"
Unfortunately after bringing that leaf out on land and showing it off to people, it soon dried out and became just another leaf among hundreds. I didn't keep it. But I kept this story, and the conviction that dolphins have a sense of humour.
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