CHAPTER TWENTY – FIVE

Weeks went by as I learned more and more from the whale

and at times even the dolphins. The training tank took on almost a

classroom atmosphere; the dolphins and Dreamer were the teachers

and I was the lowly student.

The aquarium staff members constantly teased me about my

obsession and belief in the mammals’ ability to communicate. Pe-

ter, though, rarely broached the subject, and his smiles now seemed

more in pity than flirtation. Lambert tolerated my research because

the whale seemed to learn the performance routines very quickly.

My life was wrapped in a slow-motion dream as I absorbed all

the whale could teach. But late one afternoon the reality of life at

the marina splashed over me like an ice-cold shower. I was crossing

the breezeway heading toward Dreamer’s tank when I felt the fat

fingers of the good doctor grab my arm and spin me around. “Ah,

Sharoon,” he drawled, “no time for your normal foolishness, today.

I was up north on the coast earlier this morning with the live-bait

crew and we seemed to have snagged a little bonus in our nets. Get

your medical gear ready. You’re about to have a new pet to chat

with.” He laughed in my face and then waddled hurriedly away.

I found Peter in the lab and he told me what had happened.

Another dolphin had been isolated in a bay a short way up the coast

from the marina; Lambert himself had made the sighting. In spite

of federal and state sanctions and his lack of necessary permits, he

had snared a new dolphin for his collection. I was put in charge of

the transfer and recovery.

Not knowing what to expect but having seen Lambert’s crude

netting techniques firsthand, I checked my stocks of antibiotics. A

short time later Peter excitedly drew me outside near the medical

holding pens and urged me to look up. There above us, hanging

beneath a hovering helicopter, was a dolphin wrapped in a canvas

sling. I grabbed the padded gurney that we used to move the dol-

phins and with wheels wobbling we ran to the spinning sling. Work-

ing in the downward blast of the helicopter’s rotors, we lashed the

struggling creature to the gurney as the clamps were released.

The dolphin appeared to me none the worse for wear, but

its eyes were opened wide in fear. We wheeled the gurney across

the compound and into the lab. Lambert appeared moments later,

his oily smile showing his feelings of self-satisfaction with the wild

capture. “That helicopter hay ride,” he mouthed, “was an act of pure

genius. We had the media following us from the bay like ants follow-

ing a trail of sugar.”

I wildly texted, “Did you ever stop to think that we may not

have room for another dolphin? Did you stop to think that there

was going to be a furor over the capture of another dolphin without

a permit?” Peter who abruptly swung me around thwarted my anger.

“Come here,” he mouth-spoke, “you better see this.”

I turned to the examination of the dolphin, and the source

of Peter’s concern was instantly obvious. The dolphin was female

and she was very pregnant. As Lambert danced about in glee,

celebrating his double capture, I examined the frightened creature

that trembled on the gurney. Shots of antibiotic were quickly ad-

ministered and then a small dose of tranquilizer. I rubbed my hands

above her brow-ridge to soothe her anxiety, and then, mercifully, the

drug took effect and she slept.

While the dolphin was under the gentle restraint of the drug,

I did a complete exam and was shocked to discover that, not only

was the baby due at any time, but it was twisted into a breach po-

sition. No matter how I twisted it and tried to move the embryonic

sac, the child stayed in position. This birth could not be natural. If

it had taken place in the wild, the mother and child would have died

horrible and agonizing deaths.

Peter confirmed my observations, and, after some discus-

sion, we felt it would be better to leave her in the observation pond

until just before she was ready to give birth. At that time, we would

have to perform a cesarean section. As she began to revive from

the drug, we moved her back outside and lowered her into the calm

waters of the holding pen. I steadied her in the water until she was

fully immersed and then left her to awaken fully and explore her tiny

new sea. Observations began immediately, for this would be my first

experience with a captive birth.

Nothing of any consequence seemed to happen that night,

so I slipped away for a time to the whale tank. There in the water, I

signed of all that had occurred and of the impending birth. That is

the only time I sensed the true outrage of the dolphins and whale

at the random capture. “Why can’t the sandwalker,” the whale

sang, “let well enough be enough? Why capture more when more

are not needed?”

I tried in vain to validate the capture but the arguments I

once used freely sounded very hollow; the sandwalker’s unquench-

able thirst for man to understand all the natural things around him.

“Through capture comes research,” I lamely explained, “and with

research comes better handling of the captured creatures, along

with fewer deaths as the result of captivity.”

“I understand,” the whale whispered in contrasting vibra-

tion in my inner ear, “but there would be fewer deaths of brethren

if you left them in the wild. We who want to stay and are already

captured should be plenty enough for observation.” He paused, his

eyes closed in contemplation. Then he continued. “No, my thin-

finned friend, the sandwalker likes to possess things–alive or other-

wise–just for the sake of possession.” With that rebuff, he swam to

the other end of the tank, leaving me feeling very alone.

Early the next morning I was shocked to discover the preg-

nant female had been moved from the smaller medical pen to the

larger whale pen. They floated in the water–the older dolphins, the

whale, and the mother-to-be. I’m sure they were exchanging horror

stories of capture and captivity.

I stormed and fussed about, finally finding Lambert as he

watched throngs of paying patrons milling about and looking expec-

tantly into the tank. “Who gave you permission to mix the new female

with performance animals?” I texted. “She is quarantined, Dr. Lam-

bert, because she is about to give birth and needs to be observed.”

“First off, little missy,” he spat icily, continuing all the while to

smile and nod at his paying guests, “what better folk to observe a

birth than the paying folk? Secondly, I don’t need permission to do

anything around here. I own this little circus, remember?”

“I remember a lot,” I shouted in mouth speak, “an awful lot. It

is best that you remember.”

“Oh,” he smiled, “you mean the untimely death of that un-

fortunate Beluga? Well, like many things remembered, that is best

forgotten, too. Oh, by the way, my good doctor, have you seen your

photos and the biopsies lately? I heard tell that things like that turn

up missing every day. Just when you need them the most, poof!

They are gone!” With that, he turned away, chuckling, and waddled

along with the crowd.

I blindly rushed to the lab and my office. There I rummaged

about through the back of my desk drawers where I had hidden the

pictures and the biopsies. I needn’t have bothered, Lambert was

not one to idly boast of a deed not done.

I sat back in my chair, wounded by the fact that my remaining

employment at the marina could probably be counted in days, may-

be hours. On the other hand, I was almost relieved that I was no

longer involved in this twisted soap opera. Good had been done,

but at what price to my own conscience! I sat there, feeling my

office vibrate with the distant shouts and cheers of the audience as

they watched the carnival whale and dolphin shows performed by

the gentlest of philosophers. I really had no idea what to do.

The crowd’s clapping and cheers crescendoed and then

subsided; I knew the whale and dolphins would be returning to their

holding pen soon. Slipping into my wet suit, I rushed out, eager

to “speak” with my newest charge. As I approached the tank, the

group floated gently waiting in anticipation of my visit.

From the training pad I bravely signed, “Joyful morning. I

pray that the song will always be sung.”

I then dove into the water to sense their response. The con-

trast of dryside to the waters of life shocked me with its crispness.

As the water washed over my body, my mind was washed in a re-

freshing answer to my dilemma. I knew exactly what I was going to

do! Just after the birth, I would free this wild dolphin and her child.

After exchanging pleasantries, I slowly began to sign-speak

through the Orca to the new dolphin. At first, she did not under-

stand my hand-speak signing nor how I heard them sing the song.

I would sign and pause while Dreamer translated. Fortunately, she

was very quick of study and soon abruptly asked, “When, then, may

I leave this place to join my mate? I am with child, and the birthing

will be soon. It is my desire to birth in the open sea. How soon?

How soon?”

I looked at her, with her gentle way, and patiently began to

move my hands slowly. “You shall be set free, if not by all, then by

me alone. But you cannot leave yet. You will not be freed until after

the baby is born.”

“But why not now?” the little mother wailed in frustration,

“Why must the child be born here?”

Once again I sign-spoke, “When you first arrived here I exam-

ined you with a device that can see beyond your flesh – deep in-

side. The child must be birthed here, for there is something wrong.

The child you carry is twisted, turned in an unnatural way. If you

birth in the open sea, alone, the child will die and so will you.”

The dolphin eyes widened in fear much as a human would in

a similar situation. Amazingly she quietly accepted the reality of

the situation, an acceptance of the fact that the child would have

to be birthed in this strange place and under my supervision. I

liked the pluck of this creature; I felt camaraderie with her and a

deep compassion.

That day and the next, not knowing what Lambert’s next

move would be, I quickly worked with the little dolphin that the oth-

ers called Laughter Ring. Her thirst for knowledge was unquench-

able as she consumed the illogic of the sandwalker’s history. She

seemed most perplexed by man’s desire to own parts of the world

and mostly by a human’s drive to accumulate wealth. Like all of her

kind she was nomadic. All of the sea was her home.

As I worked with her, she, too, began to work with me. Little

by little Laughter Ring began to tell me more and more of her ev-

eryday life. I was fascinated by the depth of her natural awareness

— the relative values she associated with life. She told me of the

waters of her birth; a place the dolphins call Winsome Bright. It was

here she returned as a young adult and conceived the unborn child

as she was mated for life–wedded, if you would–to her mate, Little

Brother. She told me of their odyssey in the sea and of the chance

meeting with the great white whale, Harmony. “That whale touched

my life,” she vibrated in the water, “as he touched others with his

special singing of the Song of the Sea.” Her eyes misted as she ru-

minated, “Harmony’s song in time will resonate in all of the seas.”

I nearly stopped breathing when she mentioned the great

white whale. “I, too, have met a great white whale. I, too, was

touched by his passing in the sea.” And I told Laughter Ring

the story of the beaching–THE THOUSAND DEATHS OF THE

SANDWALKER.

“We were there,” she cried, as the vibration of her words rang

like a bell in my inner ear. “That was Harmony, and that was my

mate, Little Brother, and I who pulled him back to the sea.”

As the days went by, she and the others, hesitantly at first

but with confidence later, told me stories of great wonder, stories I

would be hard-pressed to tell others for fear they would think I had

gone completely crazy. These were intelligent creatures and part of

a complex society. They had a far deeper philosophical connection

with reality and the life that spun around than I could even wish for

on my most dream-filled nights.

Some days later, as I neared the observation tank and prepared

for my daily conversation with Laughter Ring, Dr. Lambert blocked

my path. “Well, Little Missy, I got good news, and I got bad news.

Good news is that we captured another one. Odd thing, though, is

that this dolphin wanted to be captured. Jumped right in the boat.

More the merrier, I always say. Once the fish gives birth, we’ll sell the

mother and this oddball new one and keep the baby. That’s the good

news. Bad news is that right after the birth I think you’d best pack

your bags and go live in a home for the handicapped.”

“What?” I mouthed.

“To put it bluntly, you’re done, Doctor Donelittle. Sorry, but I

just can’t tolerate lippy staff–even if they can’t hear. It’s real bad for

morale. Heh, heh!”

With that, he lit the butt of a partially smoked cigar and slith-

ered away.

Looking blankly into the pool, my mind began churning with

the prospect of kidnapping and freeing the dolphin. My plotting was

short-lived as suddenly Laughter Ring spun in the tank, twisted by

a great spasm. I leaped into the water and grabbed her in my arms,

not an easy task.

“It has begun,” excitedly sang the other dolphins. “The child

within wants out.”

I held her tight as spasm after spasm wracked her tiny frame.

Finally she exhaled softly and said, “It has passed, but the birthing

will be within this tide.”

“I will go,” I signed, “and bring other sandwalkers to help me

lift you from the water to take you where we can help.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “My child shall be born in the sea,

even if it is a sterile sea. I will accept no other way!”

I explained that there was great danger in attempting a ce-

sarean in the water; that the baby and she could both die, but she

refused to be swayed from her decision. I left her surrounded by the

dolphins and hurried from the pool to get Peter and my instruments.

As I raced down the concrete walkway, I saw splashing and

watched a member of the staff try to restrain the newly captured dol-

phin who was breaching over and over attempting to leap from one

tank to another.

Peter helped me up onto the platform and mouth spoke,

“What’s going on in the holding pen?”

Quickly I signed, “Lambert has caught another wild dolphin.

Wild being the relative term.”

Peter and I hurried up the metal stairs to Laughter Ring’s

holding tank where the others gently supported her. I dropped my

medical bag on the training platform and slipped into the pool with

Peter right behind. Laughter Ring’s head was just above the water;

her eyes squinted in pain.

Before I could continue, her body thrashed back and forth

with a heavy contraction. Twisting, muscle-tensing pain stiffened

her. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and she relaxed.

Moments later, she tensed again, and then again.

“The time comes soon!” she groaned.

“Oh, dear little dolphin,” I signed, “I hope we are doing

right to stay in the water. We will help, but it will be extremely diffi-

cult and dangerous!”

“I know,” she toned, “but it must be this way.”

An incessant hammering at the other end of the pool vibrated

through the water as the new dolphin kept throwing itself at the gate.

“What was that?” she sang.

“That,” I signed, “is yet another captured dolphin. He is an

odd catch in the fact that he seemed to demand to be caught even

though we didn’t want to catch him.”

Her body twisted in pain, but even so her eyes widened.

“Bring him here,” she cried, “Hurry!”

I reluctantly signed to Peter, who rushed to the end of the

tank and began twisting the massive gate control. Even before the

gate was completely open, the water at the end of the pool surged,

and the new dolphin scrambled through the opening.

I was rudely bumped out of the way as this interloper

splashed his way to Laughter Ring’s side. She turned and seemed

to smile. “This,” she sang as she grimaced in pain, “is the cause of

all this agony. This is the father of my child to be, my mate, Little

Brother.” Suddenly her body arched as she was wracked with a mas-

sive ontraction.

I pushed Little Brother out of the way and wrapped my arms

around her torso as she began to settle in the water. The baby was

coming and it was coming now. If ever I felt lost without sound,

now was the time. I bellowed as loud as I could, “Peter!” I have

no idea what the sound was but it was enough to get his attention.

As I struggled with the weight of the pregnant dolphin I saw a blur

behind me as totally clothed Peter leaped into the water. His arms

reached under mine and without effort lifted the dolphin to the

surface. I mouth-spoke quickly, “Roll her in your arms. I need her

belly exposed. I have to get that baby out now!” A mature dolphin

can weigh can weigh well-over 500 pounds. Laughter Ring was all

of that but Peter easily turned her body in the water and lifted her

clear. “No matter what, you must keep the wound above the water,”

I signed.

“Got it,” he smiled trying to reassure me.

While he held her inert body I scrambled up onto the train-

ing platform and fumbled in my bag. I quickly arranged what limited

surgical tools I had along the edge of the platform: suture scis-

sors, scalpel, sponge sticks, surgical stapler and several syringes

pre-loaded with heavy duty anesthetic.

The other dolphins moved Little Brother a safe distance away,

and I set to work. After injecting Laughter Ring with a double load

of anesthetic, I grabbed the scalpel and leaned over the still form. I

looked up at Peter and took a deep breath.

“How many of these have you done, Doc?” he mouthed

nervously.

“None,” I mouthed as I silkily sliced open her abdomen.

The water quickly clouded with blood that leached from the wound.

I worked at a fevered pitch as I carefully cut through the layers of

skin and muscle. Then suddenly the embryonic sac was revealed.

I carefully incised the gossamer membrane, and carefully lifted the

still form of the fetus from the cavity. The calf didn’t move and I

was beyond fearful that it was dead. My fears were short-lived. The

small dolphin eyes snapped open and I looked into its young trust-

ing soul. With a snap of its body it flopped from my hands and fell

into the water. I gasped for a moment fearing that the child was in

danger. But it was a creature of the sea and it was home. The baby

spun wildly through, the water the embryonic fluid and blood from

the surgery clouding the water in a pink mist.

My eyes blurring with tears, I quickly began suturing the

different layers of flesh and muscle. I could feel Peter’s arms shak-

ing from the exertion of holding the weight of the dolphin out of the

water. The wound sealed as best I could under the circumstances.

I pulled myself from the pool and maneuvered the wheeled crane

holding the sling to the edge of the pool. Peter began floating

Laughter Ring’s body into position as I slipped back in the water.

Carefully we rolled her back into an upright position and strapped

her into the canvas sling. For a time this was how she would have

to be maintained until the anesthetic wore off. In the meantime the

baby desperately needed to feed.

I then turned myself to the baby who was floating nearby in

the water, its tiny snout just above the surface. Carefully I slipped

my arm around its body and moved it beside the sleeping mother.

Instinctively it nuzzled the exposed belly and without hesitation be-

gan to nurse. With the dolphin pre-occupied I was able to examine

the calf. I looked up at Peter and signed, “It’s a girl.” An infectious

grin broke across his face.

As if to announce her own arrival, the calf stopped nursing

and gave forth an intense burst of vibrations. The first vibration,

this burst of buzzing, literally tickled me, and I broke out laughing

in joy, in relief, in exuberance at the continuation and the miracle of

life itself.

“Giggles,” I signed. “If the mother is Laughter Ring, then

surely her child should be called Giggles.”

Exhausted, Peter and I pulled ourselves from the water as the

male dolphin stood guard over his growing family. We repacked the

surgical tools scattered about the training platform. Without speak-

ing we began walking back to my office, but a few steps from the

pool both of us turned and watched as the newly-named Giggles and

the rest of the dolphins gathered around the sling holding Laugher

Ring. I looked up at Peter and signed. “Thank you. It wouldn’t

have happened if you weren’t here to help. I don’t know what I

would have done without you.”

His arm snaked around my shoulder and he smiled that smile.

“You know, Doc. There are times I don’t know what I would do with-

out you either.”

We stood there for a moment looking into one another’s

eyes and then both were washed over with a massive wave of awk-

wardness. What was going on? I could feel my cheeks reddening.

When in doubt my fingers flutter, signing like there was no tomor-

row. “Uh, yes. Without you there I would have had to call on Lam-

bert to help. I don’t think he even knows how to swim.”

Peter was still looking at me oddly as I continued rambling.

“Could you take the med kit back to my office? I am going to walk

home. Good for me to walk off some of the adrenaline after what

just happened.” Again, I blushed. “I mean the birth and all. Not

the, uh… ” I stopped, my hands froze in mid air. What was happen-

ing to me? I hated this.

Peter smiled, took the bag from my hand, spun on his heel

and walked away. I watched trying desperately to put all of these odd

feelings into place. If all wasn’t bad enough already Peter turned

as he reached my office door and looked back at me looking back

at him. He waved. I turned and walked briskly to the park entrance.

Like a balloon dancing on the wind I slipped through the security en-

trance and out onto the street bathed in the light of a misty sunset.

By the time I got back to the duplex, I was panting from

walking so fast but at least my mind was clear or at least as clear

as it was ever going to be. Better still, my parents’ car was parked

on the street. I ran the last half of block and threw myself into their

comforting embraces.

Excited I began to sign. “I am so glad you are here. I don’t

have much room but you guys can have the bedroom and I will

sleep on the couch.”

“No, no,” my father quickly signed. “We were driving up the

coast and thought we could drop in for coffee.”

“Plus,” my mother quickly added, “we need to get home to

the kids. ”The ‘kids’ were my parents’ name for Beluga, a golden

retriever and Guppy and Plover the cats, all named by me years ago.

We bustled inside and my mom made coffee while I changed

out of my still-damp clothes. They were sitting at the table chat-

ting when I came out of the bathroom, comfortable now in sweats

and a T-shirt.

“We kind of drove out of our way to come by,” my father

smiled. “We were having lunch and saw the news story about the

new dolphin Doctor Lambert had captured.”

“Well,” I added, “not exactly captured.” Over several cups of

coffee I told them of the day’s adventures. “So now we have three

more dolphins that we don’t need; Laughter Ring, Little Brother, and

their child Giggles.”

My mother looked concerned. “What will happen to them?”

I leaned back in my chair. “I don’t know,” I signed. But I did

know. Lambert would sell them deeper into captivity. Without think-

ing I added, “I think they will probably be freed. Back to the open

waters where they belong.”

“That would be nice,” my father signed.

That will be nice, I mentally groaned, when I figure it out. I

have a feeling that in doing so I will be committing employment

suicide. Who is going to hire a marine biologist who keeps giving

away the examples she is supposed to be examining?

Coffee drank and after hugs and kisses I was again alone my

thoughts spinning with the day’s events and knowing that I would

have to move quickly to free the captives.

CHAPTER TWENTY -FOUR

Peter and I drove rapidly up the coast. Whale beaching — a marine

biologist’s greatest frustration and a whale lover’s greatest fear. Of

course it would take a blubber bloat like Lambert to try and use it as

an opportunity to acquire a new act for his park.

My reverie was broken by our arrival at the parking lot on

the rise above the beach. There below us, fifty or so whales were

swimming up into the shallows and forcing themselves up onto the

beach. I stood there, watching in horrified fascination, awed at the

magnitude of the sight of whales throwing themselves to the shore.

Peter and I rushed down to the shoreline to help in any way

we could, and there, waiting for us, was Lambert. “Do what you

can,” he mouthed. “But remember, you are on my payroll, and if we

can save one of these free whales, I want it. Folks will pay big for a

piece of this action.”

I ignored him as we waded into the surf and, with the locals

on the beach, began trying to turn this whale-tide back to sea. For

the most part, it was futile; they were already dying. A few of the

babies were easily turned and almost eagerly swam back into deep-

er waters, but the adults were steadfast in their apparent desire to

throw themselves upon the shore, a suicide.

In all the confusion, there was an event, an oddness that

belied even the stark reality of the dying whales on the beach. As

Peter and I stood in waist high water a large white whale, an albino,

came rushing in from deeper water. We moved as one blocking its

access to the beach and a slow death but the whale quickly moved

around us. To make matters worse, Lambert began screaming at

us from the shoreline. “What’s he saying?” I signed to Peter. Peter

shook his head and mouthed, “He told us we’re doing a good job.”

“Lambert said that? About us?”

Peter smiled ruefully as we again got in front of the suicidal

white whale and continued our efforts to push him back into deeper

water. “I don’t think he knows what we’re doing. He thinks we are

holding onto the whale, not pushing it back to sea. He said a heli-

copter is on its way with nets to haul it back to the park.”

With that bit of news we redoubled our efforts, but the whale

was too big and way too strong. We had all but given up and re-

signed ourselves to Lambert’s capture or worst still yet another

death when, seemingly from nowhere, two dolphins bumped us out

of the way moving between the white whale and the shore. Our first

reaction was that the dolphins, too, were caught in the contagion,

but, to our shock and delight, they began to pull on the tail and fins

of the great white, trying to drag him back into deeper water. Finally

the great white turned his massive head, staring at the two dolphins.

I was mesmerized by all that was happening and was caught

off-guard as suddenly, the whale lurched, broad siding me with his

side fin and pulling me under the water. I was rolled to my side

trying to fight my way back to the surface when suddenly I heard,

once again, the rhythmic pulsation . . . the buzzing deep in my inner

ear. It wasn’t just one single pulse but two, then three separate

and distinct rhythms and pulsation, like the differences between

signatures. I would have forced myself to stay under longer, but the

fin that pulled me into the water now pushed me out. As the whale

turned, I looked deep into its eye. There was intelligence. There

was soul. And there was pain . . . pain of a sort that goes far beyond

the agony of mortal wounds.

I sputtered and cleared my eyes and watched as the white

moved slowly away from the shore.

I struggled back to the beach, staggered by what I had heard

and seen. Once again, those rhythmic vibrations had caressed me–

this time not in a controlled situation but in the open sea.

If the whales do speak, why am I the only one to listen?

Other than a few of the whale calves and the great white, the

rest of the pod was lost in the eight or nine hours we spent on the

beach. As each one died, Lambert would suddenly appear. “If you

know what is good for you, you will damn-well save one! You lost

the big prize, the whiter, already. Do what I am paying you to do!”

When he wasn’t threatening us, Lambert was granting inter-

views to the local media as the resident expert.

The rest of the day and long into the night was a blur of

horrors beyond horrors. We took biopsies from all the dead whales

before they were pushed into sandy graves dug deep into the shore

by heavy-treaded tractors with huge blades. It was obviously an en-

tire pod with young and old alike that had died here this day. Their

eyes, glazing over with death, had reflected an obsession among all

of them that confused the scientist in me as well as the humanitar-

ian. Why? Why did they beach themselves? I resolved that if my

career had but one purpose I would answer that why.

Tired and exhausted, we went back to Water Whirled. I sent

Peter home for some much-needed rest, but I continued to fuss

about the lab for a time, reluctant to leave the embrace of familiar

chores in the face of all that I had seen. I wandered into the com-

pound and wound my way back to the main tank where the Orca

and the four dolphins were still penned. With an intuitive sense

that I wouldn’t be dragged back into the water, I quietly climbed the

stairs and sat at the edge of the observation platform. Out near the

center of the smooth-surfaced pool, five heads effortlessly slipped

above water and stared at me, looking quite forlorn.

“Oh, my dear friends,” I signed, “if only you had seen what

I have seen on this day, then you would know the true meaning of

sadness.” They moved smoothly forward and continued to stare,

making no attempt to yank me from my perilous perch. “Do you

speak?” I signed. “Did you speak? Was it all my imagination? Were

the white whale and the dolphins on the beach my imaginings also?”

The next day and the next, I avoided the main tank wherein

lay my anxieties. Lambert did what he could to make me feel horri-

bly uncomfortable about the events in the pool and at the beaching.

He was furious that he had been that close to a true white whale and

failed to capture it. At the weekly meeting, he discouraged everyone

by announcing that, unless the gate receipts went up immediately, all

departments could expect cuts in their respective budgets.

“All of this,” he added, over-enunciating supposedly for my

benefit, “wouldn’t have been necessary if the kindly and soundless

Dr. Shar-oon hadn’t helped turn the biggest find in marine history,

an albino whale, back to the sea. Ten minutes more and we could

have had a helicopter there with cables and a sling, and then all of

us would have been on Easy Street. But no! Little Miss Doolittle

did nothing. She let him go.”

He sat there at the end of that long conference table, drum-

ming his fingers and giving his infamous, icy stare, which I returned

in kind. He then reached down and brought his briefcase up onto

the table. “Oh, by the way, doctor,” he spat, “I have another ma-

rine specimen that I need you to converse with. Maybe give us an

insight as to its life in captivity. Could you talk to this?” He rolled

a can of tuna down the full length of the table. “Ask the can if it

prefers mayo or mustard with its salad.” My face reddened as I saw

everyone break into uncomfortable smiles. You don’t have to hear

laughter to feel it.

Working late on the third day after the beaching, I had to

make a first-hand observation of the whale. At the side of the tank,

I geared up in my wet suit, scuba tank, and facemask and then

climbed the steps to the platform. With some trepidation, I jumped

into the water.

All this time, the five creatures sat still and watched my

actions. As I hit the water, there was still no reaction. Were they

waiting for me to make the first move? Easily said, not so easily

done. If you don’t know the game, it is very difficult to make any

move whatsoever. I kept my head at the surface, readjusted the

facemask, then slowly slipped beneath the surface into their world.

My eyes adjusted to the crystal blue water and the reflection of the

artificial light from above. Their bodies were suspended in the water,

yet their heads were floating on the surface. Then in concert, they

sank below and hung there, silent-still, staring at me.

What was supposed to have been a simple observation of a

new exhibit was taking on a dramatic new dimension. I was waiting

for who-knows-what, and they seemed to be waiting for the same

thing. Who would speak first, if we were to speak at all? Dr. Lambert

was right. All of this was a figment of my imagination . . . a dream.

But if it were a dream, it was my dream, and I would be a fool

to let it go to waste. I signed, “Dolphin! Dolphin!”

There was no motion in the water as they floated, their eyes

unblinking–no emotion.

I signed again, “Dolphin! Dolphin!” Time slowed, then

stopped altogether. Nothing happened. I started to turn away and

leave the tank when one of the dolphins moved slightly closer. Sud-

denly, my inner ear buzzed once again with the delightful, rhythmic

pulsation. I heard. I felt. I knew the word that vibrated in an odd

language as old as time. The word, repeated over and over in high

modulation, was, “Whale! Whale!”

It was the language of the sea, but I didn’t understand. I had

signed “dolphin,” yet they returned with “whale.” It was like I was

saying hello and they were saying good-bye. What had I missed?

Once again, I felt the pulsation, “Whale! Whale!”

Then, ponderously, wondrously, the whale swam forward, and

he, too, toned, “Whale! Whale!” I was so overjoyed at the redis-

covery of my communication with these creatures; I almost forgot

the wonder of this sensation, which I now must call hearing. There

was no other way for me to explain what I felt with respect to this

buzzing in my inner ear. The dolphin and the whale felt distinct

from each other. The dolphin voice/vibration was more intense and

faster. The whale, on the other hand, was deep and resonant. The

vibrations seemed to soothe and appease. The difference was like

comparing a cold fizzy soft drink and a lukewarm glass of chocolate

milk. Both taste good, just different.

We floated there facing one another and then he spoke.

(There was and is no other way to define it.) He began speaking to

me, introducing me to his life. What follows, as best I can trans-

late, is what he told me that fateful afternoon. “I am whale, called

Dreamer,” he resonated, “I have come to the dryside to see what I

might see. To collect verses for the song.” Then, he paused waiting

for me to respond.

Obviously, if this was indeed the time for introductions it was

now my turn. I began to slowly sign, “I am sandwalker, called . . .”

I paused. His name was rich and reflected an act; my name sym-

bolized nothing. I began again, “I am a sandwalker who is sharing

with all of you any and all that you might want to learn about us.”

“Ah,” they toned in unison, “you are called Sharing!”

“No! No!” I signed, “I am not Sharing. I am sharing with

you . . .”

They again interrupted, “You are Sharing? But you are not

Sharing? If you are not Sharing, then who is Sharing?” I swear the

dolphins were smiling.

Once again, I tried, “I am Sharon, she who is sharing.”

The whale called Dreamer turned his massive head and

looked me full in the eye. Having grown tired of the play on words

he toned loudly, “If you are Sharing, then so be it!”

The debate was silly at best and futile. With these marvelous

creatures I would share and be called Sharing.

And from that inauspicious introduction, the dolphins and the

whale slowly helped me expand my vocabulary as they related to me

the wonders of their lives in the sea. I learned of simple things like

the foods they ate but never to excess. They ate what they called

tuna-tail, bug-eye, and clacker-claw. All were a part of an amazing

balance that we, as man, often speak of but rarely attain. I learned

more of us, mankind, the upright walking two-fin, called sandwalker,

they that dominate the dryside. Minute by minute turned to hour

after hour. This whale called Dreamer took me by leaps and bounds

into a new dimension of understanding and reality.

I learned that the whales had constructed and committed

to memory the history of the world. They called it the Song of the

Sea. Bit by tiny bit, I was taught this song. Melody by melody, I

learned of the philosophy of balance with ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN

THE WORLD, their name for a higher being, their God, their great

Redeemer, their Universe. I learned that many of their kind loathed

the sandwalker. They wished the sandwalker not only dead but also

wished all traces of him washed from the sea and the dryside as well.

I was shocked to learn that this whale and the dolphins at

the marina had for the most part come voluntarily to places like

this. They told me how they would be captured intentionally in order

to observe the sandwalker in his natural surroundings. They were

missionaries sent by the mystical whales called the Narwhal of the

Horn. These horned, unicorn-like whales were part of some sort of

charismatic religion, ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD. This

Orca had gone there and had heard the singing of the songs of the

Narwhal. He then set out to be captured by the sandwalker so that he

might add another chapter–yet another verse to the Song of the Sea.

It seems the captured ones, both dolphins and whales,

stayed with their captors and thrived the best they could in the

worst of surroundings. In captivity they entertained and, in turn,

were entertained with observations and a slow understanding of

their great adversary, the sandwalker.

The captive song was composed and passed from whale to

whale to dolphin to dolphin. As time passed, one or two would be

returned to the sea, whether by some humanitarian gesture or the

simple overcrowding of one marina or another. Then, whether whale

or dolphin, the liberated creature would add its song to the great

song, the Song of the Sea and eventually the new melodies would

drift back to the Narwhal of the Horn.

As I listened and my comprehension and language devel-

oped, I could sense more and more. I was bowled over by the rich-

ness of their philosophy and their sometimes gentle compassion for

the spindly-finned creature they called the sandwalker, a compas-

sion mixed with a spiny resentment.

After nearly ninety minutes in the tank I signed, “But why,

during the second time that I tried to speak, did you refuse? Why

did you lie silent-still, soundless in the water?”

The whale called Dreamer paused for a moment and then

slowly began to speak, “We didn’t speak because we were in mourn-

ing, a great passing to the end . . . the beginning, and at the same

time celebrating a great event, the THOUSAND DEATHS OF THE

SANDWALKER.

I shook my head, confused. “What,” I waved slowly with my

hands, “is the THOUSAND DEATHS OF THE SANDWALKER?

And Dreamer explained, “It is the death of an entire pod of

whales to honor one who has brought greatness to the Song of the

Sea. It is the most powerful protest as prescribed by the mystic

Narwhal, the whale of the ivory horn. Every whale–young, old,

male, female–rushes to the dryside, there to die in protest of the

horrors the sandwalker has brought to the sea. There, they die to

dishonor these creatures that bring sadness to ALL THAT IS RIGHT

IN THE WORLD. It is a dying. It is a chorus sung in last crescendo

that washes the sea and even the dryside with its great sacrifice.”

“You knew,” I signed, incredulous, “of the beaching? You

knew of the death of the whales?”

“Yes,” he sang, “we knew of the deaths. We were in mourning

and as such we could not sing to you. It is only now that the song

has settled that we may once again try to teach the sandwalker that

which he must know.”

My mind reeled with all that logic tried to reject. But I was

here, and, for all practical purposes, I was the first ‘sandwalker’ who

had heard the Song of the Sea. My air tanks nearing empty I pulled

myself up on the ramp. I removed all my diving gear and just sat

there, with my arms drawn about my knees, staring at these four

who patiently waited in the water for my return – the continuation of

my education.

As I sat there one of the security guards walked by and

smiled. He mouth-spoke slowly so I could read his lips, “How’s it

going, Doc? Any news from the can of tuna?” He laughed as he

walked away. To someone such as this, or for that matter to any

intelligent, well-educated person, how do I explain that I, a person

who cannot hear, can hear these inexplicable creatures and still be

deaf to my own world?

The very same bone, that abnormal growth that caused my

deafness, had to be the tuning fork, the vibrating drumhead, that

resonated with the fine modulations of the sung word of the whale

and dolphin. How long had the sandwalker, in his brilliant igno-

rance, listened to these wonderful creatures and heard nothing but

the echo of his own pride and conceit?

I rushed back to my lab, grabbed a fresh tank and returned to

whale. Slowly I slipped back into the water, back to the learning . . .

back to the Song of the Sea.

CHAPTER TWENTY -THREE

Excitement of my discovery was diluted by a sense of dis-

belief. Everyone since the ancient Greeks has wanted to believe

water-borne mammals could communicate. Claim after claim had

proven to be based on an overactive imagination, or even fraud.

So for now, I chalked up my experience to my hyperactive

imagination and nothing else. Besides, Peter was right I am deaf.

How could I hear anything let alone a whale speaking?

Still and all the impression I got whenever I looked in the eye

of this new whale was one of intelligence and a haunting belief that

he was attempting to communicate. I didn’t feel it was a matter of

him not understanding us, but rather a matter of us not understanding

him. Often throughout my college career, I had read about experts

who equated the intelligence of dolphins and whales with that of

clever dogs and other domestic pets. But there was deep intelligence

in those eyes, not the mindless innocence of a kitten or puppy.

I spent all my free time in or near the new tank. I never felt

the vibrating sensation in my head outside the tank, but when I was

in the water proper and my head was submerged, I did feel the puls-

ing vibration like the touching of a tuning fork. Oh, how I wanted to

believe that in some small part I was truly hearing for the first time,

but the sensation was not sound. It was vibration.

Late one night when the park had closed, I again stood on

the observation platform and stared into the translucent, black eyes

of the whale. There was that depth, that feeling of soul, of great

intelligence, of compassion.

“What are you?” I signed, “some mythical, magical monster-

-or just a figment of my imagination? Come on, big guy, speak to

me.” Seemingly in response the whale suddenly lunged forward,

sending a great cascade of water sloshing over the platform. The

rush was so great that I lost my footing and fell bone-jarringly onto

my butt – my legs extended in front of me over the water. Then time

all but stopped as I watched the great, sharp-toothed mouth of

the Orca open and clamp down, albeit though gently, on my feet.

Knowing the strength of those jaws, I realized it would only be a

moment before my feet would become a snack for this killer whale.

My hands braced on the platform I tried to pull back hoping against

hope that he would simply let go. But, as I pulled the whale simply

yanked me into the water.

Being deaf, I don’t know how much noise I made, but my

mouth was open wide and I was forcing a lot of air out in a panicked

attempt at communication. Remarkably, as I hit the water, the whale

released my feet, and I sputtered to the surface, gulping air on top

of the water I had already swallowed. I spun myself around like a

top in the water, looking for my assailant, prepared to defend myself

to the end. How I would ward off a multi-ton attacker I had no idea,

but I wasn’t going roll over and play mini-meal.

I spit the water from my mouth, as finally my eyes cleared.

There, not four feet away, was the Orca, complacently watching me.

Certain that he was prepared for another attack; I began to gently

back-paddle to the edge of the tank. But as I moved, he moved.

Only 20 feet and I would be within arm’s reach of the platform and

safety. I backed up farther, and would have made my escape save

for one of the dolphins who interceded itself between me and the

platform. Gently but forcefully the dolphin nosed me back toward

the whale.

Unbelievably the dolphin and the whale were working in con-

cert. Never in all my studies had I ever read that dolphins helped

killer whales in their feeding. Great! This was my first major dis-

covery as a biologist, but the knowledge would never be consumed

by my peers rather I would. My scientific discovery and my body

would be digested in a more bizarre manner in the belly of a very

intelligent whale.

I turned to the side and started to swim parallel to the dolphin

at my back and the whale in my face, but another of the dolphins

reared from the water and I was blocked again. Trapped as I was,

the only avenue of escape seemed to be down. I dove quickly

planning to swim beneath the dolphin behind me when I felt deep,

rhythmic vibrations in my inner ear. The buzzing was gentle and

oddly soothed my feelings of fear. This didn’t seem to be the cry

of a blood-hungry whale about to devour his first manwich, his first

femburger.

I surfaced; confused but still very much alive. The whale had

quietly submerged, and as my head rose from the water, so did his.

It was a standoff. Suddenly, my attention was diverted to the other

side of the tank and the welcome sight of Peter’s lopsided grin. He

crudely signed, “Are you okay?”

I turned and looked at my attackers. None were threatening,

but neither were they moving back. I carefully raised my arms from

the water and signed, “I thought I was in danger, but I am now safe,

for the moment. If I look like I am about to become a meal, get

me out of here!” I turned back to the whale, whose eyes seemed to

twinkle in the artificial lights of the marina park. He slowly dropped

his massive head back under the water, and the dolphins did the

same. I waited a moment or two, and then they all popped back to

the surface. They slowly sank again, and again I waited. Again,

they bobbed to the surface in unison. Peter looked at me, question-

ingly now, with a formidable spear gun cradled in his arm–cocked

and ready.

I hand-spoke to him to stay where he was but to keep the

spear gun handy. Inwardly, I was very relieved that he was there. If

you are about to give your life for science, literally as lunch, there’s

always a sense of relief that someone will at least know where you

have disappeared. I turned back to the center of the tank.

The process of the bobbing mammals happened three more

times, and I swear the whale and dolphins were getting frustrated

that I didn’t understand what was going on. Once again, in uni-

son, they dropped below the surface, and again I was alone with

the ripples. I looked to Peter, who was now nervously watching

this odd behavior from the platform, gun at the ready. He shrugged

his shoulders and shook his head. He had no more idea than did I

about what was going on.

Suddenly, I felt a tug at my foot, and before fear or alarm, I

was suddenly drawn beneath the water back to my lead position in

the food chain. I was a bit more prepared this time, and at least my

mouth was closed. The grip was not uncomfortable, but I definitely

was being held under the water. But why? Once again, the rhythmic

vibrations began, and I was soothed. Then the pulsation stopped.

My leg was released, and I popped to the surface like a cork.

With me came my errant new playmates, who watched expec-

tantly. Peter urgently signed from the platform, “What’s going on?

Why are they pulling you under the water?”

I returned in sign, “I don’t know what’s happening, but for

some odd reason, they, want me under the water.” I thought for a

moment as I floated in the water–me watching them watching me.

There was a device we had been using called a tonal analyzer and

with the aid of microphones installed around the pool it recorded

and printed all sounds to a paper graph. I signed to Peter to turn on

the machine and begin recording.

When he was ready, I again dropped beneath the surface of

the water. Sure enough, the whale and dolphins did the same. And,

as before, the pulsation came, wrapping their soothing arms around

me. Again, when the vibrations stopped, I surfaced quickly and

signed to Peter for the reading. He disappeared for a moment and

then reappeared to sign that other than standard background chirp-

ing, there was nothing recorded.

The dolphins merrily bobbed their heads. Once again, I

slipped beneath the surface, and again could feel the vibrations.

When they stopped I rose to the surface, and as before, a perplexed

Peter signed that there was no extraordinary sounds. What was

this? What was happening? Had I lost my mind?

The dolphins and whale moved closer, but there was nothing

in their movement that I perceived as threatening. If anything, there

was a sense of bonding. I signed to Peter to throw me a pair of gog-

gles and a snorkel. He was gone but a minute and then lobbed the

gear high in the air. With a splash they landed neatly in front of me.

I pulled the mask on and bit down on the mouthpiece. All secured,

I submerged. The dolphins and whale, satisfied that I was under to

stay and not about to pop up again, also submerged. We floated

there, suspended between two alien worlds. As before, my inner ear

rang with the rhythmic buzzing. It stopped, then started again, and

there was a definite pattern to it.

One of the dolphins separated from the group and swam

close to me. Without thinking I reached out in the water and

touched the side of its head. Then, slowly, the rhythm of the buzz-

ing changed. This process was repeated over and over until it sud-

denly dawned on me that the rhythms were distinct. At the same

time, the dolphin was arching its body, turning into himself. I think

I was finally beginning to connect the dots. Was the vibration I was

feeling the dolphin word for dolphin?

Shocked though I was, I carefully signed the word, “Dolphin,”

and then touched it again.

The whale and the other dolphins in chorus repeated the

rhythmic pattern, “Dolphin. Dolphin. Dolphin.”

One by one I pointed to the other dolphins and signed over

and over, “Dolphin! Dolphin! Dolphin!”

The dolphins in turn twisted their heads back and repeated

the pulsation. They were indentifying themselves as dolphins.

They speak!

They all watched as I first pointed to and then signed for one

thing and then another in the tank. Then the rhythmic buzzing

would translate, and I would be taught the equivalent word in their

language. Language–how quickly I changed from calling it buzzing

and vibration in my inner ear to language. Over the next hour or

so, through trial and error, they taught me the simple words for the

water and life itself. They taught me the word “dryside”—everything

above the water that they called “life.” They taught of the “feath-

ered-furies,” the seagulls that fly on the winds of the dryside.

And, oh yes, they don’t call us man or human beings. They call us

the “sandwalker,” it that walks on two fins on the dryside.

They taught me so much in a short time, but it was only a

single grain of sand on the most expansive of beaches. Whales

and dolphins have been on this earth longer than man, and, I began

to understand that they have a recorded history. A history that has

been passed on from generation to generation since the beginning

of time. They call this history the Song of the Sea, a song that

sandwalker does not sing. Oh, that man was not such a slave to

labor-saving devices! In our cleverness, we forget to intimately re-

member how we got here. The mammals of the sea had been trying

to communicate with us for hundreds of thousands of years. We just

didn’t know how to listen.

I drug myself up onto the platform and excitedly signed to

Peter, “Did you get all of that?”

He looked at me, perplexed, his face screwed up. “Get all

of what?”

“The last two hours, my conversations, my first day in

school,” My fingers danced in the air as I laughed and danced

about. “My conversations with–excuse me–the sandwalker’s first

conversation with his intellectually superior and older cousins, the

whale and dolphin.”

Peter stared at me intently, concern overriding his normal

sarcastic wit. “Are you okay? Come here and take a look at

the readouts.”

I grabbed a towel and walked around the tank to the analyzer.

I must have looked quite the site, sopping wet in my clothes and

a snorkel and goggles strapped to my head. I examined the tapes

expecting to see a wide, pulsing graph showing a variety of modula-

tion. Instead, I found only modest and subtle rises and falls in the

graphs. Nothing out of the ordinary. “This can’t be right,” I signed.

Impatiently, I fussed with the machine, but still the analyzer showed

that neither the whale nor the dolphins had made any recordable

sound at all.

Peter gently spun me around, “Look, Doc, the tape even

shows the minor fluctuations of your motions in the water as you

were making all those bizarre signings. I watched you signing un-

der the water . . . the dry side, and sand walker and feathered fury?

What did that all that mean?”

I was still staring intently at the ribbons of graph paper. “None

of their conversations show? Nothing?”

He grabbed me firmly by the shoulders and turned me until we

were face to face. He slowly mouth spoke, “Sharon, read my lips.

There was nothing to record. You were underwater, signing to the

whale and the dolphins. They didn’t respond. They floated be-

neath the water like inflatable pool toys and watched you sign ob-

scure word combinations like dry, side, fury, feathered, waters, and

life. I swear to you, they didn’t chirp or squeak anything they hav-

en’t always done in their delightfully stupid animal way. You must

have bumped your head and have a minor concussion or some-

thing. Come on, let me drive you to the emergency room. Have

someone take a look at you.”

I shrugged off his conciliatory hands on my shoulders. “I

don’t need the hospital. I know what I heard,” I declared.

He turned his head from side to side. “Listen to yourself,” he

said patiently. “You are deaf, stone-deaf since birth. You wouldn’t

know the difference between the sound of a splash in the water and

the wailing of a siren.”

Tears welled from my eyes in frustration. I knew what I had

felt in the water. I knew what I had heard deep within my inner ear.

True, maybe it was not sound or what sound should possibly be

like, but I heard it! I felt it! They spoke with me. Shaken to my

very core, I meekly allowed Peter to take me to a Doc in the Box

not far from the park. Numb, I barely remember the doctor telling

me that I had suffered some form of traumatic shock and was

hallucinating.

I was not crazy. I had suffered no trauma other than the

powerful shock of new-found knowledge and my amazing discov-

ery. They did speak! The dolphins and the whale all spoke! It

had to be real.

Peter took me back to the duplex and mother-henned me

with a cup of hot coffee. Again, I acquiesced to his demands. I

slipped into a robe, and sat quietly at the kitchen table sipping from

the steaming cup while he silently stared at me. Satisfied that I

was all right, he left. I watched as he pulled out of the driveway in

his pick-up, then I put the cup in the sink. I paced about the house

frustrated by what I thought I had experienced. I had to know. Still

dressed in my robe, I walked the few blocks back to the marina and

the whale.

The night security guards were amused at my dress, but be-

cause I had often come in the middle of the night to make observa-

tions, they didn’t question my entry. I rushed back to the tank, robe

flapping about my legs, my still-bare feet stinging as they slapped

the walkways in hurried determination.

All my doubts were smoothed away when the whale reared his

mighty head above the edge of the tank, and, once again, I looked

into his great eye. Anyone who looks into the eye of a whale or a

dolphin has to see the depth of soul and intelligence that is there.

Without thought, I leaped, robe and all, back into the tank. I signed,

“Dolphin . . . dolphin,” and ducked my head beneath the water.

But all was still. I bobbed from the water, dragging deep

mouthfuls of night air into my tortured lungs. I signed, “Whale . . .

whale.” Once again, I plunged my head beneath the water. I waited

and waited, but the whale sat motionless, staring with those great,

unblinking eyes. And the water was silent.

Crap! It was a dream.

Never have I felt so let down. Never have I felt so defeated!

I stood shoulder-deep in the water with tears mixing and mingling

with the dripping saltwater from my hair. I don’t know how long I

was in the water but eventually strong hands reached down and

grabbed me under my arms and lifted me onto the training platform.

I collapsed, sobbing at the edge of the pool. There was Peter, again

kneeling to console me, and also there, the hallucination of all hal-

lucinations, Dr. Lambert.

“Shar-oon,” he mouth-spoke, “Don’t think this little episode

will get you out of work tomorrow. Hee, hee! Though I kind of like

the sound of it: Deaf Girl Listens to Whale Speak. It’s got a kind

of ring to it. Twofin, take her home and dry her off before she com-

pounds this insanity with pneumonia.” With that, he waddled into

the night, back to whatever rock he slept under.

“Come on,” lip-spoke Peter, as he helped me to my feet, “you

just need some rest.” As I shuffled away from the tanks, I looked

back, and there were four heads lifted above the concrete edge,

watching silently.

Like an invalid, I was led out of the marina and into the pas-

senger seat of Peter’s truck, which was still damp from my last ride

and soon to be wetter still from my sopping robe. “If I had known

that I was going to be moving mermaids,” he signed, smiling broad-

ly, “I would have gotten plastic seat covers. I feel like I’m driving a

goldfish bowl.”

I shook my head and laughed. How foolish I was. It was all

just a bump on the head, an odd dream caused by a lonely whale

that simply wanted to play with my foot.

I slept that night wrapped in odd dreams of whales and dol-

phins writing me letters and then denying they had written them.

I woke later, confused, not knowing if I had dreamed it all or only

part. The sight of my dripping robe and the pool of water on the

carpet forced me, in a quantum leap, back to reality. I threw the

quilt back over my head and groaned. Lambert was there! I would

never live it down. By now, there would be a reader board out front,

entreating people to buy tickets to view the newest exhibit . . . me!

Hours later, I staggered from bed and slurped the now-cold

coffee Peter had made the night before. I took an ice-cold shower,

got dressed, and was just walking out of the house when Peter’s

pick-up squealed into my driveway. He charged up the walkway

and blasted into the house. Steeled for the ribbing to come, I was

shocked when he signed, “Get dressed! There is an emergency up

the coast. Lambert has loaned us to help.”

“What happened?”

“A massive pod of Orcas are beaching themselves,” Peter

replied. “Lambert took a helicopter. Thinks he might snag a

free whale.”

CHAPTER TWENTY -TWO

My childhood, a blur of delights and dilemmas, was the same

as that of other children. I worked through special schools for

the deaf and persevered my way through college. Painstakingly,

I learned to read lips and, by over articulating my own speech, to

make others understand me. I signed to those who understood that

beautiful language; and to those who did not, I appeared the loner,

locked in a cage of silence. Through determination alone, I man-

aged to achieve my PhD, a doctorate in marine biology.

After graduation, I petitioned school after school for a teach-

ing position, but few wanted to risk hiring a deaf professor. In des-

peration and with a passionate desire to put my love for the sea to

some application, I interviewed for the position of staff biologist

with a small aquarium and water park called Water Whirled on the

coast near Los Angeles. My folks tagged along to help translate my

signing and to buffer the first shock felt by most people when they

interview someone who is deaf.

Other than my childhood memories of marine parks, I was

somewhat ambivalent about the entertainment value of the creatures

of the sea. My childhood memory of the Beluga and the other de-

lightful creatures at the aquarium was overshadowed by a sense of

melancholy as I followed a teenage guide to the management offices

of the open exhibit aquarium sitting on an old pier that thrust out

into the bay. Sad-eyed dolphins watched doleful from tiny concrete

pools as we clattered our way through this hodge-podge collection

from the sea. In the largest pond at the center of it all, surrounded

by carnival pennants and bunting, was a glass-paneled tank where a

Beluga, not unlike my whale from years gone by, gently floated. As

his winking, gleeful eye peeked at me through the viewing window, I

knew that no matter which job was available, it was here I would stay.

The heat of this hot summer’s day reflected blindly off the

artificial blue waters in tank after concrete tank. My parents and

I were led into the office of the owner and manager of this ocean

carnival, Dr. Melvin Lambert. His office was cool and dim in con-

trast with the grounds and smelled of stale cigars, sweat, and cloy-

ing cologne. In the middle of the room was a cluttered desk with a

gooseneck lamp that spilled light over a paper mountain of receipts,

other applications, and candy wrappers.

Behind the desk sat Dr. Lambert himself in an overstuffed

chair. His tousled hair framed a walrus-looking face, complete with a

bushy mustache that wrapped about his mouth. He gave the im-

pression of being eccentric but harmless–harmless, that is, until he

opened his mouth.

My father explained to Lambert that although I was deaf I

could read lips as well as most people could hear, as long as the

person speaking enunciated clearly. Lambert instantly began to

over-enunciate every word, patronizing me from the start. I had

promised myself that I would maintain a sense of professionalism

throughout the proceedings, but Lambert’s first question clearly

shook my resolve, “Well, little girl, why do you want to work at a

sea life park?”

I signed and my father interpreted my slightly idealistic and

overly prepared answer, “Every since I was a child I wanted to work

with marine mammals. It has always been my desire because I love

all creatures of the sea. Through research, I feel I can add some-

thing, at least my understanding, to the world around me. When I

was four I …”

The little walrus rolled his beady eyes heavenward and threw

his chubby arms up. “Enough, enough!” he mouthed. “Stop before

you get cramps in your hands, girlie.” He sat there for a moment

shaking his head. “Oh, lord!” he laughed, “as I live and breathe . . .

another whale-saving environmentalist!”

Shortest job interview and rejection I had to date. I stood up

and started for the door but my father grabbed my arm. “He’s not

done,” he signed.

I took a deep breath to control my temper. Calmed, I asked if

I could write my answers to his questions rather than signing them

through my father. Lambert reluctantly agreed, and a performance

slate used to train dolphins was brought into his office My father

went outside to wait with my mother, and I was left alone with this

pudgy barracuda. For the rest of the interview, I scribbled in re-

sponse to his interrogation. I am sure it was only by accident that

my nails raked across the board as I answered some of his more

asinine questions. It was fun to watch him grimace.

At the conclusion of the nearly two-hour interview, Dr. Lam-

bert leaned back in his chair and smiled a little oil-slick smile. “You

know, Shar-oon,” he mouthed, “I really don’t like environmentalists.

I hate the Sierra club and don’t get me started on Green Peace or

any of the others. For the most part, they are nothing more than

pests that stand in the way of progress. Worse yet, they want to be

paid for being pests. If I hire you, I imagine you will bemoan the

plight of our whale or the old dolphins. But, and there is a big butt

and it ain’t mine… if I don’t hire you, then I am a heartless old fart

who hates the handicapped.”

The chalk fairly danced across the slate as I angrily and

boldly wrote, “I AM NOT HANDICAPPED!” and my fingernails once

again screeched along the slate.

“Hold on! Hold on!” he muttered his eyes squinted in pain

as he raised his hands as if to surrender. “There are several things

in your favor. Because you are handicapped—‘scuse me, because

you are not handicapped rather hearing impaired—the park will

qualify for some major federal grants and money from the Feds is

found money and found money is good. I like money. It keeps me

company in my old age. Furthermore, your being on staff would add

a bright pity angle to our public relations. Hmm, I like that . . . a

handicapped employee that will help draw in the handicapped. Their

money is good enough for me.”

He paused as he noticed my angry expression. “Don’t look

so shocked! This is the real world, kid, and deaf, dumb, or both,

people are going to use you. The reality of life is making money,

and that’s what this is all about,” he said, waving his pudgy little

hands in a grand sweeping gesture about the room. “It would be

a lot simpler just to keep the little fishies, cause they don’t need

much upkeep, and they kind of feed on themselves . . . but the pay-

ing public wants a circus: they want a show. So, I give them whales

and dolphins and sometimes a pretty deaf girl to feel sorry for. They

get what they want, and I get what I want. They get to be close to

that fat, floating chunk of blubber called a Beluga, and I get bigger

gate receipts. Well, what do you say, Shar-oon?” he over enunciat-

ed. “Do we have a deal?” He extended his greasy right hand with

its plump, sausage fingers.

I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, I wanted to grind

him up as shark bait, and, on the other, I had a begrudging respect

for his blunt honesty. I took the job, but I didn’t take Lambert’s

hand. I slowly wrote the word YES, my fingernails grating the

slate with every stroke.

“And,” he muttered through a clenched jaw, “you have

a cell phone, I presume?”

I nodded.

“Use it to text me. From now on that’s how we’ll communi-

cate. No more writing on slates.”

I fished my cell phone from my pocket and then paused. Us-

ing the slate, the stub of chalk and my fingernails, I wrote, “I don’t

have your number.”

He grabbed the slate and the chalk from my hands and

scrawled his phone number on the board.

With facades firmly back in place, we went out into the wait-

ing room to tell my parents the news.

My title was staff marine biologist, but my job was simply to

care for the whale and dolphins. Mine was a basic task–to make

sure that they were ready for the hourly shows, period . . . nothing

else. Any research or study I wanted to do had to be done on my

own time, which suited me fine. My office/lab was an old bait shack

near the end of the pier now turned Water Whirled, which was good

and bad. The good was being on the water the bad was that until a

day or two ago the shack was used for the storage of raw bait.

My parents helped me find a small, furnished duplex to rent

only a couple of blocks from Water Whirled, and, after moving my

clothes and few personal items, they left me alone in my new sur-

roundings. Through college and graduate schools, I had still felt

like a child, but now, for the first time, I was truly on my own.

So began my daily routine as a professional but a profession-

al what? The first few weeks were focused on cleaning and painting

the bait shack. I slathered on so many layers of paint to mask the

cloying odor of decayed sardines and other bait fish. Once bear-

able inside, I set up all the medical and examination equipment the

park had which was little. Lambert allowed me a modest budget for

a surgery which consisted of a small wheedled gurney and enough

surgical tools and supplies to provide health care to the whale and

the dolphins.

For the most part, I steered clear of Lambert for both our

sakes and concentrated on the care of the fish, dolphins, and the

whale. Helping me was a Native American by the name of Peter

Twofin. Peter was a Haida Indian from Alaska who, with his natural

abilities, intuition, and rugged strength, was a great help. He had

worked at the park for a couple of years while he attended a local

college part time. Better than best, his mother and father were also

deaf and he had learned to sign at a young age.

Peter bothered me, though, because often I would find him

staring at me and he wouldn’t look away. He’d grin. I’d scowl. He’d

grin again, infectiously. And every time, I would smile back, feeling

like an idiot, and then I would turn away, cheeks flaming. He was a

great help but a bit odd.

Nighttime at the marina was a gentle time when the whale and

dolphins quietly swam about their pools and cast longing glances

as I sat watching. “What are you all about?” I often thought as I

sat there, watching the water lap softly on the backs of these gentle

creatures. “Do you think? Do you worry? Do you laugh? Can you

read my mind?”

I privately named the beluga Pillsbury, and in my nighttime

rounds he was my clown prince. Pillsbury was an absolute delight,

even if a bit rambunctious. He seemed to know when everyone

had left and we were all alone. Then his games would begin, and

he would race about the pool in gleeful abandon. But he was old,

and, other than simple non-performance appearances at the Water

Whirled Revues, he did nothing more than swim idly in his tank

and wait for me. It was odd, but there was always a perception of a

greater intelligence and soul within the eyes of this Beluga. Since

I had been a child, whales’ eyes had always danced with a seeming

desire to communicate. Now that I was working at the marina, that

reaching out–that staring into the soul through the eye–was a daily

occurrence.

During my second month at the marina, I began to take note

of the harsh training techniques of the infamous Dr. Lambert. If a

particular dolphin did not perform to the good doctor’s expectations

or didn’t finish a routine correctly, the animal’s food ration was cut

in half, Lambert’s theory being that a hungry dolphin was a coop-

erative dolphin. Late at night I would slip into the tank with fish

for the delinquent dolphin, though not enough that Lambert could

know anything was amiss.

The punishments inflicted on the dolphins were nothing in

comparison to the techniques used on poor Pillsbury. The doctor

was obsessed with the Beluga’s failure to do nothing more than

swim around the performance tank and occasionally breach on

command. Lambert had been to the famous marinas like Sea World.

There he had seen all that he wished his marina could become. He

would return from a conference in San Diego filled with envy for

Sea World’s gate receipts. “What we need,” he railed after one trip,

“is an Orca–a killer whale–a crowd pleaser. Then we could pull in

the dough. Big bucks! But can I buy an Orca? Why? Because I

ain’t got enough room. No, I have only one big tank, and I can’t

afford to build any others. That one big tank is filled with a gigantic

marshmallow that can’t even burp on command.” With hate in his

eyes, he glared at the beluga’s tank. Poor Pillsbury, sensing the

mood of his captor, swam quietly to the other side of the tank.

Shortly after one of these tirades, I began to notice odd,

round welts on Pillsbury’s skin. At first, they were only on his dor-

sal fin, but, as weeks went by, they began to appear on his great

snout and around his eyes. He also began to act listless even at

nighttime, which was when he would play for me in the water. Now

when the park was closed and I was tending to my rounds he would

float quietly on the surface of the water, staring glassy-eyed at noth-

ing in particular. I texted note after note to the other staff members,

asking if they knew the cause of the round welts or the lethargy, but

Peter and the others seemed as mystified as I.

Even Lambert appeared almost sympathetic about the mys-

terious lesions. “Tsk, tsk,” he would mutter as he shook his head,

“poor old whale must be butting his head against the tank at night

after everybody is gone. Damn! I sure hope he’s not getting that

beaching virus.”

The so-called beaching virus, or whatever it was, caused en-

tire pods of whales to beach themselves–to rush full-speed from the

sea to the shore, there to lie until they died. I, too, prayed fervently

that it was not this mysterious malady–for the end result was always

the same . . . death.

Peter and I spent hours checking the inside of the tank for

any odd protuberance that could be causing the wounds, but we

could find nothing. Nightly I would sit in my kitchen with a cup of

coffee and scour the internet, but no amount of research solved the

mystery. I would fall asleep at night and wake in the morning worry-

ing about Pillsbury. No matter what I tried, from food supplements

to shots of megavitamins, nothing seemed to work. Pillsbury was

getting worse and worse. It came to the point where he refused to

eat and seemed to give up on life itself. Peter and I began to force-

feed him–fish at first, then mixtures of ground protein.

Nearly six weeks after the mystery began, it abruptly ended.

I arrived at the marina early, and somehow even to my deaf ears, it

seemed muffled, wrapped in a cotton blanket. All the tanks, which

normally sloshed and splashed about with the movements of the

great creatures inside, were still. I looked first in the dolphin tank.

The five creatures, which normally darted about in great anticipation

of the morning feedings, lay quiet upon the water. I could feel the

quiet–this pervasive stillness.

“Oh, my God!” I thought. “Pillsbury.”

I raced down the concrete aisles and up the ramp that wound

around the Beluga’s tank. The fact that Pillsbury was also motion-

less in the water didn’t frighten me as much as the slackness of his

skin and the odd way he was floating. Without hesitation, I leaped

fully clothed into the tank. He didn’t move. I swam to his side,

stroking his long flank in the desperate hope that my worst fears

wouldn’t be realized. I reached his head, and, for a moment, there

was a flutter of life. His great eye opened, scrunched together in

that merry wink of his, then grew wide, and with a great exhaust of

air from his blowhole–he died.

Never in my life have I felt such grief, such anguish. My

bones seemed to vibrate, and my body began to ache. I tried in

vain to keep his head above water, but his dead bulk was finally too

much. He slowly sank to the bottom. I dove repeatedly, trying to

pull him up, but it was all to no avail. How long I stayed in the tank

I don’t know. V aguely, I remember Peter pulling me from the water

and holding me in consolation.

Even Dr. Lambert seemed to be mellowed by the event.

Grief-stricken as I was, I allowed him to wrap a spongy arm around

me in sympathy. I finally took a deep breath and, with a shudder,

accepted the reality of my beloved creature’s mortality. After all,

Pillsbury had been in captivity for more than fifteen years, and it

was only by sheer luck that he had lived as long as he had.

As I composed myself, Lambert began organizing efforts to

remove Pillsbury from the tank. We had an old lift truck that had

been modified with slings that I used to raise the dolphins from the

water for examinations. It was moved into position and the sling

was lowered into the water and, carefully, as if to honor the memory

of this whale’s past delights, it was slipped beneath the great bulk.

He was finally free of his tiny sea, his prison. As they lifted him,

I noted new series of welts concentrated on one side of his head.

The odd thing was that there didn’t seem to be a pattern. Part of

one welt overlapped his eye, and the lid itself appeared to be burned.

I rushed into Dr. Lambert’s office texting him as I walked. He

looked up and smiled. “What’s up Sharoon?”

Quickly, I texted, “I want to perform an autopsy.”

“No,” he said, over enunciating his words in his usual way,

thinking it helped me read his lips. “That won’t be necessary, Shar-

oon. You’ve been through a lot, and I know how much the whale

meant to you. Let’s just say he died quietly of old age.”

I began to text furiously, “But I want to find out what caused

his death. What caused the great welts?”

His fat cheeks reddened as he came around the desk, “Read

my lips, little girl! I said, no and I meant no! Now if you will excuse

I have things to do, like put out the trash. I want that marshmallow

carcass out of here!” He blustered out the door leaving me alone in

his office.

I stood there, leaning forward on his desk trying to com-

pose myself. It was then that I noticed an odd, narrow tube lean-

ing against Lambert’s desk. It was about two and a half feet long

and nearly an inch in diameter. I carefully picked it up to examine

it further. One end had a handlebar like grip, and the other end

was smooth. I idly touched it to my arm, and the resulting shock

knocked me to the floor. I lay there dazed and then looked at my

arm. A perfectly formed, round welt swelled from the burning of deli-

cate flesh and nerves.

Now I knew the cause of the mysterious disease that had

plagued the gentle Beluga . . . greed!

I vowed to bring full revenge to bear on the person responsi-

ble for the horrible death of Pillsbury. And obviously, that person

was Lambert himself.

I moved quickly, taking whatever measures I felt necessary at

the time. Then I waited, for there was nothing more I could do. As

the days passed I would arrive at the marina early in the morning,

and I could feel the hollow echoes of my footsteps against Pills-

bury’s tank. Everything seemed dank, as the fog-shrouded late

days of summer reflected the mourning I felt. But revenge would

come in its own sweet time. I waited patiently for the fat fish to take

the baited hook.

Nearly two weeks later, as I was working in the bait shack

that had been converted to lab, office, and operating room, Lam-

bert appeared. Leaning against the doorjamb, he watched me

awhile in that affected, bemused style of his. In turn, I stared at

him blankly. When I refused to comment on his presence, he stiffly

mouthed, “The staff says that you continue to question the death

of the Beluga. They say you took a lot of pictures of the carcass

and, even against my wishes, took biopsy samples of the round

welts. In addition, there seems to be a special training tool missing

from my office. Well, little girl, I want the pictures, the biopsy sam-

ples, and the training tool–now. When I have those in hand, I just

might not call the police and have you arrested for petty larceny.

Instead, you are to pack up and get off the grounds of this marina

before I have you thrown off!”

“Doctor,” texting I smiled, attempting to soothe the anxieties

I felt, “I will not turn over the pictures of Pillsbury to you, nor will

I give you the biopsies. For you see, Dr. Lambert, all the tests are

completed, and the results, along with the pictures of the injuries

themselves, are stored in a safe place. As for the training device,

tests have already proven that it was the cause of the mysterious

welts and the ultimate death. Now that the tests are finished, you

can have it back.” I reached into my desk drawer and removed the

cattle prod. It must have been accidentally turned on, for as I re-

moved it from the desk and slapped it into Lambert’s fleshy hand,

it snapped with renewed vigor from the freshly charged batteries.

Lambert’s eyes opened wide, perhaps in shock of the discovery of

the truth: maybe the cattle prod really does hurt.

Lambert stood there, his mouth open, a bit of spittle foamed

on his lower lip. “What are you going to do?” He paused, and then

blustered, “It was an accident. I was training that oversized marsh-

mallow and there was an accident. I haven’t done anything illegal.”

“That, my dear doctor, is a moral argument I don’t wish to be

involved in. The point is that if the press found out about this, you

would get all the free publicity you could ever want to have. If you

wish, I will turn the materials over right now.”

Lambert began to sweat profusely. “But the report of an

accident could bankrupt me!” he wailed. After a long, shuddering

breath, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“You, Dr. Lambert,” I continued texting, freezing him in his

tracks, “are going to do a lot. I know you had the Beluga insured

for more than a million dollars. With that money, you will build a

new clinic and add to my staff. You will improve the holding pens,

and, Dr. Lambert, if I ever discover that you are using that so-called

training device again; the photographs and the test results will go to

the press immediately. Do we understand one another?”

Gingerly holding his blistered right hand palm up in his left he

nodded, smiled a greasy little smile and silently walked away. Three

days later, work began on the new clinic and holding pens.

I didn’t like having to resort to coercion, lowering myself to

Lambert’s rock-bottom level but work continued on the new building

and holding tank. I have always felt that we are today what we were

yesterday, and yesterday I cast a die that maybe was no better than

the one Lambert had thrown. At least, from my actions, some good

would come. A compromise of ethics is sometimes needed.

The old tank had been destroyed, and, with it, the last ves-

tige of the Beluga’s domain. There truly was a fading of memory

as older, smaller tanks were torn down and replaced with bigger,

deeper tanks, new modern tanks that interconnected were quick-

ly constructed. Lambert even rebuilt the grandstands to seat the

larger audiences he anticipated. When the new tanks were finished,

they were quickly filled with fresh seawater and massive circulation

pumps fired up.

Whenever Lambert tried to cut short on quality that would

put any of the creatures at risk, I simply reminded him of our “little

deal”–a deal, I might add, that wore heavily on my conscience. His

guilt, or rather his fear of complicity, always caused him to capitu-

late. Fortunately we avoided each other as much as possible. Sev-

eral weeks later, greatly agitated, Lambert rushed to me and spun

me around as I stood near the shark exhibit. He began to puff his

lips in his odd, exaggerated way, assuming somehow that this con-

torted speech would help me read his lips.

“Shar-oon, the greatest of great news for sure!” he mouthed.

“We’ve got an Orca!”

There were times throughout my life, for whatever reason,

that I pretended to misunderstand what I knew people had said. I

like to think I did this to give myself more time to answer complex

questions. However, on the devilish side, carefully done, I could get

Lambert to repeat himself as many as five or six times. I shook my

head, incredulous, and texted, “You’re excited because you’ve got

an orchid? We don’t have room for what we got. Why would you

waste money on a greenhouse?”

“Orca, not orchid, you idiot,” he sprayed again, “a big old

male Orca from Ocean Villa. A killer whale that will bring us mucho

dinero–big bucks. The greatest draw any marina could ask for. The

ghost of that old, fat Beluga can leave now–we got ourselves an

Orca.” With that, he waddled away to pass on the news to the rest

of the staff.

Though nothing could take the place of my Pillsbury, I, too,

was caught up in the excitement of the new captive. The Orca Lam-

bert acquired was purchased from another marina that found itself

with too many captives and not enough cash. Lambert had been

able to buy this older, trained Orca at far below its market value, if

indeed a market value could be placed on such a magnificent crea-

ture. Although the whale was coming from just down the coast, I

still feared for its adjustment to unfamiliar surroundings. Construc-

tion was geared up to a fever pitch, and crews worked night and day

to finalize the new facilities.

By this time, my personal staff had increased, as I was able

to add two additional interns, which, counting Peter and myself,

brought my staff to four. We all rushed about, moving equipment

and supplies into the new clinic, much to the chagrin of the work-

men who were still trying to finish the structure itself.

Peter continued his odd, smiling routine, and often I would

look up and catch him staring at me with that silly grin on his face.

I’d frown, shake my head, and turn away before the twinkle in his

eye became too infectious. Peter Twofin aside, all the preparations

went well. It was my plan to give the Orca at least sixty days to

acclimate himself to his new surroundings before submitting him to

the rigors of training for performances. Lambert and I locked horns

repeatedly about this issue, and only after a bit of compromise on

my part did he relent to give me thirty days to settle my new charge.

The whale, wrapped in water-saturated material to keep his

skin moist and prevent dehydration, arrived by truck on a forty-foot

flatbed trailer. Its dorsal, the great sail-fin, was drooped over his

back nearly to the deck of the trailer. With the aid of a rented crane,

he was lifted carefully up and lowered into a small holding pen where

I waited.

The water level rose as his great bulk was lowered into the

tank. Although older, he was a beautiful specimen. Because of the

afternoon heat and the debilitating journey, Peter ran hoses into the

tank and sprayed cooling waters over the Orca’s back. With hands

on rubbery skin, we massaged, more, it seemed, to console our-

selves than for any aid we could give this behemoth. Slowly, we felt

his body begin to undulate as he twisted and began to move. He

slowly swam around the narrow confines of the holding pen, and I

was amazed at his ability to turn in tight circles.

After four hours of constant observation, with no apparent

injuries from the transport I felt that he could safely be shifted to

the larger tank, the concrete pen that was to be his home for a long

time to come. The gates were opened, and, alone, I maneuvered

him into the larger pen. Purposely I had placed two of our four

dolphins in the pen for companionship and to act as a buffer to

the shock of transfer. Oddly, I could feel the sound of the dolphins

as they chattered excitedly. As we moved into the tank the Orca

seemed to respond in kind with a low vibration that gave me goose

bumps on my arms and legs.

I ducked my head beneath the water, and, to my surprise, I

felt the vibrations again, only stronger. It wasn’t just a vibrating

sensation on my skin, but a rhythmic, tonal buzzing in my head. In

all my life, I had never heard a sound but had often felt its low-rum-

bling vibration. But this was different. This buzzing continued in

organized patterns. This seemed intelligent. This was a form of

communication but communication of what?

The old Orca’s eye scrunched as if to smile, and, with one

more buzz, he swam to his new companions. I popped from the

water and signed to Peter, “Did you hear that?”

He looked at me oddly, “No, I didn’t hear a thing. Besides,”

he laughed, “you can’t hear anyway.”

“I know I can’t hear,” I signed sheepishly, “but I felt a strong

vibration. You’re sure you heard nothing?”

At the edge of the pen, I could see Lambert asking some-

body what I said. Then he laughed, and, moving his lips slowly, he

contorted, “Maybe the whale was passing gas.”

Still perplexed, I slipped again beneath the water, staring at

my new charge. I waited for the sensation to occur again, but noth-

ing happened. Then, a moment later, came a short, intense vibra-

tion. Then all was still. Although I stayed in the water for more than

an hour, there were no more vibrations.

What was the feeling–the buzzing in my inner ear?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I have been to the Conclave–a gathering of the greatest

minds on earth–and none of those minds were of man. None of

those who were present has ever walked the shores of the waters of

life, nor have any of them ever envied those who do.

I have been with Harmony. I have argued my case before a

tribunal so bizarre, so beautiful, that is beyond simple description.

The night is not bright, but well-lit nonetheless, in this early

northern fall. Cotton-gauze clouds filter the half-moon light as I

walk my silent walk.

Mercury waves slip and slide like long, twisty snakes, hissing

up and down the pebbled shore. The air, cool and crisp, bites at

my cheeks and explodes into silver vapor streamers as I exhale my

breath long-held. This is Alaska September; fall in a place of early

hard winter.

I look back to where the gravely shore refuses to mark my

passing with lingering boot prints. It is as if I were placed where I

am coming from–nowhere–having nowhere to go.

I am now of the Song of the Sea, for I have heard it sung.

I am the one in billions of humankind who must try to teach the

others to sing. Should I fail to do so, man will earn the punishment

he has so freely passed on to others . . . extinction. Like my boot

prints, we will leave no trace on the jagged edge of the dryside near

the waters of life.

I am the wrong with ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD.

I am sandwalker, called Sharing by the brethren of the song who

taught me to listen.

Sharing – a name given to me late in life by those creatures I

have come to love.

Sharing – an odd name for one who really hasn’t shared at

all. Only now have I begun to learn that life is a precious gift. It

requires, even demands, that lives be spent giving back the gift to

ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD,

Shamed am I–knowing now what I know–penitent for the

wrongs that my fellow creatures and I have committed against the sea.

I am sandwalker . . . the creatures given so much in the beginning.

I am sandwalker . . . the takers of all that can be taken. From

birth, we are obsessed with our own mortality; we claw at life de-

manding that it give up the secret to eternal youth.

We think ourselves the grandest of creatures. Now it seems

that we were grand only in our conceit of dominion of all that we felt

we commanded. I am one with these creatures that stagger on the

shore, seeking immortality. But I now am also one with the Song of

the Sea.

The Song of the Sea, now listened to and understood, boils

in my blood. Life takes on new passions with which I am now filled.

I am racked with envy of those who live in the sea, for I do not, and

cannot, live there, though I crave to do so. I am sandwalker, and to

be sandwalker is to covet all that you are not.

The Song of the Sea has few requirements, but one dictate

is that the singer, the recorder of the history of a pod, must always

identify his or her position in the song. I have been called to record

the song for my pod, for the sandwalker . . . for mankind.

Therefore, as the song requires, as the song dictates . . . I

begin at my beginning.

I am called Sharon . . . born in the turbulent tides that

flow without water on the dryside.

My story begins . . .

I was born, but, unlike the brethren of the song, I don’t

remember. The most glorious expression of life is birth. I envy my

friends who live and sing in the sea for they remember this precise

moment and before. Yet we, of all the creatures who live upon the

earth, cannot remember the moment of our own beginning. We try.

We want to remember, but all bits of this wondrous event seem to

be scrubbed clean from our slate of memory, replaced by the initial

feeble scratching of our profound desire to survive.

My first memories of life are of muted rainbows that wrapped

the world in sunset and dawn and changed blink by blink. I vaguely

remember lying in my crib, gazing through the bars to watch a riot of

colors and subtle movements that fought for my strictest attention.

I remember waking to the gentle touch of a breeze through

an open window and the subtle warmth of a sunlight ribbon lancing

bright and bold. I remember the joy and reflections of laughter in

my parents’ eyes at my first hesitant steps. I remember their pain as

they looked on my world of silent still, for I was born deaf.

What an odd word . . . deaf. A brief word, a bleak word creat-

ed by those who can hear; a word that to the deaf community signi-

fies nothing. I do not envy sound. I do not cry or lament my lack.

For having never experienced sound, how would I covet it? I have

been pitied by nearly all I have met for my seeming lack of ability.

But nature compensates, and my compensation was to feel emo-

tion–to truly know the meaning of empathy. I have gone through

life sensing without hearing all the music and the riot of sounds

around me. I prefer my silence to the seemingly cheap carnival of

sounds that hearing folk jostle to experience.

I was taken to the best doctors in the world. Each, upon

examining me, found the same thing. Where most are born with

a complete inner ear, I, instead, possessed an odd growth of bone

that blocked all sound. I could feel vibration, but there was nothing

to amplify the tonal qualities. They remained simple vibrations–no

sound. My parents tried and tried but finally resigned themselves to

that which I had never questioned –Their child was deaf.

At an early age, my parents compensated for my lack by

teaching me to sign–to speak the magic language of hand and body.

I learned also how to read books much earlier than a so-called nor-

mal child and was mesmerized by the magic of words. Still and all,

signing is more expressive, and to that end–although I can read lips

and feel the vibrations of sound–I would much rather paint my words

on the wind than make the guttural utterances of normal folk.

When I was four and very full of my own directions, my par-

ents took me to the ocean. Oh, what a delight! Breezes, edged

lightly with sharp, scented salts, abraded my face and made me feel

alive. Churning waters rolled powerfully to the shore in great arms,

then fists, then fingers outstretched, reaching for all and anything

that came near. I wanted to go. I was compelled to walk as deep

into the water as I could and then to swim farther still. The sea

made me laugh. The sea made me cry. At first sight, I was obsessed

with a longing to be a part of this vastness.

And so, in my childlike simplicity of thought, action and deed

became one, and I simply sank into the sea. The water boiled be-

fore my eyes, and I could not truly see anything but bits of swirling

sand. There was a power in the sea that I could not hear, but rather

felt. I was shocked, for this was the first time that I truly felt sound.

I felt the sea roaring, and that word took on new meaning. I felt the

sea pound at the land, as in a battle fought from great distances.

My journey was short lived. My father dashed into the water to save

his daughter from drowning in her own delight.

He yanked me, most unceremoniously, from the salty water.

Like some prize dangling from his arms, he took me from my sea.

As we splashed back to the beach, he clutched me to his chest. I

could feel his heart pounding, an engine still fueled with the adren-

aline of fear. I could not explain to either of my parents what I felt

that day. The beauty and the power of the sea was mine to possess-

-and mine alone. Greedily, I looked upon my domain–my sea. For

the first time, I felt clean . . . absolutely clean and washed over. I

didn’t want to leave, and I remember that I threw a fit as we drove

away from the immediate shore. They laughed at first, and then

became distressed by my newfound obsession.

Pouting, my lower lip extended in defiance, I sullenly rode

with them to our other holiday adventures, paled now by compar-

ison to the sea. Still later in the day, there came a surprise that

almost superseded the grandeur of the sea. My parents took me to

a place where the ocean fishes were kept in great windowed tanks

filled with volumes of water. Here, I could easily view the majesty

of life beneath the sea. As a child, I could almost sense what it was

like to live beneath the waters.

My mother, father, and I went hand-in-hand from win-

dow-to-window, gazing at this sparkling world. Octopus, parrot fish,

cod, and shark all swam together in a mighty synergism. One-by-

one or in milling swarms, these creatures of the sea swam by my

window, occasionally stopping to look at me through the glass, into

my world as I looked into theirs. Oh, the delight, the joy!

The tantrum I threw at being torn from the sea was nothing

to the one I threw when my parents tried to take me from my win-

dow. My world being soundless, I felt, nonetheless, the discomfort

of the other aquarium visitors as I vented my frustration at leaving

my new-found friends, the fishes. Out of embarrassment, my mother

finally relented and allowed me to stand alone for a few more mo-

ments at what was now clearly my window. My parents moved away,

all the while keeping a cautious eye on their now wayward daughter

who had become a bit infatuated by all. Sometimes being deaf lent

an aura of mystery to an otherwise typical child and softened some

punishments to pity.

I stood there, looking through the glazed glass into a world

as silent as mine. The minions continued to swim in parade, a

revue as it were, and I would have watched forever, had it not been

for a magical marshmallow monster. I had been peering into the

gloom, my hands cupped around my eyes, my nose pressed against

the glass. I was shocked beyond words as a creature made of white

bubble gum, with black gumdrop eyes popped up from below the

window. This monster seemed to rise from the bottom of the tank

as I was looking up. One moment, it wasn’t there, and the next, it

was. I screamed but continued to watch in rapt fascination.

When I could take no more, I ducked down below the glass

and, after catching my breath, gripped the sweating metal brace

beam and peeked back into the tank. The monster was gone. I

stood, shaken by the surprise of it all, when up popped the monster

again. Down I ducked; and, as I ducked, I noticed that the monster

did the same.

It is miraculous how quickly a child can convert from fear

to fascination and on to delight, and I was no exception. I popped

up–the monster popped up. I dropped down–the monster disap-

peared. I thought to catch this creature in the act. I slowly peeped

one eye above the frame to watch its monstrous head rise into view.

As slowly as I rose, so rose the monster until I was looking into the

heart of his very merry eye. Captured whole by this delight of the

deep, I looked into his soul and found so much depth of heart and

compassion that I cried for want of never leaving.

In a burst of bubbles, this most unlikely monster backed off

so I could see all of him. He was nearly fifteen feet long and pearly

white from the tip of his bubbled head to the end of his tail. He ca-

vorted for me there, this priceless crown prince of the teasing sea.

I could feel my laughter welling in bursts of giggles as I watched

my new-found friend twist and turn, swimming sideways and upside

down, all for my delight. Without my notice, my parents had joined

me and watched in fascination. Father signed that this delightful

creature was whale and, letter-by-letter, spelled out the word Beluga:

Beluga whale–a perfect name for my marshmallow monster.

I was captured that day, as only a four-year-old can be, and

I pledged myself for all time to the sea. Many, many years later at

my college graduation, I stood on the dais and signed the word . .

. Beluga. Only my parents understood the reference to a very funny

whale that, for whatever reason, sought to make a little girl laugh.