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.