“There they are!”
There was a flurry of motion on board Stenella (the research vessel my husband captained for The Wild Dolphin Project) as founder Dr. Denise Herzing, two researchers, ecologist Carl Safina, three donors, and I all met at the back platform. We had checked into the Bahamas the day before, and most of us had spent our first morning eating breakfast and snorkeling. Now, under the baking afternoon sun, we were about to do what we’d come to do: get in the water with wild dolphins.
The non-profit focused its studies on spotted dolphins, but we immediately knew that these were not them.
“Bottlenose,” Denise called out, peering over the side of the boat. “They’re crater feeding.”
“They don’t seem to mind that we’re here,” Dave tossed back from the upper deck. “Think we should try it?”
Denise nodded. “We’ll see if they stick around.”
No one had to tell me twice. I was already waiting on the bench with mask and fins in hand. I had been in the water with plenty of large animals before—loggerhead turtles, goliath groupers, manatees—but never with wild cetaceans…my body buzzed with excitement. It must have been obvious because Drew, the first mate, leaned over and whispered, “Don’t forget to take a breath.”
I smiled as I shoved my snorkel in my mouth and slid off the side of the boat.
–
The difference between the broiling July air and the coolness of the water made me grunt as I hit the water, but my attention quickly shifted to the big, scarred body of a male bottlenose coming towards me…
And the world, as I knew it, melted away.
I slowly drew air into my belly, then my ribs and chest, and finally my throat and mouth until I felt the familiar fullness. Then, I dropped to the middle of the water column. There, suspended between the sand and the surface, the dolphin and I met each other.
Later in the trip, I’d think back to this first interaction and giggle. Every time we got in the water with a different group of dolphins, the energy was different, and the dolphins’ personalities dictated the kind of interaction we’d have. Sometimes, a dolphin would take the lead and spin me around like a passionate, careful dance partner. Other times, we’d just lock eyes and try to figure each other out, drifting lazily side by side. And other times still, they’d try to get a game going with a piece of seaweed.
But not this male. I felt like I’d met up with the class clown. Almost immediately, he flipped ass-over-tea-kettle and started making a squawking and farting sound out of his blowhole. It made me erupt into a fit of laughter, but because we were underwater and I couldn’t open my mouth, it sounded like a deep, muffled thrum. It felt like a chesty explosion of joy that had nowhere to go except every part of my body. And it must have delighted him (in the way that a human’s reaction would delight a dolphin) because he did it again and again.
And me?
I could have stayed there forever.
I wanted to.
–
When carbon dioxide begins to build up, your diaphragm starts contracting. It doesn’t mean you’re out of oxygen yet, but it does mean your body is signaling that it’s going to need more soon.
I felt the squeeze as my chest hitched upwards, and I mentally kicked myself as I gave a real kick to head back to the surface. I didn’t want this interaction to end—I really was having the best time—but I knew my limits.
Don’t forget to take a breath.
–
That trip left a deep, deep mark on my heart. By the time I returned to shore, I knew something had shifted inside me. I could feel it, curled at the base of my chest, stirring—a recognition of something I didn’t yet have words for. I thought that maybe it was just a renewed sense of energy, so I threw myself headfirst back into work with fervor.
I was sure the tightness in my chest and the general restlessness I was feeling were just symptoms of creating magic. I had big ideas that needed to be brought to life.
I just had to go a little deeper. Stay a little longer.
Push through. Keep the momentum going.
I wanted to.
–
When you’re in the water, the signals to surface are instinctual. I would argue that on land, they’re pretty blatant when things are stressful…but when life feels like it’s in a flow state? Those signals are much harder to catch—subtly tucked in the creases of your daily routine.
It’s in the way your muscles feel tight.
It’s in the lightly frayed edges of your patience.
It’s in the soft voice that whispers there’s not enough time to do it all.
It’s in the other things that matter but that are pushed aside.
When big things are happening.
When there’s a goal in sight.
When there’s fire in your belly.
When conversations are overdue.
When decisions are needed.
When excitement is driving you forward.
When everything is shifting.
–
My calendar tells me I’ve been back from my trip for nine weeks, but I’m only just beginning to feel the truth in those words. I now understand that what I felt curled at the base of my chest, stirring, was the new and intimate recognition that taking a breath is not only for when things feel chaotic and uncontrolled.
It’s also for when you want to forge ahead. When your mind and heart are in it. (And when you don’t want the moment with your farting, squawking dol-friend to end.)
I am working on remembering to let fresh air fill my lungs, to let my body soften, and to let my mind clear—every day, even if it’s inconvenient. Especially if it’s inconvenient.
To let space exist between decisions, tasks, goals, conversations, and changes.