Dee Blair

 Again, in early February, Joe and I visited my sister and her husband in Naples for a week. Here is part two of our Floridian adventure.

Another lovely morning in Naples, Florida.

It’s just after sunrise. Joe and I long for a look at the Gulf of Mexico. Well, this hunger is easy enough to satisfy. We hop on our multi-speed rental bikes, and in five minutes we’re on the beach. Our bare toes scrunch the cool white sand as we slowly walk along the Gulf’s calm edge, exclaiming over the miles and miles of white-sand beach. Downtown Naples, rising out of the foggy southern horizon far away, seems a sand-born mirage. Twenty miles north, Fort Meyers could be its reflective twin.
And, in between, there exists this immensity of sand.

In the sun-lit, multicolored water live intricate life forms tiny and massive.
Pelicans scoop the sea’s opaque surface for tasty morsels just beneath.

Bobbing, ill-tempered seagulls squabble and jab at floating neighbors, just because.
Much bigger birds soar overhead, scanning for anything eatable on land or ocean.

Like the zippy little sanderlings that we step around, Joe and I are content to troll the water’s edge to pluck up shells, bits of flotsam, and the odd woody curiosity.

You may ask if I’ve ever gone swimming in here…Well, I might wade in this warm tub, but- to venture out?

Ah, no.

Once, on another visit, I saw sharks lazily patrolling not too far off shore. Not dolphins. Sharks.

Nosir.

This mammal is a fainthearted chicken.

There is one skinny old guy about six feet out from shore who teeters on the brink of much deeper water. He’s decked out in a long-sleeved black wetsuit. A snorkel dangles from his rubber neck. Listening through earphones with intense concentration he guides a long-stemmed metal detector underwater, skimming it delicately over the neck-deep bottom, mining for watches, rings  - stuff. Rubber-man doesn’t ruminate about passing sharks that might sneak up to bite off bits of him for breakfast: only his treasure hunt matters. He weaves the submerged machine back and forth in a loose pattern, and occasionally scoops up something interesting with a teeny basket attached to the end of a stick.

Nothing he inspects makes him smile. Yet.

A flash of movement. I gasp! Two hundred feet into the Gulf seven dolphins arch out of the water in synchrony; their gray, finned backs gleam in morning sun. They’re fishing. I know this because the flat ocean is agitated toward the middle of their tight circle. Our binoculars reveal their tactics. Confused fish are surrounded; then, taking turns, each dolphin darts in to down some for breakfast.

In minutes they’ve finished dining. One huge animal rockets straight up, clearing the water, just for fun; then everyone dives.

Show’s over.

We are open-mouthed.

Joe walks on a bit further; I sand-sit, lost in watery immensity for a while.

We aren’t that different, are we? Some mammals fish for trinkets; others fish for –well, fish.

Then, a shocking surprise! Fins suddenly split the sea directly in front of me; rapidly approaching giant bodies displace enough water to liberally splash my sandals. I shout for Joe just as three huge dolphins stop on a dime nearly within touching distance, then parade back and forth with slow deliberation, studying us.

They look their fill. Sensing a splash of pity mixed with curiosity, I imagine their dolphin-thoughts:

Eeee…lumpy sand creatures! Look at ‘em move around slowly, like soft-shelled crabs, waving puny appendages finished off with inadequate (not sharp) fingerlings that seem defensively useless.

Tsk. Crabs and urchins have better designs.

The poor things seem anchored to the sand coating their strange, waterless world.

How, and what, might they eat?

For both of us, Air is life. (For fish, it’s death.) How important is Water, though, to sand creatures?

Forever separated by two oceans (we at the bottom of ours; they at the top of theirs) we try to comprehend our circumstances.

Their inspection over, these dolphins move a few feet further out to sea, then glide back and forth quietly just underwater, zigzagging in ways that seem random. Two minutes later they suddenly roar straight toward the shore in triad formation, like speedboats unleashed. Agitated water is flung everywhere. The sudden, repeated accelerations are devastatingly effective: a small school of panicked fish is efficiently herded right to the edge of the beach. The doomed water-drinkers, with no room to maneuver, fling themselves straight up- but it’s too late. They’re done. The dolphins devour every one. Their huge, streamlined bodies effortlessly arch, dive, leap, twist and turn. So much mass is shifted so violently that the ground under our feet trembles. We are awed by their power, speed, flexibility and focused intelligence as they take breakfast at sea.

Sated, the dolphins glance at us, then turn away. Fin-torn water settles into a seamlessly flat surface as they smoothly submerge to glide toward the sun-dappled drop-off,

and vanish.