Magazine Article

Client: BBC Broadcasting (Wildlife Magazine)

Audience: Nature-lovers

This got an award from the BBC, and was read out by the bloke who used to play Manuel in "Fawlty Towers" - without the Spanish accent.

THANKS

Trapped.

Teeth sharp through my wetsuit. My body won't do what it's told. Seabirds do the screaming for me while the waves lift us and drop us together, alone in the ocean, jaws clamped round my arm … the dolphin and me.

…

Stuck.

To be tired of London is to be tired of life. But to be sick of Stanmore? There's the rub. To be … an infinitessimal cog on an insignificant gearwheel, frantically spinning, unable to connect, incapable of meshing - conveniently situated well out of sight, right at the back of the workings of the Great Wheel of Life … or, in other words, not to be?

No future. That's what it feels like.

Help. Someone. Please.

Enter the psychocircus barker: Therapies? You want therapies? Step right up, folks - follow me for Freudian! Right this way for Reichian! We even got Gestalt! Roll up! Roll up! All the fun of the fair!

Then the discreet hissing of the psychosnakeoil salesman: Therapies? Did I hear you mention … therapies? I have crystals. I have colour. I have music. I have chanting. I have something in my sack for each and every one of you fine ladies and gentlemen out there.

Ignore them.

Flavour of the month is dolphin.

Dolphin?

Blame the media.

Dolphin features leap out from newspaper pages; magazine covers splash colourful, happy dolphin images; schools of dolphin books beckon from bookshop windows - dolphins, dolphins everywhere … my head is swimming. My ears are deafened by the Word. Miracles happen out in that there ocean, brothers and sisters - the sick are healed! The Spirit is lifted! Swim unto the dolphin all ye that are heavily-laden saith the Media, and it shall give unto you comfort. Swim with a dolphin, walk back to shore …

Halleluiah.

There are no dolphins in Stanmore. One lonely little goldfish lurks somewhere in the fishtank in my kitchen - the only creature on God's earth that makes me feel wanted, makes me feel worthwhile … makes me think there was a reason I was born. Or, to be more honest, acknowledges my presence. But that's only to tell me it's feeding time. And for him, feeding time is always NOW. Always. Something very Zen there: ain't no such thing as a skinny Buddha.

…

It is Tuesday morning. There might be fish out here in the ocean, millions of them darting back and forth beneath me, but the water's too murky to see down past my waist.

Right now, back on dry land, other millions dart back and forth between the toaster and the shaver, the wardrobe and the coffee cup, the front door and the bus stop. Me? I'm tasting salt, listening to the waves and the thumping of my heart, nervously trading water far, far away from the support boat.

The dolphin will come to you in its own good time, they said back on board. It's obviously busy elsewhere - any self-respecting dolphin has better things to do than meet someone this unsure of what he expects. Or even wants.

And someone this frightened.

When I first saw the size and strength of the animal under and around and alongside and behind and in front of the boat all at once, I wanted to call the whole thing off. I had the idea it would be cute, a Dolphinarium dolphin with a never-ending supply of beachballs and herrings, a happy, smiling Safari-Park dolphin hopping backwards on the water … or just a cheerful clone of the King of the Dolphins, Flipper himself.

No.

Warnings of wildness and unpredictability - and that display of sheer power - hammered it home that I am about to meet a twelve-foot, well-scarred, razor-toothed killing machine.

Dolphins kill sharks.

Now I'm used to the cold water and the salt in my eyes, and now I'm almost sure the wetsuit will keep me afloat, I lie back in the water and look up into a cloudless void. As my heartbeat gradually slows down, I'm surprised to find myself lulled by the waves, soothed by the sky, unwinding and hoping the dolphin will stay busy elsewhere. Out here, alone, in the middle of nothing and nowhere, things take on a different perspective. Somehow, it's easier to think. And to analyze my situation.

As on dry land, there's still that feeling of insignificance. Not so difficult to deal with when you're just a speck on the surface of a great big ocean. And a very small one at that. About as small as that tiny little cog on that tiny little wheel way, way behind and at the back of the Great Wheel of Life. But here, there's nothing to mesh with except a dolphin busy slaughtering salmon for breakfast. Those other specks, those other cogs on dry land. Are they really the problem? Who's out of sync - who won't connect? Them or me?

Interesting question.

Instant self-analysis: the more withdrawn I become, the less I care about anything - or anyone - else. The less I care about anything - or anyone - else, the less I care about me. And the less I care about me, the more withdrawn I become.

It's a vicious circle, and tightening around me. And the tighter it gets …

No future. That's what it feels like.

I need to break that circle, break its stranglehold … I need to break free. That's what I want from being here.

And that's why I need to swim with a -

SNORT

Loud, hollow and right behind me. I sit up, very gently, and then oh-so-slowly, shakily, push myself round in the water, not daring to use my legs in case I kick … and connect. Another SNORT and the wind carries a rainbow of saltwater spray straight into my face. Dolphin breath. Curiously metallic. Curiously familiar. Blood. Freshly-killed salmon.

Six inches separate its snout and my stomach. I can't see a face under the surface, just the top of the head fading to green-grey, wider than my body. Sunlight sparkles on water running down a distant dorsal fin, and way beyond, the waves break over the tips of a tailfin. I can't see the support boat. I want the support boat near me. I want to be back on board. Now.

Gentle heat and mild electricity sweep out from my chest to each limb, in turn. I'm being looked up and down. Scanned. Analysed. Blood sings in my ears as the scan rises to head level, scalp scratching with static and then … nothing. Another SNORT. More spray in my face. Where is that boat?

Awestruck. Impossible to do anything except hang in the water, too frightened to make a move, waiting … for what? I don't know. A gentle bumping in my armpit, and then the feeling of being pushed backwards. This is sheer power, controlled by an alien intellect, nuzzling my armpit like the kitten I still miss after many, many years. Instinct makes me stroke. Surprise pulls back my hand: no warm, soft pliable skin and fur here - just cold, wet, slippery hardness. Sheer willpower makes me stroke again.

The dolphin rolls over, flippers in the air, white underbelly exposed. It swims upside down around me in close circles, brushing against my side, making contact - spinning me pitching and tilting in its wake once, twice, three times before diving away … and out on the horizon, there's the support boat, too far away from me for comfort.

I raise my hand to wave anyway, and there's a splash close by and something around my arm. Teeth. Brown. Bigger than my thumb. From my shoulder to my wrist. Lifting me half out of the water, silently, mysteriously. Gentle enough not to pierce the sleeve of my wetsuit. But sharp enough - if I pull my arm away - to slash it to ribbons.

Analysis?

Adrenaline.

DANGER! jerks breathing to fastforward.

DANGER! slams heartbeat into overdrive.

DANGER! flashes thinking processes into hyperdrive: fight? Flight? How? IfightitbiteIpullitshred. Logic filters flip images of finality.

A millisecond of why?

The fight-or-flight cycle kicks in again, can't cope and short-circuits, taking with it mind and muscle control. No strength. No fight. No flight.

Pure terror.

Breakdown and acceptance: under the surface and cold salt in the lungs … crunch and spurt … either way, end of story.

No future.

No future?

Feel that final THUD of heartbeat, reach desperately for the next. Claw for one more scratch of sweetsweet breath. This is the NOW. The is the second to clutch and squeeze and keep because there won't be another one.

Ever.

No future.

This is what it really feels like.

The dolphin lets go.

I drop, sink, icecold on my face, up my nostrils and salt down my throat. The wetsuit brings me back up, baptized. Reborn. Alone in the ocean, gasping, shaking. A different salt stings my eyes, streams down my face.

I have a future.

I really do.

The dolphin surfaces, looks through the tears, deeper into my eyes than any human ever could.

Contact.

Communication.

Better now, human?

Yes, Dolphin.

Thanks.

 

 

END