Monday, June 30, 2014

The Dolphin Is Also A Fish

They called him Flipper. In the history of network programming, no weekly half-hour television show has done more, with the possible exception of "Lassie," to bolster the reputation of an animal in the eyes of human viewers. The weekly frolicking of Bud, Sandy and their pet dolphin during the 1960's left an endearing legacy the effects of which are still emerging. The trend in "hands-on" dolphin encounters at megabuck resorts in Hawaii and the Bahamas is a testament to the lasting power of an image created almost fifty years ago.
 
In February of 1984 no such hotel-sponsored experiences were available. My fascination with dolphins, however, led me to the Kewalo Basin Marine Mammal Laboratory in Waikiki as a participant in Project Earthwatch (www.earthwatch.org).  Teaching Dolphins Language was enticingly presented in a catalogue as one of hundreds of ongoing scientific research projects being carried out worldwide. The Earthwatch concept of financially contributing volunteers involved in tax-deductible working vacations was the backbone of many of these expeditions.  For me, it was a cheap way to see Hawaii for a month while indulging myself in a Flipper Fantasy.

* * * * *

         Kewalo Basin Marine Mammal Lab

         "If you've come here in search of Flipper you're going to be severely enlightened."

I had. I was. And in my opinion, Lab Director Louis Herman could have waited a few days to burst our collective bubble.  He continued...

         "The dolphins we are teaching are wild animals captured for scientific purposes, nothing like those you'll find at Sea World, which were raised in captivity."

Flipper was wild, I thought to myself.

         "And for those of you who are concerned about restaurants with "dolphin" on their menus.....don't be.  That dolphin is a species of fish unrelated to the mammals we'll be studying. In Florida the Bottlenose Dolphin is called a Porpoise. The two names can be used interchangeably."

He went on with his opening remarks warning of the dangers involved with wild animal research of this kind. Being intensely social creatures, Phoenix and Akeakamai, our two "girls" as they were known, required hours and hours of tankside play. That was part of our job. The remainder of the day would be spent tossing various objects into the tanks where the dolphins were kept waiting for visual and auditory cues such as "Take Ball to Basket," while notes were taken, objects retrieved and dolphins praised and hugged for a proper response.

That would be the order of operations for the coming weeks:
         command, respond, reward
         command, respond, reward
The dolphins knew it well and came to expect it of us. How well they knew it would be revealed to me later in a private training session. What happened that day was not recounted until now, perhaps to the detriment of those running the decades-long project.

Like any job, the routine became boring and repetitive. And there were distractions. The views of Diamondhead, daily rainbows over the hills, and the fragrances of flowers, native cooking and suntan lotion filled the air.

Myths were constantly de-bunked. For instance, it was pointed out that the only reports of sailors being led to shore by dolphins came from those who survived the experience. Those who were led in the opposite direction obviously gave no account of their misfortune. Dolphins love to push objects through the water. And being the equivalent of approximately an 800-pound muscle, can do so with considerable force and ease.

On his experience with such an in-tank encounter, one young lab assistant related:
         "...it was radical...worse than any body-slam I've ever gotten playing football."

In-tank encounters were thus forbidden. Nor was safety out of the water a given. An irritable dolphin could signal for a "hug" at one moment, tire of the experience without notice and attempt to bat your head away like a tennis ball off a racket a moment later. And it seemed their irritability was the norm rather than the exception. They were wild dolphins.

It took the better part of two weeks for our lilly-white winter complexions to tan evenly. Defending against intense exposure to tropical sun with varying levels of sunblock produced a patchwork quilt effect on tanning shoulders and arms. A spot left untreated was scorched.  Pale handprints were not uncommon. Thirty minutes of exposure was dangerous. We were outside eight hours a day. I have never been, nor will I ever again be, as tan as I was by March of 1984.

By the third week on the project some special changes took place. The "girls" began to recognize us. This behavior was unstudied and undocumented.  It wasn't charted, recorded, or data-fied.  But it made the project worthwhile.

Previously oblivious to us as we wandered around the outdoor lab in the morning, we would be greeted tankside by a bobbing pair of noses, playfully splashing and chirping (you know that Flipper sound…) to get our attention, rising out of the water in the "hug me" position.  It was heartwarming, and very much like the tail-wagging dog/master feeling I'd known before.

Tank-side visits were off limits to humans after hours, by dolphin decree. They were extremely territorial animals, capable of splashing an unwelcome loiterer to a point just short of drowning. “Get away” was the clear message.

One memorable evening I sauntered over to the tank, hot and uncomfortable, looking to be splashed. The girls were docile, slowly swimming at the surface of the water in clockwise circles around the edge of the pool while I stood watching. The moon was full and the air was calm.  The only sounds were those of the gently lapping tiny waves created by the motion of the dolphins through the water, and the rising and falling of the surf in the nearby ocean. In a bold move I leaned over the edge of the concrete tank, dangling my hands in the water within reach of the two swimmers.  

As each approached I held my breath, expecting a deserved and inevitable splash. Two or three laps later, Phoenix and Ake (Ah-Kay) were still calmly swimming past my immersed hands, now rolling a quarter turn to gaze upward at my face and then swim on. A progressively more intimate relationship developed over the course of a half hour that evening. Phoenix initiated the behaviors and Ake followed suit. Their quarter turn roll became gradually more pronounced and the pace slowed as Phoenix extended her left flipper above the water's surface, first in a salute and on subsequent passes, in a sort of handshake, a touch.  

Several curious Earthwatchers silently joined me. All extended their hands toward the dolphins, touching, stroking and caressing the extended fins - firm, rubbery and wet. We watched each other, and as I gazed into their oh-so-human eyes, they seemed so much like my own that they appeared misplaced in this fishy form. I gradually became aware of the link that was broken somewhere in the ancient familial path that sent us on our separate evolutionary ways. Myths spawned by the old Samoans of reincarnated warriors in dolphin form became obvious manifestations of this kind of observation.

Soon the girls resumed their normal swimming pattern and we dropped back from the tank lest we ruin the moment with a splashy awakening. We withdrew to the moon shadows near the back of the lab and spoke in hushed tones. A second year assistant from California, a surfer, spoke for us all, saying, "dude...that was awesome!"

But that was just a hint of what was to come.

Several mornings later, daily tank-side prep and cleanup was in progress. I moved the usual research objects into place for our morning training session: beachball, surfboard, basket and Frisbee. The sun was scorching as always, and the dolphins swam leisurely in their pool. Phoenix watched me over the edge of the concrete tank, a light blue wall about four and a half feet high. Each circular pool was equipped with a central drain and a watertight access door to allow entry for cleaning when empty. The door was several steps down, with a two-foot square window for underwater viewing. That the dolphin was watching me was unusual. They tended to ignore us until appointed times for feeding, work or play. Because of this, I pretended to ignore her, relying only on my peripheral view for fear of scaring the watcher off. As minutes elapsed, water began showering lightly over my shoulders. I was being intentionally splashed, but not in the usual aggressive way. This was a gentle attempt to gain my attention.

I turned and faced my assailant, wished her good-morning and asked, “What are you up to?” Upon making eye contact, the dolphin quickly swam away as I feared she would. But she bobbed immediately to the surface of the water in the area by the underwater door, and then returned to her original position. Splashing water in the direction of the door, she dove again, disappeared under the surface, and now that I was paying attention, re-appeared, framed in the underwater window. Not only was this inordinately cute, deliberate and unprecedented, but the behavior held within it an equation that struck a chord I’d been trained to recognize: command, respond, reward.

It took several repetitions before the stupid human in this encounter understood the dolphin’s intentions.

Command: splash toward the door.
Respond: greet at the underwater window.

And with that, I walked toward the door, quickly descended the steps and met my dolphin counterpart face to face at the viewing port. All that was missing was a reward. And with that, the face behind the glass disappeared and the entire body popped above the surface of the water, extending in the “hug” position. My reward: command, respond, reward.
The Author Gets A Reward

I’d been trained. Oh my Gosh! The dolphin had trained me. I was a bit of a slow learner, but I eventually understood and was changed forever in my estimation of animal intelligence and my sense of place in this amazing world.

* * * * *

My month of participation was over. As the plane taxied for takeoff I paged through project literature. Nowhere were such experiences alluded to or mentioned.  Lou Herman's words echoed in my head.  “.... severely enlightened."  He knew. And now I did too.
  
“Like, totally better than Flipper, dude."  I chuckled under my breath, gazing out the window as Diamondhead slowly receded beneath billowing white clouds and the plane headed back to Chicago.  




         

The Fall of Roy G Biv

Spectral surfing dominated the skies over southern California long before the sport became popular along the shores and piers of the congested human community below. Cool ocean breezes carried moisture inland on mild November air, creating conditions ripe for brief afternoon precipitation over the hills of Los Angeles. The resulting sunshowers and the accompanying rainbows were spectacular in their arching radiance unless benders were prevented from doing their jobs. It was the benders that turned unremarkable horizontal rays of wet white light into splayed jewels of colored luminance.

Roy kicked off his skids as he monitored the sky, anticipating a hearty straight and narrow that he would mount in a leaping dash from the foothills near Santa Monica and ride for miles in a rush of color and spray. He existed for the pure art and joy of a splendid ride, and prided himself on the depth and breadth of colors he was able to extract, briefly tattooing the sky with his footwork. He would frequently hang five on his descent, goofy-foot on rare occasions, and on his best days bend double rainbows Earthward under his feet.

Catching a ray took timing and patience. Opportunities were scarce, and competition between surfers was growing as the number of benders grew relative to the number of available rays. Because of this rivalry, a ride’s exhilaration was always tempered by the possibility of conflict, or even sabotage.

On the afternoon of November 14th the rain bent and bowed, shredding into seven brilliant bands under Roy’s white refractals. He dove earthward in the vicinity of the Los Angeles River and dipped below ground level hoping to exit unseen. Too late to react upon approach, he spotted a rival bender reflected in the shallow water of his intended culvert, standing on the bridge above. He struggled to reduce his speed and braced himself for impact, helpless.


To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.



Monday, June 23, 2014

Summer Jobs: Tool or Die

My first job at Brown’s Fried Chicken paid $1.25 per hour. Factoring for inflation over forty years, this is the equivalent of $7.09 in 2014, which is still below the current minimum wage. I have seldom worked as hard since. I cleaned floors on my hands and knees with coarse green scrubbing pads, and eventually worked my way up to slinging fried chicken in 450 degree oil. The little burns hurt. Larger burns sent you to the emergency room. The stench of grease saturated my white uniform and ridiculous paper hat, and the rats by the garbage dumpster scared the crap out of me. Ah youth. At least I got to meet Mr. Brown.

It seemed as if all of us experienced the coming-of-age fast food journey up the payscale. By the next summer I heard about a job paying $3.75 per hour from a friend who came home from work each day soaked in sweat and covered with machine oil. All he talked about was the pay.

The job was in a local tool and die company that cranked out mysterious small metal parts for larger unknown machines. Output was critical. Orders needed to be filled. There was a brief training session that lasted about 15 minutes by one of the senior staff members. Senior status was achieved by surviving workdays in a large metal barn with no air conditioning through blazing Chicago summers. I never got to experience winter in the same structure. Perhaps the machines kept it warm.

I was led over to a grinding machine where I was shown how to flatten one end of an inch-long metal rod by running a grinding wheel back and forth over the end of the rod in exactly the same place, slowly so as not to create blackened friction burn, but fast enough to keep the parts flowing.

Each pass of the grinder made a rumbling screech when the wheel made contact with the rod. I then turned an adjusting lever a quarter turn to bring the wheel down a fraction of a millimeter to grind a bit more metal. Perhaps ten passes got the job done: grind, adjust, grind, adjust, grind, adjust. Toss the part in a box on the floor.

I did this for hours at a time through the increasing heat of the day in that airless shed of a building. For added pleasure, a small amount of machine oil was released onto the grinding platform and sprayed all over the front of my t-shirt with each pass of the wheel. The microscopic metal shavings incinerated instantly, becoming airborne and going mostly up my nose. I discovered this during my first work break upon blowing black tar out of my face into a handkerchief that would never be white again.

I knew it was break when a whistle blew. No kidding, it was like the sound on the Flintstones when Fred yells “Yabba Dabba Doo!” Except at this employer, unlike at Slate Rock and Gravel, an old German man across the shed had decided sometime during the past thirty years to yell, “Jawohl!” (yah vole). By the end of my second day, I wanted to strangle him, or at least blow my nose on his shirt.

"Jawohl!"
My clothes were unlaunderable, covered in oil and black soot. It took most of the evening to clear my sinuses of black tar, and I was so dehydrated and exhausted I nearly cried by the start of day three. This was long before the possibility existed of listening to an iPod with favorite music or audio books. It was mind-numbingly boring work that resulted in my imagination going places I had never had time to go before. And it was not lost on me that the shed was populated by a gang of men who had provided for families for decades, doing the same work week after week, heading off to this hell hole with a metal lunch box and a deadened soul. “Jawohl!” It’s happy break time, lunchtime, end-of-day time. Repeat.

During the middle of afternoon three, the man who had shown me how to grind metal rods into metal rods with flat ends came by to see how I was doing. He picked up a random piece from the box on the floor, commented that it was pretty good, and then said, “Oh, your exhaust fan’s not on.” He then casually walked away. Apparently, my lungs were not supposed to be the grinder’s exhaust system after all.

I went home that day and never came back. For decades since, whenever I feel badly about a particular job or task, I think back on my brief stint as a tool and die worker, cringe and then think more pleasant thoughts. And I never, ever use the word “Jawohl” under any circumstances.





Sunday, June 22, 2014

Consumed

Across the yellow-orange display within my head, rhythmic, shadowy shapes drifting across my inner panorama belonged to Evan. He was doing his morning yoga. Judging by the intensity of the sun blazing across the living room and onto my face, it was later in the morning than we had hoped to get started. But I sensed this only through closed eyelids. My throbbing headache was somewhat diminished since the night before, and Aunt Ellie’s couch and blankets enveloped me like a womb. Her condo’s air conditioning simulated the chill of a winter cabin, in contrast to the warmth of my body in its comforting nest. It had been a late night at Tradewinds. It seemed like days ago.
“I don’t get why you do that to yourself, dude,” said Evan, turning at the sound of my groaning.
I didn’t have a good answer. Evan didn’t drink. He claimed to be high on life and said it dulled his senses. I admired him for that.

“Have more fun when I’m buzzed,” I said, squinting briefly before covering my face with a pillow.
“You puked all night. Is that fun?” he prodded.
“Noooo,” I said, swinging my legs onto the floor, folding myself forward onto the pillow like a kid crying on a grade school desk. At least the room had stopped spinning.
“…need food,” I said, standing and staggering slightly on my way to the refrigerator.
“We’ll eat on the way,” said Evan, giving me that look that said, “Don’t screw up my day, man.”

It had been like this since high school. Evan, the energetic free spirit. The Zen master. Always on the go, driven, looking for adventure and testing his limits. He was athletic beyond anyone else at Murdock High, consistently disappointing coaches in their attempts to recruit him for team sports. I drew my strength from him, and I usually grounded him when he needed it most. We were stronger together in school and inseparable ever since.
*****
We hit the river much later in the day than Evan had hoped. Already in the water and sitting upright, straddling his paddleboard on the slightly brackish water, Evan repeatedly dunked his hands into the river, combing and drenching his long blonde hair with dripping fingers. The water offered refreshing relief from the searing Florida sun as he rinsed the sweat from his face with a final handful. I stood at the boat launch, nervously finishing a bagel and scanning the shore. Dense foliage surrounded us, cascading in a hundred shades of green across the river’s banks and onto the water, threatening to consume it. The Peace River has a reputation as a kayaker’s haven. Clear, calm, and deep, it flows for miles from its freshwater inland source to the salty Gulf of Mexico. A dark and green wildlife sanctuary, the river meanders like a living thing, silently, relentlessly through the surrounding junglescape, mingling fresh and salt waters before spilling its secrets into Alligator Bay. Entering the river on boards had been Evan’s idea, something he wanted to try. I reluctantly agreed, but would have preferred to take the boats as usual.


To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.



Thursday, June 19, 2014

Tunapocalypse

     Kurt stared into a sink half-filled with motionless gray water. An occasional small bubble erupted from below the water’s surface, bringing with it the unmistakable pungent oceanic tang of Chicken of the Sea.
     “Mary?” Kurt yelled toward the kitchen door, “What’s in the sink?”
     She wasn’t far away.
     “Oh yeah, I meant to tell you about that.” she said, “I was cleaning out the refrigerator for  vacation.”
     “What is this stuff?”
     Mary glanced at the large empty tuna can on the counter. Kurt followed her glance.
     “You put THAT in the Disposall?”
     “It’s just tuna,” she said. “I tried to rinse it down, but, well, the water just kept getting deeper until it looked like this,” she gestured toward the sink.
     “It’s FOUR POUNDS of tuna!  Jesus, Mary, this is like something I’d do. I can’t believe the timing,” he laughed. “Where’s the plunger?”
     His smile had a calming effect on Mary’s hesitant response. She nervously put her hands to her mouth the way she always did when suppressing a giggle.
     “I’m sorry Kurt. I’ll go get it”
      “Maybe hot water will break it up,” muttered Kurt, moving the single handle faucet fully to the left.
     Kurt submerged the plunger’s pink rubber dome over the drain in the left basin of the double stainless steel sink while the hot water ran. As he pushed and pulled in a gentle attempt to dislodge the clog, the chunk-filled gray water appeared in the other side of the sink, mimicking his motions like a groundhog contemplating escape. The water was now hot and fuming, and smelled more strongly.
     The Disposall had apparently done the best it could with what it was presented. Gobs of emulsified tuna-water had been disgorged into the main pipe that led away from the U-fitting that joined the twin basin sink. The clog was firm and well beyond the reach of a simple plunger.
Kurt paused. “This isn’t working. Do we have any Drano?”


To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.