by Diana Reiss
It is thought that the dolphin god arrived around 1000 B.C.E., and his influence, via the voices of the oracle at Delphi, persisted for almost a millennium and a half, the most powerful political and spiritual presence of the time. There is a link between Delphi and dolphin: Delphi is the Greek word meaning "womb," nurturing source of life; delphis (dolphin) loosely translated means "womb fish"—dolphins, unlike other fish, give birth to their young.
There are several versions of the origin of dolphins in Greek mythology, all of which involve Dionysus, the god of wine and wildness; some are said to have occurred when he was a boy; others when he was an adult. Here is one version.
Dionysus, who had great good looks and grand demeanor, disguised himself as an ordinary traveler and hired a ship and crew to take him from the island of Ikaria to the island of Naxos, the largest island of the Cyclades, in the Aegean Sea. The crew, who were pirates of sorts, believed Dionysus to be a prince and so plotted to kidnap him and profit by some means. They sailed the ship past Naxos and on toward Asia. Dionysus realized that he had been tricked, and he used his divine powers: the masts sprouted branches, the men's oars became snakes, and strange flute music sounded throughout the ship. The men realized that their captive was in fact a god with terrible powers, and they flung themselves into the sea. Poseidon, god of the sea, promptly changed them into dolphins and ordered them to be servants of mankind forever and exemplars of virtue and kindness.*
The first to benefit from the newly created dolphins' selflessness was Poseidon himself, even though he was a god and not of mankind. Poseidon was in pursuit of the beautiful sea goddess Amphitrite, but she was being coy and hid from her pursuer in a cavern under the sea. Dolphins discovered the location of the reluctant bride and told Poseidon where she was hiding. He found her and took her for his wife. To show his gratitude, Poseidon conferred upon dolphins the highest of honors: he created the constellation of the dolphin, Delphinus, which can be seen in the northern skies close to the celestial equator.
Although classical Greece saw the height of human reverence for dolphins in origin mythology, the sentiment has a very long history. Paintings and engravings in prehistoric caves in Europe have long intrigued modern scholars, although their exact meaning will, of necessity, remain elusive. Most agree, however, that Paleolithic people were not simply making visual and tactile records of the various animals of the day—horses, bison, bears, mastodons, and so on. Rather, the depictions likely held some symbolic value, perhaps a kind of ritual relating to the hunt or an encapsulation of their cosmology, their origin myths. It is therefore significant that in the Nerja caves of southern Spain, deep in a barely accessible corner, there are images of three dolphins, two males and one female. And engravings of dolphins are said to be in Ice Age caves in the French Pyrenees. Such images aren't common, yet that they exist at all is remarkable. Exactly what they mean, we cannot know. They are tantalizing threads of evidence that mankind's close identification with dolphins stretches back ten thousand, twenty thousand years, and possibly more.
But we can know some of what was in the minds of a people in a different part of the world many thousands of years ago, because their stories have been passed on through countless generations. These people are the Australian Aborigines, a highly diverse group living over vast territories and whose history goes back perhaps fifty millennia. Throughout their diversity is one commonality: a reverence for dolphins, for their sacredness, their wisdom, their spiritual guidance. This special connection between humans and dolphins among Australian Aborigines may well be the oldest one of all of human societies. Stories of dolphins are an integral part of the Aborigines' Dreamtime—that is, the time of the creation of the world in Aboriginal mythology.
Here is just one example. The Wanungamulangwa people live on Groote Eylandt, off the north coast of Australia, and their ancestry goes deep into Dreamtime. Their earliest forebears were said to be dolphins, the Indjebena, who lived in the deep waters between the islands of Chasm and Groote. At that time, the Earth was inhabited by spirit beings in the form of animals, birds, and fish. In the stories of Dreamtime, the Indjebena had a carefree and joyful life, with plenty to eat and plenty of time to play.
Dinginjabana, the leader of the dolphins, was swift, bold, and, it has to be said, more than a little arrogant. His wife, Ganadja, by contrast, was timid and kind. Ganadja was friendly with the Yakuna, a type of shellfish that built a strong shell and had a single muscular foot. In what is a long and quite complicated story, Dinginjabana exhorted his fellow male dolphins to sport with the Yakuna, and they tossed them around with disdain and derision, taunting them for having to stay in the coral, unable to move swiftly like the Indjebena. A mistake, as it turned out, because the Yakuna had powerful friends—the tiger sharks, deadly enemy of the Indjebena.
Baringgwa, the leader of the Yakuna, called upon his shark friends for help, and before long every one of the Indjebena had been sliced and mangled in their ferocious jaws. Every one, that is, but Ganadja; she was given refuge by her friends the Yakuna, who shielded her with their hard shells. After many months of loneliness, Ganadja gave birth to a son, whom she named Dinginjabana, after his father. He grew much larger than his forebears and was no longer at the mercy of the tiger sharks. The young Dinginjabana was the first of the tribe of dolphins that thrived around Groote Eylandt and in the world's oceans, the dolphins we see today.
According to the stories of Dreamtime, the souls of Dinginjabana the elder and the rest of the Indjebena became hard and dry, and after many years they were reborn as humans on Groote Eylandt, the first humans in the world. Meanwhile, Ganadja lovingly raised her son but remained lonely and missed her errant husband. One night, under a full moon, Ganadja swam near the shore and saw her husband, who was now a two-legged man. Overcome with excitement and longing, she thrust herself ashore, dragged herself over the sands with her flippers, and rested in front of Dinginjabana. When he recognized his wife, he gave a great shout of joy; Ganadja joined him in voicing elation, and she promptly took on human form. Ganadja and Dinginjabana lived a very long time and produced many children, who populated the island of Groote. They are the only ones who remember that dolphins are the ancestors of the entire human race. However, the dolphins in all the oceans, the offspring and descendants of the great mother Ganadja, have never forgotten that the people of Groote are their two-legged cousins. That is why, they say, dolphins are so eager to approach and play with their human kin, as they did in the days of Dreamtime.1
The Maoris, the Aboriginal people of New Zealand and geographical neighbors of the Australian Aborigines, also have a long and sacred relationship with dolphins. To the Maoris, dolphins are a source of spiritual guidance and a font of wisdom in difficult times. Dolphins, in these people's world, are known as humans of the sea.
On the other side of the globe, the Chumash Indians of the south California coast tell a different story of their origins and the origin of dolphins. Hutash, the earth goddess, lived on the island of Limuw (known today as Santa Cruz Island), where she talked to the animals and the trees, which she cherished. But she was lonely and wanted other people to be with, to share with her the beauty of her beloved Limuw. So one day she climbed the highest mountain of Limuw, gathered poppy seeds, and strewed them over the land. The seeds germinated and matured and grew into men and women, young and old. These were the Chumash people, whom Hutash loved as her own. Hutash's husband, the Sky Snake (the Milky Way), gave the Chumash fire, and they thrived and multiplied on their beautiful island.
Before many years had passed, Limuw had become crowded and the Chumash too boisterous for Hutash's liking. She told them that half of their people must leave for the mainland, and that in three days she would construct a bridge for them that would go from the highest mountain on Limuw to the highest mountain across the water. She warned them that when they crossed it, they must not look down. When the third day came, the families that had elected to leave set out across the beautiful arc of color
s that Hutash had constructed. Very soon, some of them became frightened that the bridge might prove too flimsy for their weight. Despite Hutash's warning, they looked down at the ocean, became unsteady, and tumbled into the waters below. Hutash heard their cries for help and transformed them into dolphins, who were forever to lead joyous lives in the seas.2
These few stories give just a glimpse of origin myths involving dolphins, which are ubiquitous across the continents. Before we move from mythology to history, however, I will give just one more story, because it has special dimensions that have long puzzled anthropologists and astronomers. It concerns the Dogon people of sub-Saharan Africa in what is now Mali, whose roots reach back more than two thousand years.
The Dogon's origin myth, like that of the Wanungamulangwa people of Australia, has dolphinlike creatures as their ancestors. They came not from the sea, however, but from Sirius, the Dog Star, which is some 8.6 light-years distant. Two French anthropologists spent time with the Dogon in the 1930s and slowly pieced together their stories. The Dogon's knowledge of Sirius appeared to be astonishingly extensive given their lack of technology, and the story of their origins very complex and difficult to follow. Briefly, though, dolphinlike beings from Sirius, called the Nommo, arrived on Earth in starships, which Dogon drawings show landing on three legs. The Nommo populated the seas and became dolphins, and they created children to live on the land, the Dogon people, who were originally called Ogo. This story is found in the Dogon's oral tradition, as well as in symbols carved into doors, lintels, and masks, and in their paintings.3
Mythology is, of course, not truth in the way we normally think of truth; that is, it does not generally report events that actually happened or facts that can be verified. But mythologies reach to a different, deeper kind of truth, one that relies on resonance, not on demonstrable evidence. Mythologies do not account for the origin of people or dolphins in the way that scientific theories do, but mythologies tell us something about who we believe ourselves to be, our values, and our place in the world in relation to all the other creatures of nature. Mythologies are, in a way, an expression of that Delphic counsel: Know Thyself.
Given these few legends I've just related, who can doubt the depth of humankind's positive and interdependent connection with the dolphins? These ancient myths represent our perception of dolphins as minds in the water—intelligent, wise, and compassionate. Few animals bear such numinousity. What is it about dolphins that prompts this kind of reaction, response, and perception?
***
After mythology comes history, the putative record of actual events. But distant history can sometimes shade into myth, especially when the record is penned many years after the supposed events, as was the case with "true" stories from ancient Greece. Whatever the stories' veracity, there were indeed many tales told from this era of dolphins coming to the aid of men and boys (females were rare in this arena) or simply joining in friendship with humans (usually boys), all of which were in the spirit of complete selflessness on the dolphins' part. Such events were often celebrated by the production of bronze statues of boys and men riding on the backs of dolphins and the minting of coins bearing the images of dolphins. At one point, more than forty cities had coins of this ilk; images of dolphins on coins were as familiar to the Greeks as lions and eagles are to us today.
One of the best known of such stories, not least because it is mentioned in the first act of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, is the rescue of Arion of Methymna, poet and musician of great renown. He spent time in Periander's court, traveled the Greek colonies, and competed in national games (which included music as well as athletics in those days), and he was usually victorious. Through his great talents he amassed significant wealth; he gathered it up and boarded a ship at Taras, which is in the heel of Italy, that was headed for Corinth. Like the unlucky Dionysus before him, Arion realized too late that the crew he had entrusted with his life and his wealth were in fact pirates. Arion begged in vain for his life, offering to give up his money. The pirates would have none of it, because they knew that once Arion arrived safely ashore he would report them to the king. Arion was given two options: he could kill himself onboard and be given a burial ashore, or he could jump overboard right then and there. Not much of a choice.
Arion opted for the latter but asked that he be allowed to sing one last song before he jumped. The pirates agreed, thrilled by the prospect of hearing the world's most famous singer perform before he acquiesced to their nefarious will. Arion put on his full performance costume, took up his lyre, and sang "Orthian," a high-pitched song to the gods. Arion then did as he'd been bidden and jumped into the sea, and the ship sailed on to Corinth, all of Arion's wealth in the hands of the pirates. As the story goes, a dolphin suddenly appeared and approached Arion, took him on its back, and delivered him safely to Tainaron, at the southernmost tip of Greece.
Still wearing his performance costume, Arion made his way to Corinth over the land and went to Periander's court. The king wasn't sure whether to believe Arion's fanciful tale, so he had him locked up and waited for the crew. When they arrived, the king had them brought before him and asked them the whereabouts of Arion. He was safe, they claimed; they had set him down at Taras. At this point Arion stepped out of the shadows and confronted the astonished crew. They were forced to admit what they had done.
Now, these events were said to have taken place around 600 B.C.E., but were not put into writing until Herodotus did so some two hundred years later, based on accounts he heard from people of Corinth and Lesbos, Arion's home. Was it fact or myth? Whatever the truth, there was for five hundred years in the temple at Tainaron a small bronze figure of a man riding a dolphin, put there by Arion himself shortly after his reputed adventure.4
There were other such stories from ancient Greece of dolphins selflessly rescuing humans, but more common were tales of dolphins befriending boys, sometimes with tragic outcomes. The first important one occurred around 200 C.E. and involved a boy named Dionysios who lived near Iasos. After school during the summer months, Dionysios and his friends went to the nearby beach and swam in the sea. One day, according to one version of the events, a dolphin approached Dionysios, who, though initially cautious, soon lost his fear of the animal. Before long, the dolphin turned up every day after school to meet Dionysios and take him on his back far out into the sea, returning him safely to the beach each time. The dolphin was said to have fallen passionately for the boy, and the relationship attracted great interest from the townsfolk. At first, crowds gathered to watch this amazing sight, but it soon became commonplace.
On one unfortunate day, the dolphin slid too far up on the sand while returning his friend to safety. Dionysios was unable to get the dolphin back into the water, and the dolphin died. The boy was heartbroken. The story eventually reached the ears of Alexander the Great, and he took it as proof that the sea god Poseidon had taken a special interest in Dionysios, and he appointed the boy to be high priest of Poseidon at the temple in Babylon.5 Dionysios's story prompted other such claims, as is often the case with unusual events, one of which again came from the people of Iasos, though it appeared much later than the first.
The boy's name was Hermias, and, like Dionysios before him, he rode on the back of his dolphin far out to sea and was returned safely each time. One day, however, a storm came up suddenly, and Hermias was swept off the dolphin's back and drowned. Plutarch described the subsequent events: "The dolphin took the body and threw both it and itself together on land and would not leave until it too had died, thinking it right to share a death for which it imagined it shared a responsibility." In relating this account in his book Dolphins: The Myth and the Mammal, Antony Alpers noted, "This is a good example of the great difference there can be between the things that animals do and the meaning that humans will read into them."6 Alpers did not dispute that the events took place as Plutarch described, simply noted that imputing human motives and emotions to animals was probably going too far. In any case, the peop
le of Iasos commemorated the tragedy by minting coins showing a boy riding a dolphin.
According to Alpers, this next story, the first tale from ancient Rome, is not to be doubted: Two thousand years ago, a young peasant boy lived near Lucrine Lake, a shallow inlet near where the city of Naples now stands. Each day the boy had to walk around the lake to reach his school at Pozzuoli. Living in the lake was a dolphin known locally as Simo, a Greek word meaning "snub-nosed." The boy took to calling, "Simo, Simo," at the water's edge, and, it is said, the dolphin came and ate bread from his hands. Before long, Simo began to ferry the boy across the lake, taking him to school in the morning and then back home in the afternoon. This went on for several years, until one day the boy fell ill and died. According to Pliny, who recorded the events, every morning afterward, the dolphin arrived at the place where he had always met the boy, apparently still looking for him. The dolphin had "a sorrowful air and manifesting every sign of deep affection, until at last, a thing of which no one felt the slightest doubt, it died purely of sorrow and regret."7
Most of what is in this story is probably true, except, as Alpers pointed out, that the dolphin ate bread—very unlikely, although certainly possible, as dolphins will sometimes ingest unusual foods or items. And whether it died of "sorrow and regret" is a matter of interpretation and anthropomorphism. The point here is not to focus on the occasional and probably inevitable anthropomorphism of the storytellers. Instead, this tale and the others I've related reveal a time when close relationships between human and dolphin were not uncommon. The two historical accounts I mention here are just the first of many recorded in ancient Greece and Rome. There were numerous others, and we can even make a connection with similar narratives in modern times.
