Hold the Enlightenment

by Tim Cahill

“Stop if it hurts.”

  “When can I take off these stockings?” I was wearing a pair of tight white support-hose-type stockings given to surgical patients to prevent embolism.

  “Take them off when you can walk a mile,” Dr. John Lonstein said.

  Three days after the operation, I went to a nearby mall, without my stick. I could walk, at least on an even surface. Hey! I could walk! But the muscles in my legs were atrophied, and I was moving at a slow, shuffling, geriatric pace. Boisterous teenagers, bouncing off one another and laughing, terrified me. I hugged the walls for safety. A mile would take an hour. Maybe two.

  The surgeon said all had gone well, that I could return to my accustomed work, and that a little caution now and again would not be out of order. I took one step, one breath. One step, one breath. And now one, two, three, four, five steps in a row. I stood balanced on two legs, gasping as if I’d just run a four-minute mile.

  In the past, I’d dreamed of walks like this: some nightmare bogie behind me, gaining on me, and my feet tangled in tall grass, in beds of string. Now I knew what that dream had always been about, and why I dreamed it. I put together another set of five steps, fully unprepared to be dust.

  Evilfish

  A recent New York Times story blasted dolphins right out of the water. “Evidence puts dolphins in new light, as killers,” the headline read, with a zinger of a subhead: “Smiling mammals possess unexplained darker side.” The story, a long front-page science-section offering, was continued seven pages later, under the subtly refined headline, “Evidence reveals dolphins in a new light, as senseless killers.”

  Nothing in the article was inaccurate—this was The New York Times, after all—and the evidence in question wasn’t particularly new, though the prosecutorial zeal was certainly novel. There were three major allegations in the Times indictment:

  The First Count: Certain bottlenose dolphins often kill their smaller cousins, harbor porpoises, seemingly for fun.

  (Some definitions here: The terms “dolphin” and “porpoise” were used interchangeably by scientists and the general public until the late 1950s, probably to avoid confusion with the coldblooded dolphin fish, also called the mahimahi, a member of the mackerel family. These days, when scientists talk about “true dolphins,” they are referring to toothed whales, cetaceans, of the family Delphinidae, which contains thirty-six species, ranging from the five-foot-long Hector’s dolphin to the majestic, thirty-foot-long orca male. True dolphins have curved dorsal fins, conical teeth, and are often beaked. Porpoises are of the family Phocoenidae: they are mostly smaller than true dolphins, chubbier, have triangular dorsal fins, and generally lack beaks.)

  Dolphins and porpoises often occupy the same territory. Off the northeast coast of Scotland, bottlenose dolphins sometimes surround a group of harbor porpoises, single out an individual, and ram it repeatedly, using their beaks to toss the unfortunate creature in the air. The porpoise dies of multiple causes, including skeletal fractures and severe internal injuries. Scientists have observed similar interactions between bottlenose dolphins and harbor porpoises off the Virginia coast. The contest is manifestly unequal. Male bottlenose dolphins can reach a length of thirteen feet and weigh in excess of 1,400 pounds, while harbor porpoises are among the smallest of the cetaceans, averaging about four feet nine inches in length and weighing 130 pounds.

  Worse for the reputation of the bottlenose—our pals from the movie Day of the Dolphin and the television series Flipper—scientists don’t believe the two species compete for the same food. The aggression is not territorial but apparently a form of deadly, bullying play.

  The Second Count, and more damning still: Observations in both Virginia and Scotland confirm that bottlenose dolphins often kill bottlenose infants in the same way. Infanticide is a common reproductive strategy among mammals, especially in those species, such as bears, lions, and dolphins, in which females are not sexually receptive while rearing young. Female dolphins become sexually attractive to males within days after losing a calf.

  The Third Count: Dolphins don’t like humans that much and never have. In fact, people who have been in the water with wild dolphins have been bumped, rammed, bitten, and, in one case, even killed by dolphins. The permanent smile on the faces of some species of dolphin is purely anatomical, no more indicative of the animal’s state of mind than are the tusks on an elephant. You moron.

  I received half a dozen copies of the article by mail, fax, and e-mail from those friends who knew that I was working on an IMAX documentary movie about dolphins (Dolphins, Macgillivray-Freeman films) and a companion book (Dolphins, National Geographic Books). The scientists among my correspondents—and there were many, all of them consultants on either the book or the movie project—found the article “sensational,” and the headlines especially inflammatory. It wasn’t that we were unaware of the information in the Times piece, or that any such material had been excised from the book. To the contrary, it was all there, mostly in a single boxed article, written by Bernd Würsig, professor of marine mammalogy, director of the Marine Mammal Research Program, and codirector of the Institute of Marine Life Sciences at Texas A&M University. The article was titled “Reality Check.”

  This material was folded into a larger context, and our error, I now saw, was that we supposed our audience was composed of people who were aware that dolphins are wild animals and fierce predators. The Times piece supposed that its readers loved dolphins uncritically, and was designed to shock the mush-minded.

  Like my scientific colleagues, I found the headlines incendiary—even irresponsible—but as a journalist, they stuck like a burr in my brain. In fact, as I reviewed my notes, I was besieged by a mind swarm of new and even more disgraceful headlines, many of which would not be suitable for The New York Times.

  The article in question, for instance, didn’t include information about gang rape among bottlenose dolphins, because, while certainly sensational and shocking, the news probably wasn’t fit to print. In Monkey Mia, off Western Australia, some bottlenose dolphin herd females in estrus away from the group, where they, the females, are subjected to repeated and apparently unconsensual copulations. The males sometimes band together in what are called coalitions to fight off other bands of male dolphins, bent on the same rape themselves. (“Behind the Smile: Unspeakable Abuse.”)

  Additionally, dolphins do not mate for life, as is sometimes supposed. The male’s contribution to rearing his progeny stops at conception. The paintings one sometimes sees of a happy dolphin family—mom and dad swimming proudly with a new infant—are not entirely accurate. The female’s reproductive strategy is to mate often and apparently indiscriminately. Monogamy is seldom if ever practiced, and each of a female’s offspring is likely to have been sired by a different male.

  In the documentary I was working on, there is a brief and typical mating scene: it consists of a few rapid pelvic thrusts and is over in a matter of seconds. Blink, and you’ll miss it. (“The Most Inconsiderate Mammal.”)

  Nevertheless, dolphins are extremely sexual creatures. Before the orgy, however, they tend to eat like gluttons. Dusky dolphins, off New Zealand, for instance, often herd great schools of fish to the surface, which acts as a wall. They then swirl about the bait fish, concentrating them into a compact ball. The duskies take turns swooping through the terrified fish, snapping up several in a single pass. (“Dolphins Nip Marlins.”) After such a meal, the duskies in their hundreds will leap acrobatically, each one erupting out of the water sometimes dozens of times, as if in ecstatic celebration. (“Dolphins Fined for Poor Sportsmanship.”) After-dinner socialization consists of flirtations, mock copulations, and repeated bouts of actual sex, often initiated by the females. (“Slutfish Bang for the Halilbut.”)

  Okay, okay. I admit to a certain mush-brained affection for dolphins, even a slight reverence. Stories of relationships between dolphins and humans are as old as the written word, and I am a sucker for them, the more sentimental the better.

&nbs
p; Almost 2,500 years ago, the Greek historian Herodotus wrote about a musician named Arion, a lyre player sailing home after a successful concert tour. The ship’s crew, music critics all apparently, tell Arion that they are going to take his money and toss him overboard. Arion is granted his dying wish and is allowed to sing one last song. His music summons friendly dolphins, and Arion steps over the side of the boat, only to be carried ashore on the back of one of the big cetaceans. (“Dolphins Steal One from Mariners.”)

  In the first century A.D., the Roman naturalist Pliny the Elder wrote of a boy who rode a dolphin to school every day across the Bay of Naples. One day, tragically, the boy died. A few weeks later, the dolphin washed up on shore, dead, one is given to understand, of a broken heart. (“Boy, Dolphin in Bizarre Suicide Pact.”)

  Now, the truth of the matter is, as the Times reported, many people who have tried to swim with wild dolphins have been butted and bitten. Well, some people have been bitten by gorillas, and yet others sit in their midst unchallenged and unharmed. It is a matter of etiquette, and the protocols are different for each animal. Dolphins, for instance, find a direct approach threatening, not surprising in a creature that uses head butts to drive off sharks, discipline unruly members of the group, and sometimes kill. Rule One: Never, never, never approach a dolphin broadside and at a right angle. Let the dolphin approach you. Each encounter is taken at an oblique angle. Never chase. Don’t touch.

  Generally, when the dolphin has had enough of you, it will leave. There are, however, certain signals that suggest maybe you might want to get out of the water right now. Just as you wouldn’t approach a dog that is growling and baring its teeth, you want to avoid a dolphin that is clapping its jaws, or that continually approaches at a right angle, or one that assumes a vertical, S-shaped posture.

  I have found, in my encounters with wild dolphins, that one or two members of the group approach first, in a kind of sweeping torpedo run. Reconnaissance, probably. Others follow, and they will swirl about, in slow, oblique angles, inviting you to the dance. Now, I’m a former Big Ten swimmer—sprints and butterfly—but in the water with dolphins, I am entirely too slow, and have found that it is best for me to take the lead and let the dolphins follow. I swoop about in great loops, twenty and thirty feet in diameter, and the dolphins swim by my side, close enough to touch, and what I imagine I see in their round black eyes is a kind of gentle pity.

  So why are there so many hostile encounters between wild dolphins and humans? The one reported death happened in Brazil, and the details are instructive. In March 1994, a bottlenose dolphin named Tiao began appearing on the beach near São Paulo. Tiao did not seem to be associated with any nearby dolphin group and was obviously attracted to humans. Such animals, often called ambassador dolphins, are rare. No one knows why they prefer to associate with humans rather than their own kind. But the attraction was mutual. According to the BBC “Wildlife Magazine”: “At times, Tiao would be surrounded by up to 30 people, climbing on his back, tying things to his flippers, sticking things into his blow-hole, hitting him with sticks, even trying to drag him out of the water to be photographed with the family and kids on the beach.” In December, after nine months of this, Tiao rammed one man to death and injured several others. It is said there was drunkenness involved, and that the man who was killed had been trying to shove a stick into the dolphin’s blowhole. (“Killer Dolphin Slays High-spirited Baton Twirler.”) These days, when Tiao visits the beachfront near São Paulo, people get out of the water and accord him the respect due both ambassadors and wild animals. (“Killer Dolphin Beats Murder Rap.”)

  In my film project, there is a sequence involving an abused ambassador dolphin in the Caribbean. Jojo, still another bottlenose dolphin, appeared one day near the beaches of the Turks and Caicos Islands. He seemed to be soliciting human companionship, but when people attempted to touch him or swim with him, Jojo became obstreperous. Some people were butted. There were injuries.

  Something had to be done. While human swimmers were taught the essentials of dolphin etiquette, a dive instructor named Dean Bernal began swimming with Jojo every day in an effort to convince the dolphin that humans do have some manners. There have been no more human injuries, and Jojo the dolphin has since been named a “national treasure” of the Turks and Caicos.

  Still, all is not well. Speedboats, jet skis, and other watercraft from beachfront resorts make swimming dangerous for both humans and dolphins. An eight-year-old girl was cut by a propeller, and Jojo has been hit eight times. Two of the deep propeller cuts were life-threatening. (“Human Merrymakers to Jojo: It’s Payback Time, Tuna-Breath.”)

  The sequences of Dean and Jojo swimming together are easily the most popular among test audiences who have seen a rough cut of the IMAX documentary. They really look like two mammals at play: Dean blows an immense air bubble which expands as it rises, while Jojo follows the bubble to the surface, then scoots back to Dean as if to say, “Do it again, do it again.” Or: Here are Dean and Jojo perfectly vertical in the water, with Dean pumping his arms back and forth, as if dancing, and here’s Jojo mimicking Dean with his pectoral fins. It is as if each mammal is looking into some strange, shimmering mirror.

  In the matter of the mirrored relationship between dolphin and man, a scientist and poet named Loren Eiseley contemplated a world in which humans lived the life of dolphins, which, in the manner of his day, he called porpoises.

  If man had sacrificed his hands for flukes, the moral might run, he would still be a philosopher, but there would have been taken from him the devastating power to wreak his thought upon the body of the world. Instead he would have lived and wandered, like the porpoise, homeless across currents and winds and oceans, intelligent, but forever the lonely and curious observer of unknown wreckage falling through the blue light of eternity.

  Eisley thought that “It is worth at least a wistful thought that someday the porpoise may talk to us and we to him. It would break, perhaps, the long loneliness that has made man a frequent terror and abomination even to himself.”

  This long loneliness, it seems to me, is the foundation of all human science and philosophy. It is why we set up radio telescopes to scan the stars for evidence of life on other planets and why we want, so desperately, to communicate with the dolphin. We imagine that the dolphin is peaceful, loving, joyous, and wise because these virtues are the sum of our yearning. But dolphins are neither wise nor cruel. Not in the human sense. They are wild and free, and the lesson we might learn from them cannot be encompassed in any presently known language.

  Given this, the desolation of our singular awareness, the most depressing headline I can conceive of might read: “Dolphins: Only Human, Fully Comprehensible.”

  The World’s Most Dangerous Friend

  Once, years ago, a friend of mine, John C., took me to a restaurant in New York’s Little Italy. When our entrées arrived, he turned to the waiter, pointed to the cannelloni on his plate, and asked, injudiciously, I thought: “What are these? Fried Hoffa fingers?” The waiter colored and said that he would consult with the chef. Presently the chef arrived at the table carrying a large cleaver in what I found to be a menacing manner. He explained that we were not being served fried Hoffa fingers. “Everything here,” the chef said, gesturing vividly with the cleaver, “is fresh killed.” John, in a kind of ecstasy of delight, said: “I think dinner ought to be fraught with danger, don’t you?”

  Few people, I suspect, would agree with John that veiled death threats are an aid to digestion. In fact, most people think my friend John is a jerk.

  I found myself contemplating those cannelloni, jerks in general, and the pleasures of mortal peril before going off to spend several weeks this past summer in a very dangerous place with Robert Young Pelton, the author of the bestselling guidebook The World’s Most Dangerous Places. Pelton, if I understand him correctly, believes that extreme jeopardy, encountered abroad, can be both life enhancing and numinous. The book, which Pelton insists is required read
ing at the CIA, is, in fact, exceptionally useful to those whose work carries them to insalubrious and sanguinary places: journalists, missionaries, mercenaries, aid workers, scientists and the like, not to mention kamikaze packbackers and other frenzied travelers. Most guidebooks focus on what is glorious; Dangerous Places draws a bead on what is goriest. It is a morbidly compelling compendium of horror, deeply disturbing, and often laugh-out-loud funny, which is to say, it’s really good bathroom reading, and pretty good political science to boot.

  The book—and Pelton’s Discovery Channel TV show of the same name—consists of dispatches from the world’s hot spots, along with reams of appalling statistics. There are impertinent interviews with Afghan warlords, conversations with professional assassins or with obscure rebel chieftains, not to mention such helpful advice as this on surviving a drive through a minefield: sit on your flak jacket.

  Most of Pelton’s readers and viewers, of course, have no intention of ever putting this counsel to use, but simply find it entertaining in a reality-based, Survivor-with-more-bite sort of way. Other people, particularly those such as foreign-aid workers and war correspondents who have no choice but to brave danger on a regular basis, are skeptical that Pelton is ever really in a great deal of peril. And if he is, then, said a distinguished friend of mine who has spent the better part of the last five years in war-ravaged Chechnya, “he’s a voyeur of violence.” So Pelton can’t win: he’s either a liar or a ghoul. A jerk, in other words.

  Now, in my own twenty-five-year journalism career, I’ve traveled constantly and—always inadvertently—have found myself in a number of urban riots, negotiated with rebel factions for my safety, run from areas where various armies were shooting at one another, and been held at gunpoint more times than I care to remember. If the skeptics were wrong about Pelton’s level of exposure—if he acted recklessly in seriously terrifying situations—I’d just make myself scarce and let him deal with the fallout. Jerks die.