Voices in the Ocean

by Susan Casey

  It would be hard to find someone more jazzed about dolphins than Ocean, I thought, or someone who had created a more dolphin-centric life. While other people hacked their way toward the regional sales record or Ivy League admission or any number of goals along various well-worn paths, Ocean had been doing things like swimming with pygmy sperm whales in the Mexican moonlight, frolicking with pink river dolphins in the Amazon, and examining dolphin hieroglyphics inside the Great Pyramid. Hers was the opposite of a normal career trajectory, and because of that it had been fraught with questions like “Can I pitch my tent here?” and “Who will buy the groceries?” But a funny thing happens when you refuse to compromise your heart’s desires: after years of contending with all manner of uncertainties and obstacles, life yields and pours itself into a you-shaped mold, one that has never existed before. After decades of out-of-the-box “participatory research” with dolphins, and quite against the odds, Ocean had forged a prosperous, even settled, existence. Dolphin lovers worldwide sought her out, flying to Hawaii to attend her weeklong workshops, which were often sold out months in advance.

  Sunlight on Water floated serenely in its slip while its passengers fumbled with flippers, cameras, sunblock. A sporty Hawaiian man in wraparound sunglasses came charging down the dock and wrapped Ocean in a bear hug. It was the captain and owner, Mike Yee, affectionately known as China Mike. “Me and Joan we go way way way way back!” he announced. “Ha ha! I’ve been taking this young lady out for a quarter century!” Yee gestured exuberantly to the people milling around. “Hey, alright, since everyone’s here I’m gonna do a Hawaiian ceremony to begin the day,” he said, the words tumbling out in a monologue. “Anytime people get together here in Hawaii we always begin with some ceremony. It’s part of our tradition. Doesn’t matter if you’re making a boat trip or it’s a birthday party or, you know, any of that kind of stuff, ya? This is a Hawaiian wind instrument I’ve made. It’s called a pu. Ya? It’s made of ohe bamboo. What? This is not school, honey. You don’t have to raise your hand. Anyway, I’m not answering questions now. So I’ll blow this four times to begin the ceremony. When I start I’m always facing east, acknowledging kala, the sun, the life force of our planet. Ya, you know, we figured it out two thousand years ago: if the sun doesn’t come up, not too much happens here on good old planet Earth.”

  Yee blew into the pu’ohe, which sounded low and mournful, like a quavery foghorn. Everyone bowed their heads. “We ask for blessings on our boat today,” he said. “We send out our love to our aumakua, our spirit guides, all the dolphins and whales on our planet. And we ask permission that we may swim with you today, and experience all the joy and happiness and knowledge and wisdom that you bring to our world. So it is, amama.” He laughed. “Okay, you’re covered.”

  Today was Yee’s day off, he explained as everyone boarded, so another captain named Jason would be taking the wheel, assisted by first mate, Dusty. Jason and Dusty were young, sun-scoured guys who looked like they would rather be surfing than spending the day babysitting the besnorkeled masses. As we chugged out of the harbor, Ocean listened politely as Dusty held forth about dolphin swimming etiquette in a laconic, stoner patois: “So yeah, try to be mellow. The more mellow you are, the more calm and wise you’re putting out there, the more they’re gonna be into you. That overhead Michael Phelps kind of swimming? You don’t want to do that around the dolphins. They think that is aggressive behavior. It will make them not want to hang out with you. They’re very awesome.”

  “How long do they live?” a stout woman asked in a Texas drawl.

  “Uh, twenty, maybe twenty-five years—”

  “Well, that’s in captivity,” Ocean cut in. “We don’t really know how long they live, but we think it’s probably around seventy, seventy-five years. I have all the notes from the first researcher here, Ken Norris, years and years ago. The dolphins he was swimming with are still here, a lot of them. So we have some pretty good evidence that they live longer than people think. And whales can live to be a hundred.”

  Her voice was drowned out as the engines powered up and we motored south, toward a series of bays the dolphins frequented for their daytime repose. “Would anyone like a muffin or perhaps some fruit?” Dusty yelled, above the din. “Coffee? Snacks?”

  Ocean and I sat together by the stern, ready to launch ourselves into the water whenever the dolphins appeared. The Kona coast slid by in the clear morning light, spray from the wake casting tiny diamonds into the sky. It was an ideal day for a reunion with the spinners—and I knew they would be here. We were headed into the center of the spinner universe, undeniably the best place to go if you wanted to be sure of finding them. The high dolphins-per-square-mile ratio of this island had not gone unnoticed by scientists. Along with the big population of spinners, they could reliably find even more exotic dolphin species here, deepwater creatures like pilot whales, false killer whales, rough-toothed dolphins, striped dolphins, dwarf killer whales, Risso’s dolphins, and melon-headed whales. Bottlenose and spotted dolphins regularly showed up, too.

  The man whose name Ocean had cited, Ken Norris, was a giant of dolphin science. He had pioneered studies of Hawaii’s spinner population in the late 1960s through the mid-1980s. During that time, Norris, who revealed many basic facts about dolphins, called his study subjects “the most mysterious of fauna on the planet.” He ended up proving that dolphins were masters of the world of sound, that they used their sonar to paint exquisitely nuanced pictures of their surroundings, discerning details down to the molecular composition of an object. Even blindfolded, a dolphin could tell the difference, for instance, between a sheet of copper and a sheet of aluminum. These extraordinary abilities fascinated Norris, who posed a challenging question: “In an ocean full of dullards, what good is such a brain? Certainly complicated nervous machinery is not needed for concourse with jellyfish, sea cucumbers and sponges.” He’d had a glimpse of what the dolphins could do—the next step was to figure out why.

  Norris’s research began just seventeen miles south of here, in Kealake’akua Bay, a flawless inlet ringed by sea cliffs. (Translated from Hawaiian, its name means “Pathway of the Gods.”) Along with its abundant dolphins, Kealake’akua is known for its memorable snorkeling, storybook sunsets, sacred status, and infamous history: it was the place where Captain James Cook landed in 1779 and then, in a fracas with natives over the theft of a boat, was stabbed to death.

  “The Kealake’akua Bay topography was perfect for dolphin work,” Norris wrote in an essay titled “Looking at Wild Dolphin Schools.” “A magnificent, nearly vertical 500-foot cliff loomed over the almost-always calm and clear semicircular bay. A group of dolphins rested in the bay nearly every day. One could look down almost on top of those resting dolphins, and their behavior could often be seen in toto as they moved offshore, until they faded from view into the gray disk of the sea.”

  Norris and his colleagues set up camp on a bluff, peering down at the dolphins through telescopes. When this vantage point proved inadequate, Norris jury-rigged an underwater observation vehicle, known as the SSSM: Semisubmersible Seasick Machine. Later, the SSSM was retired in favor of other contraptions with improved viewing capabilities, all of them dreamed up to better observe the spinners. “We need to see other dolphins as a dolphin sees them,” Norris wrote.

  Ocean, too, had set out to do exactly that, and while the scientists went about their work, amassing and quantifying and analyzing data, she continued to swim in her backyard—Kealake’akua Bay. From the small house she rented on its rocky shores, she would launch at dawn and venture out to meet the spinners. She swam with them on cloudy choppy days and stormy rainy days and flat overcast days and days when the sun blasted down and turned them into flippered silhouettes. At times other people joined her, residents of Dolphinville or the occasional intrepid tourist. But much of the time, even far offshore, Ocean swam alone.

  “I’ve always been guided by the dolphins,” she told me. “I could totally trust them—they wo
uld never crash me into coral or take me out to sea. I could swim eye-to-eye with them for hours. I never had to look up, I could breathe through my snorkel.” Swimming like this for extended periods, Ocean said, vaulted her into “an altered sense of awareness,” one in which her mind slowed and her worries slipped away, where her senses were heightened and she felt attuned to the slightest movement, even something as subtle as a fish nibbling on coral. “As time went on and I became completely at home in the water,” she said, “I began to understand their language.”

  As Ocean spent endless hours among them, the dolphins rewarded her with some rare and beautiful sights: one morning, for instance, she watched five spinners give birth simultaneously, the babies corkscrewing out of their mothers tail-first, then wobbling to the surface to take their first breaths. Witnessing this made her wonder if the dolphins could decide, within reason, when they wanted to deliver—because statistically, five babies appearing at once was almost certainly not random. That possibility, in turn, led her to muse: Could dolphins also choose the moment of their own deaths? This suggestion had been raised before, though no one had even come close to proving it. (Scientists did know that dolphin erections happened at will; they could pop it out like a kickstand or retract it neatly whenever they wanted to. What other body functions did dolphins have under their own control? It was an intriguing question.)

  The boat slowed as Jason drove into Kailua Bay, a long sweep of shoreline dotted with hotels, condominiums, stores, and restaurants, connected by an oceanfront promenade. The water was calm here, making it a favorite spot for swimmers, paddleboarders, and kayakers. Every October, this bay boiled white with spray when two thousand Hawaii Ironman competitors stampeded in for their 2.4-mile opening swimming leg, and for this Kailua was famous. I looked out at the Jet Ski rental concession that floated atop a squat platform festooned with palm trees; at the moment, mercifully, no one was there. At least five other dolphin-watching boats idled; snorkelers could be seen everywhere, kicking across the surface, draped across cylindrical, fluorescent-colored floats called noodles, and in general bobbing around. It was a bustling bay, hardly the place you’d go for a pristine wildlife experience. But the spinners, apparently, had chosen it. Fins broke the surface all over. Once my eyes adjusted to the sunlight’s glare, I realized the extent of the gathering: there were hundreds of dolphins in here.

  Jason cut the engines. “Pool’s open!” he yelled, and with that, Ocean and I slid into the water. Immediately she swam off, guided by internal compass in the direction of the pods. I followed. The water was warm, an enveloping blue cocoon, and I could see all the way to the seafloor, sixty feet down and speckled with reefs. Midsize fish cruised near the bottom, cast in monochrome tones by the depths. Only the dimmest tinge of yellow was visible as the spectrum ebbed. I was startled by the contrast between the peacefulness right below the surface and the scrum of activity above, as people clambered off and onto boats. The dolphins, however, were nowhere in sight.

  I had read about the shy nature of the spinners, who prefer to be the ones who initiate a meeting. When you dump a hundred snorkelers into their midst they tend to back off, regroup, and then decide how much contact they want. Unlike bottlenose dolphins, who often initiate play with humans, the spinners are reserved, almost standoffish. “I always tell people, don’t swim after them,” Ocean had warned. “You’ll just wear yourself out. They’ll circle outside of all the boats and all the people. They don’t go away—they’re circling. But in the beginning when everyone gets into the water, it’s like mayhem. The dolphins will sonar the people and wait for them to calm down.”

  Adjusting my mask, I scanned the other snorkelers I could see in the bay. About twenty feet away, a guy in neon green surf trunks swam frantically holding a GoPro camera mounted on a long pole, legs pumping, churning away in his fins. His head snapped back and forth, surveying the ocean impatiently. The GoPro swept through the water like a 9-iron. Facebook awaited, Instagram, Twitter. Where are the goddamned dolphins? his body language said. He aggravated me; I suspected the dolphins felt the same.

  Then, far below, I made out their shapes. A dozen spinners glided by, fin to fin. They were thirty feet down and all I could do was admire their hazy outlines from above, but still it was enough to captivate me. These dolphins were part of a larger group, and when the rest of the pod flowed past, every person in the vicinity shot off after them. Even the most sluggish dolphin was moving exponentially faster than flailing snorkelers could match, however, so this was a futile strategy. “They’re better swimmers than we are,” Dusty had observed dryly, adding that, “If you chase them, all you’ll see today is a bit of receding tail.”

  Ocean took off in the opposite direction, and I followed her as she dove to twenty feet, kicking strongly. Almost instantly, three dolphins appeared in front of her. Ocean dove deeper, tucking in behind them as if part of their posse. The dolphins swept low and then arced toward the surface, breaking through to breath before submerging again. I was struck by the synchronization of their movements, as precisely timed as an Olympic event, and yet they could not possibly have been anticipated. Somehow, each dolphin just knew what the other dolphins were about to do, and they moved effortlessly as one.

  We spent the morning in Kailua Bay because the dolphins stayed there too, orbiting at various perimeters. Every so often they’d cut diagonally through the bay, allowing us a few snatched moments in their company. There was a similar rhythm to the encounters; Ocean referred to them as “drive-bys.” Still, it was entrancing to watch such a sprawling pod of dolphins, even if they weren’t particularly interested in us. If I’d been hooked up to a heart-rate monitor, it would have shown a distinct slowing: the spinners had the same Zen effect on me as before. At times I found myself drawn along with them, deeper down than I usually dived and lost in a blissed-out daze, surrounded on all sides by narcotic blue. It took a conscious effort to leave them, to bow to my need for oxygen and head for the surface, and every time I did so I felt an ache of regret.

  At one point a manta ray sailed by, its great black kite of a body undulating over the seafloor, its whip of a tail trailing elegantly behind. I stared at it for so long that I almost missed the two dolphins who were hovering behind me, looking at me with the same intent interest I had focused on the ray. These were not spinners, I could tell immediately. They were bigger, thicker, and far less demure. One of them moved closer and swung his head toward me, and I felt him zap me with a burst of sonar, then heard him let loose with a barrage of eerie creaking noises, like a door swinging back and forth on rusty hinges. Our eyes met, and he nodded his head repeatedly, in an almost agitated fashion. It felt as though we were having a heated conversation, but I had no idea what it was about.

  Having sized me up, the alpha dolphins swam past me to a man on a paddleboard, nearby. He was standing, barely upright on shaky legs, and he held his paddle backward as he tried hard not to pitch into the drink. The dolphins circled him, verging on aggressive, following as he lurched back toward the harbor. When the man noticed them he became even more rattled and dropped onto his knees, losing the paddle and gripping the edge of his board with both hands. I didn’t usually think of dolphins as intimidating creatures, but these two reminded me of that possibility. Earlier, Ocean recounted how she’d once been whacked so hard on the leg by a dolphin’s tail that she was unable to walk afterward; on another occasion a bottlenose had clamped its jaws on her calf, staring at her defiantly and refusing to let go. “People think, ‘Oh, dolphins, all sugary sweet and loving,’ ” Ocean said, with a laugh. “And they are—but they also have such power.”

  As the morning unfurled, the bay gradually emptied of snorkelers and the spinners seemed to relax, swimming slower and coming closer. This was their version of sleep, after all—and who can doze in the middle of Grand Central Station? Dolphins never actually shut both eyes and nod off, like we do. Unlike us, they are conscious breathers. Whenever they take in oxygen it’s a decision, not a
n autonomous body function, which makes sense if you think about it. They are air-breathing mammals who happen to live in the sea. If a dolphin were knocked out underwater and his body continued to try to suck in air, he would drown. Dolphins themselves seem to understand this: when a dolphin loses consciousness his podmates will lift him to the surface, holding him up there until he’s revived.

  Because each breath is intentional, the animals have to keep swimming, stay vigilant, maintain system operations at all times. Physically, this is a tall order. Imagine if instead of snoozing under a fluffy duvet, you were required to run a slow marathon or cycle an easy hundred miles in your sleep. This would destroy us, but dolphins are able to do it because they operate the two hemispheres of their brain independently; while one side runs the show, the other side rests. It’s a formidable juggling act, the kind of evolutionary genius that happens when a species sticks around for tens of millions of years. Even when they nap, dolphins are at least half awake. So it’s no wonder the spinners weren’t always rambunctiously playful when they pulled back into these bays.

  By swimming together, they look out for one another, too. Their strategies, their physiologies, their routines—everything about them works for the continued health of the group. For dolphins, there is strength in numbers and safety in numbers and, from what I’d observed, joy in numbers. Ken Norris had arrived at that same conclusion: “I view the school as the matrix within which their lives are played,” he wrote, in a 1978 letter to another scientist, “and hence the structure that contains everything they are.” The dolphins’ entire existence, Norris came to believe, was lived in the collective.