Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  We arrived at a quiet area along the Delaware Bay. As we stepped out from the car, huge gusts of wind nearly blew my poor forty-five-pound child to the ground. Being six years old and always looking for an excuse to be goofy, Geordi saw this as an opportunity to showcase his amazing talents, which included falling down, getting up, falling down and, yes, getting up again. This, of course, was always complete with sound effects, such as, “Whoa, I’m falling . . . !” and “Help me . . . !” with giggles and snorting included. An Academy Award–winning performance as one would expect. The drama came to an abrupt halt as Geordi spied the dozens of army-truck-looking creatures in the sand. The next sound effect was “Wow!” as his body froze and his eyes widened with wonder.

  Geordi ran around frantically, not knowing which one to check out first. He settled on a horseshoe crab that was on his back, legs flailing in the air. “Mom, look at this one!” he yelled. “He’s cool!” I pointed out the different body parts of the crab for him, and he listened quietly and absorbed the information. Then I picked up the crab, turned it over to its proper position and placed it at the edge of the water. Geordi asked what I was doing. I explained to him that if the crab got stuck on its back and could not get back to the water soon, it would die. Horseshoe crabs, I told him, are very important in many ways. Their eggs are a great food source for birds, and their shells and blood have special medical properties that can help many people. Besides, it didn’t seem right to let a species that had survived so long just shrivel up in the sun. So we watched the horseshoe crab slowly make his way back into the ocean and Geordi said, “I really liked him. I think I will name him Spike because he had all those really cool, spiky things on his back.”

  Geordi spotted many, many more horseshoe crabs on their backs and decided that we should help them all. Without fear or hesitation, he began picking up stranded horseshoe crabs and flipping them over, and I carried them to the water. He even assigned a name to each of them. “This one is Fuzzy, like our cat . . . this one’s name will be Crazy Crab because he’s moving around so much . . .” Geordi said as he flipped them over. He was extra careful and gentle, worried that he may hurt one.

  When the job was done and it was time to leave, Geordi asked, “Do you think we will ever see Spike again?”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but now that we have helped him, we know he will be okay even if we don’t see him again.” Looking satisfied with that answer, Geordi said, “Yeah, that is the most important thing.” And, suddenly, my son who was usually cavorting like a maniac, looked to me like a grown boy for the first time.

  Jennifer Zambri-Dickerson

  Ebb and Flow

  The sky was blue with billowing clouds. My friend Jeni and I strolled along the beach talking and enjoying the day. Unlike summer days when the sea is calm and inviting, a chilly wind had churned up the water, making it murky and far less tempting. As we gazed at the sea, Jeni pointed suddenly. “Look, Eve!” she said. A small pod of dolphins was circling just beyond the breaking waves. Next to one of the larger dolphins, a small white buoy bobbed. “I think that dolphin is caught in a line.”

  We both knew that being tangled would eventually kill this magnificent creature unless we could find assistance fast. We looked around the beach for someone who could help. But there was no one—it was up to us.

  We entered the water and swam toward the pod. Our progress through the cold, choppy waves was slow. As we neared the pod, the dolphins moved just beyond our reach. Every time we moved closer, the dolphins moved away. It soon became clear that no matter how close we got, the dolphins would move just that much farther from us.

  We treaded water, our hearts pounding, trying to think of what could be done to release the trapped dolphin. But with the dolphins continually moving away, it seemed hopeless. Suddenly, the dolphin with the “buoy” next to its head turned away from the pod. It must have sensed that we might be able to help it and began to swim directly toward us.

  As the dolphin neared, it turned enough to reveal that what we thought had been a buoy was, in reality, a newborn baby dolphin that she was pushing to the surface for its first breath! We watched in awe as she pushed the baby repeatedly toward the air then turned back to her waiting pod. Slowly, as if seeing something we didn’t want to believe, we noticed that the baby dolphin wasn’t moving. We realized that the baby wasn’t alive. All this time, the mother had tried in vain to bring it to life, to get it to behave the way she knew her newborn should behave and take that first breath that meant everything would be okay.

  Not only did we not need to help, there was, indeed, nothing we could do.

  Until that moment I had always distinguished humankind and the creatures of the sea in terms of “us” and “them.” As I witnessed the ocean’s ebb and flow—the joy of life and the grief of death—I knew we were more alike than different.

  Eve Eschner Hogan

  “Help!”

  © The New Yorker Collection 1991 Mick Stevens from cartoonbank.com. All Rights Reserved.

  The Friendly Isle

  I met the old dockmaster by accident. I had been on vacation in Cape Cod and was taking a walk along the beach when I came across a set of footprints that led to the office of a rickety old marina. The area was littered with abandoned skiffs, their carefully printed names now obscured by barnacles and rot. Wondering who else might have interest in this dilapidated landmark, I followed the trail.

  On the other side of the marina a group of teenage boys and girls was playing Wiffle ball. A boom box beside them blared loud music. They seemed to be having a good time until an old man emerged from the office of the marina. He marched toward the kids and told them they had to leave immediately.

  “But where else can we play?” a boy asked.

  The man glared at him. “That’s not my concern. This is private property. You have to leave.”

  The teenagers grumbled for a minute, but seemed to respect the old man’s wishes. They quickly collected their belongings and left.

  Later, as I stopped to drink from the nearby water fountain, I struck up a conversation with the old man, who was scraping the remains of a frozen dinner into the sea. When I asked how he came across this place, he explained that he was the owner. He said the marina had been very successful until he had taken ill with melanoma and could no longer spend any length of time outdoors. Since then, he said, he had acquired a reputation as a hermit. I learned that the disease had struck him just a few months into his retirement. It forced him to abandon his dream of building his own vessel and sailing to the Hawaiian island of Molokai, where he had spent an unforgettable leave during his time in the U.S. Navy.

  As I went on to enjoy the rest of my vacation, I could not escape the sadness of the man’s tale. I wished there was something I could do. Encountering the same group of bat-toting teenagers outside the local Dairy Queen, I told them the dockmaster’s story. Maybe, I thought, it might discourage them from disturbing him again. They seemed to listen, but looked unsympathetic.

  I walked down that beach every morning that week. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have my dreams stolen from me. No one should have to live life without something to look forward to. I decided to visit the old man again on the last day of my vacation. Maybe some company would do him good, I thought.

  I was surprised to see the marina office open with the sound of laughter and happy chatter. One of the Wiffle ball teens greeted me at the door. She explained that the old man’s story had really touched them, and they had prepared a special gift for him. The old man sat at his living-room table surrounded by half a dozen youngsters. They were all pointing at the screen of a laptop resting on the table. The old man looked up at me as I walked in, tears brimming in his eyes.

  “I couldn’t go to Molokai myself,” he said, “so these kids brought Molokai to me.”

  The teens explained that, using a little bit of technology, they were able to create a “virtual tour” of Molokai, the Friendly Isle. They had p
ainstakingly assembled a collection of breathtaking visuals and historical tidbits about the island—from the plunging waterfalls of the Halawa Valley to the thousand coconut trees of the Kapuaiwa Grove. The pièce de résistance was a striking view of the mighty Pacific from the Kalaupapa Peninsula. This peninsula, the old man explained, was where he had taken a beautiful island girl on a first date. They had carved their names on the trunk of a nearby palm.

  “I haven’t thought about that wonderful night in so long,” the old man told them. “I never dreamed I would see it again. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  He didn’t have to. It was written all over his face.

  Tal Aviezer with Jason Cocovinis

  Dream Vacation

  I have slipped the bonds of Earth to dance with dolphins.

  Wyland

  My sister Shannon stared out the window of her room at Children’s Hospital. She was seventeen, tall and thin, with deep green eyes and auburn hair that was finally growing back after months of chemotherapy. Below her, passersby were bicycling, walking their dogs and jogging. She wondered aloud if they knew how fortunate they were to be outside on such a beautiful day.

  She had spent most of her high-school years lying in hospitals and staring out of windows, praying for the day when her cancer would be in remission. Four years younger than me, we still shared many of the same interests. We listened to the same music, could share the same clothes and had spent weekends together boarding our friends’ horses. Now, instead of sharing a bedroom, I kept Shannon company by spending nights on a reclining chair in her hospital room.

  “Oh well,” she told me, “at least they gave me a nice room this time.”

  This was true. Shannon had a private room at the back of the hospital with a large, room-length window that overlooked Audubon Park. To the left she could watch the sun glisten off the Mississippi River. Tired from standing, she wheeled her IV stand back to her hospital bed. A nurse brought in a tray of food. I got up, hoping to remove the tray before the smell of the food could reach Shannon’s nose. Too late. Even though she was finished with her chemotherapy, the smell of food still nauseated her.

  The tray was the last straw.

  “I’m tired of being trapped in this hospital!” she said. “I feel like I’m in prison.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “When they finish these last few tests, they promised to let you out on good behavior.” That was all I needed to change the subject to the trip to Key West we had been planning for weeks. This was to be her “remission” vacation, a trip that was going to take her far away from all this and connect her back to the outside world.

  When “remission” day did come, our parents, Shannon, our little brother Jason and I piled into a Jeep for the long drive to the coast. On the way, we talked about how Shannon would now be able to graduate with her class since she had been taking school courses at home and what college she would attend so she could study marine biology. We sang our favorite Disney songs from The Little Mermaid . . . and before we knew it we were in the Florida Keys.

  There was just one thing on our itinerary—Shannon’s dream to swim with dolphins. As we entered the Keys, a large wall mural of a mermaid surrounded by her underwater friends welcomed us. Shannon pointed and said, “That will be us tomorrow!”

  As we drove over the bridges to Key West, we strained to catch a glimpse of dolphins playing in the gulf. Later, after checking into our hotel, we rounded up a phone book and reserved a dolphin excursion for the next morning. Shannon’s dream was finally going to come true!

  The next morning at the marina, we boarded a catamaran that had been airbrushed with pictures of dolphins playing at sunset. As the boat pulled out from the dock, our captain played the “Winnie the Pooh” song to set the pace for a carefree day.

  We arrived at an area of shallow water referred to as a “playground” for the dolphins. The captain asked, “Who wants to swim in the water first?” Shannon, of course, volunteered. She had waited too long not to jump in at the first opportunity. Nearly as excited as she was, I decided to join her. Soon the water was bubbling with commotion. Attracted by our presence, a pod of dolphins flipped and danced beneath us. Clicks and chirps, almost like laughter, were everywhere. It was like nothing we had ever heard! The energy the dolphins projected only intensified our enthusiasm.

  We had brought underwater cameras with the intention of taking a few snapshots. But as the dolphins rushed past us, always an arm’s length away, we quickly forgot about taking pictures. For hours, we took turns in the water, two at a time, swimming and snorkeling. The dolphins never seemed to tire. Neither did Shannon. Even underwater, I could see the look of total exhilaration on her face as one dolphin after another gracefully glided by. This was her dream. And it had become more real than she could have ever possibly imagined.

  When the captain announced it was time to leave, we reluctantly boarded the boat. As we headed back, the dolphins continued to follow us, playing and jumping in the waves as if they were bidding us good-bye. Later that evening as we sat at the dock at Mallory Square and watched the sunset fade, I saw something wonderful in Shannon’s eyes. It reminded me of the carefree spirit of the dolphins that we had seen earlier. Shannon was at ease.

  Four months later, her cancer relapsed. This time her body was unable to fight off the disease due to her already weakened system. In April, she passed away. It is comforting to know that I got to experience with Shannon the fulfillment of at least one of her dreams. If only for a brief period, she truly was living her life how she wanted to. Free.

  Jennifer Lowry

  Letters

  My earliest memories are of my mother and me at the beach in Florida, playing in the ocean. She would stand at the water’s edge and explain that a beach very much like ours was just over the horizon, bordering the same ocean. Her point was that although we couldn’t see the other side, the ocean still connected us to the people who lived there.

  On my first day of school I stood at the classroom door, my heart beating wildly, and told my mom I didn’t want to stay. I wanted to go to the beach with her instead.

  “We can go after school,” she said.

  “But I’ll miss you,” I cried. “I don’t want you to go away.”

  Understanding my fear, she repeated the one thing that always soothed me. She pointed to the picture of the globe that decorated my lunchbox and said, “No matter where we are, we’ll always be connected by the ocean.” I stared at the ocean picture, salty water in my blue eyes. Dutifully, I nodded, then turned and walked through the door.

  Years later I joined the U.S. Navy. I was at sea for six months at a time. My mother and I exchanged letters, but the delivery delays made it hard to keep any kind of continuing thread in our correspondence. So we developed a game for our letters. We would pick a day to write about and try to guess what the other one was doing or wearing that day. To our surprise we were incredibly accurate with our predictions. My mother soon discovered hers were even more accurate when she meditated and wrote at the ocean’s edge, her feet in the water where we used to play—the same water I was sailing half a globe away.

  In May 1987, I was onboard the USS Doyle in the Persian Gulf—my last six-month voyage before I would be honorably discharged from the navy. By this time my mother and I had decided to change our letter game. Since the mail delivery was taking about a month, we agreed to write at the same time and day (taking into account the time difference) and try to predict a month ahead what the other was doing and feeling.

  The helicopter carrying our mail arrived on May 17, the very day my mother and I had chosen to write about, and I was more excited than usual to read her letter. I always looked forward to her letters. They were always so upbeat they helped me get through the month. But I was especially curious to see if our predictions would still be so accurate. Since I had to be on watch shortly, I read as I walked to the combat information center. She wrote:

  Dear Michael,


  I went down to the ocean where we played when you were a child. I walked into the water and began to meditate about the day we agreed upon. I looked at the ocean’s horizon and thought of you and how the ocean connects us. I thought long and hard about writing this as it might make you sad, but as I stood in the water I saw you as a child with your lunchbox, crying as you turned and walked through the door at school so many years ago. I went to the beach that day after dropping you off and cried. Now, there I was back doing the same thing. All I felt was sadness, and when a plane flew by overhead I got scared. For the first time in my life, I felt afraid of being in the water. I couldn’t even come up with a single prediction to give you. I’m sorry that our experiment didn’t work.

  I was a little shocked and confused at the gloomy tone of her letter. I had reached the radar room, and in order to open the door I juggled the letter and the box of food I carried with me for my twelve-hour shift. As I crossed the threshold carrying my “lunch box,” a strong sense of déjà vu hit me, and I could not help thinking about the irony as I sat down at the air search radar. With my mother’s words echoing in my mind, I began my watch. I could feel the ocean move under my feet and hear the water sliding by the steel grey hull of the ship. Always a comfort before, the water now seemed ominous.

  Every aircraft that flew near our ship that day left me feeling anxious. I even challenged a regular commercial aircraft, which quickly veered off. Moments later the USS Stark, our sister ship a few short nautical miles away, failed to challenge the same commercial aircraft and was struck from overhead by two Iraqi aircraft-fired Exocet missiles. Thirty-seven shipmates were killed, and the Stark nearly sank.

  Although I can’t say for certain that my mother’s letter saved my shipmates and me that day, I do know that what she wrote made me more vigilant. I felt like she and I were held together somehow, bound across the globe by the waters lapping at her feet and licking the hull of my ship. I don’t think our experiment could have worked any better.