Swimming With Dolphins

by Jessie Paddock

  That afternoon at the Fernbank Constitution meeting, after lecturing the group on the value of a committed beat reporter, Miles insists we use the rest of the time to work on our stories. “The production schedule is tight. If you don’t meet your deadline, you don’t get your story in print.” With that, he wipes the lenses of his glasses on his short-sleeve button-up shirt and says he’ll be in his office working on copy if anybody needs him.

  “His office is literally the hallway in front of his locker,” Juan Carlos whispers to me after Miles has left.

  “He’s sure got a lot of flair, huh?” I say, stifling a laugh. “Very jazzy.”

  “So not punk rock.”

  “So not. I was thinking more disco meets techno,” I add.

  “Could use a side of reggae, if you ask me.”

  “Def. And an appetizer of …” Suddenly I can’t for the life of me think of another genre of music that has ever existed. And never before have I so wanted to. “Xylophone?” I try.

  But Juan Carlos has walked away. Welp, that was nice while it lasted. A moment later he returns with a chair and sits down next to me. I don’t have any classes in this room so there’s no cutout desk. It’s awkward to reach the table in front of me. But less awkward than if I were at a cutout desk with a lower surface. Well, both are awkward.

  “How’s your article coming along?” he asks.

  Immediately, I blush. I wish there were a way to turn off that reaction. “Okay,” I say. “Actually, it’s a lot harder than I thought. I’m kind of stuck.”

  “I’d help you if I could, but words aren’t my thing. Pictures make more sense to me.” He cradles his camera. I can tell it’s precious to him. I take a balloon breath. Still not sure if they do anything.

  “How about yours?” I ask.

  “Getting there. Wanna see?”

  “Yes!” I say, maybe a little too excitedly. Juan Carlos pulls his chair closer so we can look at the screen on his camera together.

  “I’ve been really into reflections lately, so that’s mostly what I’ve been taking pictures of.”

  We scroll through the photos in silence, letting the images speak for themselves. There are some shots of reflections in mirrors and glass, but even more of water. A half-filled dirty pool, a clean pool. A lot of the ocean. Several of puddles. Maybe that’s what he was photographing from the curb that night at La Bello’s after Lucy and I drove away.

  “I kept trying to catch the moment after the wave crashes onto the sand. For a split second the water smooths out and is really flat, making it super reflective. It’s real fast, though, so it’s hard to capture,” Juan Carlos explains.

  Hashtag wow, I think.

  The next photo must be from a dock or a boat because the water is dark and deep. Like a midnight mirror. We linger on this one longer than the rest. The water reflects some clouds in the sky and maybe a wisp of his hair. Or a twig.

  “That’s from my parents’ boat,” he says. “My dad’s obsessed with fishing. This is what I do when he makes me come with him. I took this the weekend before school started.”

  “What do you think is underneath the water?” I wonder aloud. I imagine Cola making bubble rings.

  Juan Carlos blurts out, “Monsters.” I gasp, but he smiles. “Joking. I haven’t really thought about it, I guess. If I could see through the water, then there wouldn’t be a reflection, which would ruin my project. If that makes sense.”

  “Are you afraid of anything that doesn’t make sense to you?” I manage to say.

  Juan Carlos thinks for a second. “Clowns?”

  “I agree.”

  “Ha-ha.” He pauses again. “I used to be really afraid of clocks when I was a little kid.”

  “Clocks?”

  “The hands reminded me of swords or something. I dunno. I told you, it doesn’t make sense. But then I found a busted one in the garage, and seeing all the gears in the interior made me kind of interested in learning how they worked. I got kind of obsessed with figuring out their inner workings or whatever. For a minute I wanted to be a professional clock fixer.”

  I can’t help but giggle. Juan Carlos would be the cutest professional clock fixer ever.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “once I learned how they worked, I wasn’t so afraid anymore. Some of the first photos I took were close-ups of the insides of clocks. Taking pictures helps me take a better look at stuff I might overlook.” He stops talking suddenly, and to my astonishment, he blushes. “I’m geeking out.”

  The truth is, geek looks very good on Juan Carlos.

  “It’s okay. It’s interesting,” I assure him. I have to assume I’m blushing now, too.

  “Anyway, you’re writing a ‘Day in the Life’ kind of thing, right?”

  I sigh. Deadlines are annoying. “That’s what I was thinking. I figured the first one would be kind of easy because I’d just do something about Iowa City, where I’m from. But for some reason, it’s harder than I expected. Which is weird, because I know Iowa City like the back of my hand and I miss it all the time.”

  “Tell me about it. What do you miss?” Juan Carlos asks.

  So I tell him everything. All the sights, all the smells. I tell him about Cady, Kaytee, and our birthday party tradition, and the epic toga party of three years past. I describe what it feels like to wheel Sprinkle over cobblestones, and how the old houses make my imagination whirl. I talk and talk and talk until everyone around us starts to pack up their belongings. It’s already time to go.

  I lean forward to get my notebook off the table as Juan Carlos stands.

  “Who’s that?” he asks, noticing the doodle on the bottom of the open page. It’s more like a landscape. A lagoon landscape.

  “That’s Cola,” I share. “And those are the fish he’s about to murder.”

  “Savage.”

  “Nah, dolphins don’t use their teeth to chew food. They swallow their prey whole,” I explain. “Yeah, now that I’m saying it out loud, you’re right. Savage,” I add with a laugh.

  “Cute, though.”

  “The cutest.”

  The next week I’m perched at my usual picnic bench at Dolphina, gazing at the lagoon. Since Juan Carlos told me about his photography project, I haven’t been able to look at water in the same way. Today it’s overcast and windy; the surface of the lagoon isn’t as reflective as I’d hoped. Instead, the matte water ripples like wrinkly skin. Still, I bet Juan Carlos could turn it into a rad photograph.

  I don’t notice Tara approaching until she’s just behind me. She carries a clipboard in one hand, a metal pole about six feet long, and a pail overflowing with half-frozen fish in the other. Standard props.

  “Do you have a lot of homework?” she asks, gesturing toward the open textbook that I’ve been ignoring for the past twenty minutes.

  I groan. “Um, yes. Big math test tomorrow. I think number stuff is even more boring here than in Iowa City.”

  “Maybe you just need a break,” Tara says, closing my textbook. “C’mon. Follow me.”

  Tara doesn’t need to ask twice. Sprinkle and I jet after her down the path to the docks. We travel and talk.

  “Okay, so we’re totally not supposed to do this, and I wouldn’t risk it if Annie weren’t still a little confused about the rules, but I need an assistant today. Would you like to do the honors? Your dad said it was cool,” Tara says with a wink.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Extremely serious. Jolie’s dealing with a pet parakeet emergency so Natalia is on double fish-weighing duty. I’m one woman down. I could really use your help.”

  “Yes, please!” I can’t believe she really thinks I could help her.

  “Awesome.” Tara wastes no time getting down to business. “Do you remember when I mentioned I’d been working on station and target training with Cola the other day?”

  “Of course.”

  “He’s made so much progress, I think we’re ready to build on that and start with leaps. So I don’t get any of th
e steps mixed up, it would be great if you could cue me, make sure I don’t get off track, and take notes about anything you notice.”

  “I can definitely do that!”

  “You and Cola have such a great connection,” Tara adds, and my heart nearly explodes with pride. “I wonder if you might be able to notice something I’ve missed. He still seems a little out of sorts here at Dolphina.”

  “I’m on it,” I declare in the most professional voice I can muster.

  We arrive at the dock, and Tara sets down the fish bucket and the pole and hands me the clipboard under her arm, where the behavior chain is attached. Steps one through twelve are typed in a clear, fourteen-point font.

  “I like working with an animal’s strengths,” Tara explains. “Obviously Cola has a lot of energy, so flipping feels like a natural choice. Since it’s an advanced behavior, I also wanted to incorporate a very simple piece of enrichment, or what I refer to in the behavior chain as a target.”

  Ahhh, the pole.

  I take a moment to examine the typed behavior chain while Tara settles on the edge of the dock with the pole and the pail. Hearing Tara describe a behavior chain and seeing one written out are two different things. I never realized how much detail and consideration goes into each step, and exactly how much repetition is required. At the top of the page, just below the details listing trainer name (Tara), dolphin name (Cola), and behavior (flip), Tara describes the signal she will use to cue this behavior: With your right hand, palm facing out, retract the ring finger, pinkie, and thumb so the pointer and middle fingers form a V, like a peace sign. So specific. I make the signal with my own right hand, testing it out.

  “You got it,” Tara comments when she sees me doing it.

  I drop my hand and feel my cheeks flush. I’m just the assistant, after all, not the actual trainer.

  We start with step one: Station and show the signal. Tara squats at the edge of the dock (the station) and makes the signal with her right hand. When she’s satisfied that Cola’s acknowledged the gesture, Tara bridges and throws Cola a couple of fish, which he gobbles up. I make a note that Cola catches them in the air, in case that’s important or it relates to his overall athletic ability in some way.

  Step two: Tap the target (metal pole) on the surface of the water slightly to the right of the station. When Cola makes contact with the target, bridge.

  Step two goes off without a hitch. We’re on a roll!

  Step three: Repeat steps one and two. When Cola touches the target, loop the target under the surface of the water, drawing a circle. When Cola has followed the target all the way around, bridge once more.

  Again, Cola nails step three, no problem.

  “Looking good, Cola!” I cheer. “You rock!” I figure more moral support can’t hurt.

  Step four: Repeat steps one through three. Then raise the target two feet above the surface. When Cola touches his nose to the target, bridge.

  The first time Tara tries, Cola overshoots a bit, jumping right over the pole. Since we’re practicing leaps, I figure he’s just a fast learner, already anticipating what’s to come. But Tara insists we repeat step four another three times until Cola gets it exactly right. I record in my notes the outcome of each attempt: (1) jumps over, (2) jumps over, but faster and higher, (3) jumps over before completing the underwater loop. Finally, on attempt number four, Cola follows Tara’s instructions perfectly. Satisfied, Tara rewards him with three shimmering fluke, tossing each fish to him one at a time.

  “You got it, Cola, great job!” she praises him.

  “Go, Cola, go!” I add.

  We continue.

  Step five: Repeat steps one through four.

  I’m noticing a pattern with this behavior chain.

  “Tara, this is kind of like a reverse factorial,” I inform her with a chuckle.

  “A what-a?” she asks as she throws Cola a chunk of ice.

  “Oh, just a math thing,” I tease.

  The session continues for another ten minutes. After step number five, Cola’s responses become less consistent. Tara’s very patient, but still, Cola seems to have a mind of his own. He has no problem flipping or leaping, that’s for sure. But sometimes he does too many or doesn’t return to the station when she bridges or signals. Sometimes he just keeps on dancing through the air. Cola flips like Socks talks: nonstop. I think back to something Socks said to me that first day of school: “I talk a lot when I’m nervous.” Maybe, like Socks, Cola flips when he’s nervous.

  I make a note in shorthand at the bottom of the page. Socks = Cola → nervous talker = nervous flipper. I’ll explain what that means exactly to Tara at the end of the session.

  We make it to step number eight before it’s time to wrap up. Tara’s behavior chain is covered with my handwriting. I’m pleased; nobody would ever accuse KT Wynn of being a poor documentarian. To shake up the session’s conclusion, Tara jumps into the water and lets Cola give her a dorsal pull to the middle of the lagoon, where a rogue pool noodle floats. Tara seems completely relaxed as they glide through the water together. When he drops her back off at the dock, noodle in tow, he disappears underwater, only to emerge halfway across the lagoon, launching himself into the air for one of his signature flips.

  “You are such a good boy!” Tara squeals, climbing out of the water and onto the dock, feet dangling over the edge. Cola returns dockside and she feeds Cola the last of the fish. “You are the smartest!” Despite the activity of a full session, Cola still appears to have plenty of energy. Hyper, one might say. Another thing he and Socks have in common.

  “Do you want to give Cola a belly rub?” Tara asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. She must see something on my face that I don’t realize I’m showing, because she adds, “From the dock. I’ll be right next to you.”

  “O-okay,” I whisper.

  Tara helps me out of Sprinkle and onto the dock. She instructs me to lie on my belly, parallel to the edge of the water, so my hand can easily reach the surface. As she supports my legs while I use my arms to lower myself down, Cola darts by. Lagoon water slaps against the side of the dock.

  Dolphins are just so big. Especially up close.

  “Let me know if you want to get up, okay?” Tara offers.

  “I’m good,” I say. To my surprise, I’m only half lying.

  Now that I’m in position, I carefully allow just my fingertips to graze the surface of the water. It’s cool. Chillier than I remember. Tara bridges and Cola approaches. I feel my heart jumping in my chest.

  “Here he comes,” Tara whispers, or maybe she speaks in full voice. I’m not paying much attention to her volume anymore because Cola is five feet away, then four, then three, then an arm’s length, and then he’s here. I’m about to make contact. I know it’s going to be okay—Tara’s right here with me—but I see all those Tic Tac teeth, and that giant mouth that swallows fish whole, and I retract my hand as if I’ve just felt fire. Like a flash of lightning, Cola zips below the surface.

  “Let’s try again,” Tara says gently.

  She bridges, and Cola returns. Tara must do another signal with her hand or something, because once Cola’s close, he rotates onto his back. His long, pale belly is exposed, like an empty dinner plate or a full moon. He floats in front of me. His eyes are big and his permanent smile looks just as endearing upside down.

  “There you go, Cola, good boy,” Tara shushes in a tone so soothing it could calm the fussiest baby. “You ready for a belly rub?”

  I’m not sure if she’s asking me or Cola, but I nod. Tara takes my hand in hers and guides it over Cola’s belly. He’s so big, and so smooth. I close my eyes and listen with my fingers.

  5–6 breaths in the AM or PM.

  One …

  I inhale, keeping my eyes shut. I drift my fingers up Cola’s belly toward his pectoral fins. When I open my eyes to exhale, I swear he’s looking right at me. Tara lets out a breath with us and leans back. It’s just Cola and me.

  Two …

&
nbsp; Inhale. I allow my hand to relax so my whole palm now rests on his stomach. I think I feel his muscles tense, ever so slightly, as if he’s deciding if he should swim away. I’ve reached the top of my inhale so I slowly exhale through my nose. The palm of my hand remains on Cola’s pale belly as the air filters out of my body. Cola stays with me.

  Three …

  Inhale. I know it must be scary to be the new dolphin, I think, looking right into Cola’s eye. I drift my hand over his torso like a lazy windshield wiper. Exhale.

  Four …

  But change can be good. Change can be good, I think on a loop, never once blinking, not daring to break eye contact.

  Five …

  I see you, Cola.

  I’m about to inhale on my sixth when suddenly Cola flips over, and with a vigorous splash of his tail, he darts away. I’m almost dizzy with surprise, as if I’ve just been yanked from hypnosis. I retract my hand and pull it under my chest. Now it feels too risky to let it dangle over the edge.

  “You are such a goof, Cola,” Tara says after a moment. I notice that she’s writing down a note on the very top of the behavior chain in one of the few spaces remaining among the typed instructions and all my handwriting. I wish I could make out her words.

  “Y’all really have a connection,” Tara says as she assists me back into Sprinkle.

  I can only blink and nod. I still feel woozy from our five breaths. I’ve never felt so connected to another creature, but it’s shocking how that bond can immediately dissolve with one flip of the fin.

  As we head back up the path to the trainers’ office, I hear clicking sounds coming from the lagoon. I turn just as Cola whooshes out of the water. Rain is brewing in the distance, and with the blustery clouds as a backdrop, Cola is nearly camouflaged as he soars through the air.

  “What a stinking show-off!” Tara bellows, shaking her head affectionately.

  A major show-off, I think. Emphasis on show. Maybe he’s just showing. Showing me his world. Cola showing me Cola.