loyal pilot whale,
dolphin family member,
strong communal bond,
follows the sick to the shore,
becomes beached, then cannot leave.
The next morning, we left Crystal River and headed south on Interstate 75. There wasn’t too much talking going on in the car—especially from the back seat. Jasmine and I were overwhelmed with feelings. So far, each experience offered something different. Each sea creature was magnificent in its own way. We missed all we had left behind— especially the dolphins, and manatees. We even missed the alligators, which aren’t even sea creatures, but we had so much fun, who cared?
We sat in the back seat, all sulky and moody.
I can’t explain why I acted the way I did. I can’t blame Jasmine. I was like a little kid who needed a nap. I’m embarrassed whenever I think of it.
I had no way of knowing our adventure was far from over. Little did I know the next part of our trip would pull at my heart in ways I never thought possible.
Our next stop would be the Marine Rescue Haven. Ms. Costa thought it would be a nice way to end our trip before we drove back to Miami to catch the plane back to LaGuardia Airport. “Girls, I know you think you’ll be bored here, but the truth is, everything in life cannot be an adventure. This might turn out to be low key, but after all the excitement we’ve had the last few days, wouldn’t you welcome a nice, quiet visit without a host so we walk around on our own?”
“Ms. Costa, I can’t say I would welcome anything nice and quiet. It’s like having a party, then everyone goes home. It’s like taking your first bite of a huge ice cream cone, then it falls on the floor. It’s like finding a $100 bill, then the rightful owner comes to claim it,” I answered.
“Okay, Holly, I get the idea.” Ms. Costa was not amused.
My mom was shocked. “Holly, what’s gotten into you?”
I didn’t even try to answer.
Jasmine tried her best to convince Ms. Costa to skip this part of the trip. “The truth is we’re tired of all this driving around.”
I decided to try to get my way. “Why can’t we just hang out at the beach? I read in a brochure that the beach in Sarasota was voted one of the country’s best. We’re passing there on our way back.”
“How do you know where it is?” Jasmine asked.
“Don’t you know how to read a map?” I answered a question with a question.
“No, I don’t. And besides, I’m not going into any ocean without a life vest.”
“It’s not an ocean. It’s the Gulf of Mexico.”
Mom spoke up. “It’s because of Ms. Costa that we’re all here. It’s only fair that we consider her. If Ms. Costa wants to go to this marine rescue place, we’re going. Period.”
Ms. Costa peeked at us in the rearview mirror. Both of us sat with our arms crossed and our teeth clenched. I didn’t mean to be rude, but right then, I only thought about what I wanted.
Ms. Costa put the car radio on. “Let’s listen to some music.” As she fiddled with the local stations, trying to get good reception, a news bulletin captured our attention.
“Local emergency. Volunteers needed at Marine Rescue Haven. Stranded pilot whales are in a desperate situation. Please come now to assist in the rescue.”
“Isn’t that where we’re going?” my mom asked.
“Yes, that’s exactly where we’re headed. I hope they don’t die.” Ms. Costa looked at the time. “We should be there in about thirty minutes, if this GPS is steering us in the right direction.”
I asked, “Ms. Costa, what’s a pilot whale?”
“A pilot whale, along with the killer whale, is one of the largest of the dolphin family. They’re as intelligent as dolphins and are used by the military for jobs dolphins used to do. I’ve read that they have rescued sailors from submarines and can detect and recover unexploded mines underwater,” Ms. Costa responded.
“How do you know so much about pilot whales?” asked Jasmine.
“I actually did part of my thesis for graduate school on the beaching of pilot whales,” Ms. Costa replied.
“What’s beaching?” I asked.
“Why are they in the dolphin family if they’re whales?” Mom asked. “And how did they get such a strange name?”
“Slow down, everyone, please, and I’ll answer your questions. Pilot whales travel in groups called pods, with one member of the group acting as the leader. They also tend to surf the wake at the bows of large ships, so it looks like they’re leading or piloting the ship.”
She continued, “They are grouped with dolphins because they look more like dolphins, although they act more like whales. They have a bulbous forehead, a rounded head with a small beak and up-curved mouth, and their fins and flippers are in similar proportions to those of the dolphin.”
“What about the beaching?” I reminded Ms. Costa.
“Beaching means they swim in to shore. Once they get stuck in the shallow water, they can’t leave. In order for them to breathe through their lungs, they must swim. Also, if their blowholes are covered with water, they drown, since they can’t blow the water out.”
“That’s so horrible,” my mom said.
“That’s not all. They get sunburned in the shallow water. Also, their body weight crushes their internal organs when they’re beached.”
“How do they get beached?” Jasmine asked.
“There are a number of theories. Some believe that they become sick with parasites, bacteria, pollutants, and viruses. Some believe they become confused by sounds their echolocation doesn’t recognize. Many experts believe their social bonds are so strong, they follow a sick member of the pod to the shore despite the danger to themselves,” Ms. Costa further explained.
“That’s so sad,” I said, as Ms. Costa pulled the car into the parking lot of Marine Rescue Haven.
We rushed toward the main entrance. No one was there, but we heard a lot of loud talking on the other side of the gate. We walked in, not knowing whether or not we’d be welcomed.
“Ladies, are you here to help? We’ll need you to hold this pilot whale up, keep him moving so he can breathe,” a man called out to us from what looked like a round pool. “Just put your hands under his belly, and keep walking around this sea pen.”
There was no time to change into bathing suits. No time to get into wet suits. This was life and death. Every minute counted.
“I feel so ashamed of myself for complaining about coming here,” I said.
“I’m sorry, too, Ms. Costa,” Jasmine added.
“Girls, please don’t think about that. What matters is that we’re here now, doing what we can to save a life.”
I looked at the faces around me as our eight hands held up that struggling creature. I saw a light shining in Ms. Costa’s dark eyes. I saw tears rolling down Jasmine’s cheeks. I saw the look of awe on Mom’s face.
Would any of us ever be the same?