The Etownian >> Features
‘Under the Sea’: Pacific reveals diverse marine life
Thursday March 25 2010
A view from Lindsey's Panga in the Pacific Ocean. The fin in the background belongs to a grey whale.
Grey whales are not pretty. At birth they are black, but old skin, barnacles and scars quickly turn them distinctive shades of grey, charcoal and white. Already I’ve seen distant forms spyhopping against the horizon, churning water and awkward flippers during courting (and the pink “sea cucumber” which suggests that this courting was successful). Juveniles could pass for the Loch Ness monster. I’ve watched the turquoise shadow (larger than our suddenly frail craft) glide underneath us. And still it gives me a thrill as multicolored as the rainbows visible in their spray.
Sometimes I get to join the sea creatures. The water is cool as I wade in, awkward in my flippers, not having bothered with my ancient wetsuit and sure that my mask is on wrong. I scoot around (The first speckled ray) cautiously — it’s no bigger than a dinner plate, but there is no comforting flash of plastic fins nearby. When I tell Elias about the puffer he chases it, determined to make it puff, but to no avail. The tan head of an octopus has the same elegance as Nefertiti’s portrait. Pale orange starfish contort themselves in places that would leave them with crooked necks if they had any bones. When Gustavo calls us to turn around, we are shocked. It’s been an hour already? My first clumsy steps trying to get in the boat give me sympathy pains for Ariel. My drenched body shakes violently as it remembers that it does not belong in the water. So much for being a mermaid, as the fluid, flipper-aided motions deluded me into thinking.
It occurs to me halfway through a lecture set up on a sandy estuary edge in Banderitas that I should have worn sunscreen to class. Afterwards the camp splits into two groups — those who have the late-night turtle shifts tonight choose to nap off the desert heat, and those who decide to demolish the first box of Oreos while trying to find the bad guy in the latest round of “Mafia.”
At midnight, our cabins shift. The boat sparks luminescent plankton which shine like caught stars under the black marble sea top. We relieve Dylan and Will at the nets, and the high-powered torch picks out the head of our first turtle. Hand over wet hand, we pull the boat along the net so that spectral clumps of seaweed pass over the bow. The turtle is tightly ensnared in the thin, fishing line net, but Poncho gently pulls the lines off its flipper. The white barnacle on its head winks but its ebony eyes do not. Unlike the black sea turtle we weighed that morning, this one has camo colors in fine splatters across its shell. I help to buckle it in a life jacket, which looks a bit absurd on an animal that spends all but a few moments of its life in the water. These are only juveniles; although their shells are bigger than the top of an oil drum, it will be at least another year before they make the trip to the mating beaches.
A two-hour wait before the next net check: we look at the stars, either in the sky or those constellations reflected in the still bay. Music plays in the background but does not dent the silence, which darker than the night. We pass around packaged cookies and casual conversation, belying the four layers of clothing we all wear. Shakira is playing when we catch our last turtle for the night, and we know there is only one name it can have.
The moon is a drunk firefly stuttering in our wake as we head back. Three turtles lie bundled in their life jackets and I scan the sky for one more shooting star, even though I’ve long since run out of wishes.
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