SHORT STORY. 1250 WORDS. FIRST DRAFTED: NOVEMBER, 2018.
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN RIGGWELTER (UK) AUGUST 1, 2019.
WACTH THE VIDEO RECORDING OF THIS STORY
Indifferent to me, the dolphin continues nosing my wife’s abdomen. Julie shrieks and I picture the next bite ripping her open.
Dolphin attacks are rare but they happen when well-meaning dolphins sense something specific in female tourists who have paid to swim with them. I used to manage a tour office with a major cruise line and this story was inspried by an incident reported to me. It is a gripping eight minute read.
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Heralded by Dolphins
Standing in the warm Caribbean Sea, my wife bends to kiss a silvery, bottlenose dolphin on the forehead as it glides past. Julie and I are in paradise, enjoying perfection. She smiles from her soul.
But then there’s a splash and she exclaims as though she’s stubbed her toe on a submerged rock. Our dolphin trainer, and two other vacationing couples, turn in surprise as Julie raises her arm to look at her elbow. Glistening in the sun, a curtain of seawater cascades from her upper arm until ruby red teeth marks appear in a U-shaped pattern, above her triceps.
She covers the bite with her hand and I immediately suspect a shark has slipped through the netting separating us from open water. Convinced I can repel the predator with a punch on the nose, I rush toward my wife.
As in a nightmare, I can’t move my legs fast enough. I’ve taken barely one underwater step before there’s another splash. Behind her, the dolphin has already jackknifed and is coming back. Jaws open, it swims on its side with a pectoral fin flapping above the surface.
Julie screams.
The instructor, so laid back until now, removes his tan ball cap, flings it ashore and shouts, “Meila,” as though rebuking a child.
The enormous creature nips my wife’s submerged waist. Edging another step closer, I anticipate blood flowing into the water but I’m distracted by two ominous grey fins cutting the surface to my right. My mind erupts with fears of a feeding frenzy.
Steering itself with a mighty tailfin, Meila curves round my wife’s stomach. My third step brings me within range. I land what should be a solid blow but my hand slides across slick, rubbery skin. Indifferent to me, the dolphin continues nosing my wife’s abdomen. Julie shrieks and I picture the next bite ripping her open.
Images flash like lightning through my brain: Julie on the day we met; jogging in the rain; doing crunches and planks; finishing sixth in her age category in the New York City Marathon, her body a marvel of engineering and endurance, one that can do almost anything except – according to her doctor – reproduce.
The memories continue: Julie beside me on the plane heading south, holding my hand; waking this morning in our overwater bungalow. How happy she looked, propped on pillows, listening to rippling waves, luxuriating in the view of nothing but brilliant blue horizon, beyond sheer curtains, wafting in the breeze.
My wife has always been stronger than I am and prefers defending herself, yet she’s caught in a life or death struggle with a giant flesh-eating fish. I’ll do anything to save her.
Other guests remain clueless. “Shark,” they shout, fleeing the water.
The trainer hollers at Julie, urging her ashore as though she can simply shoo the beast away. Grasping her fingers, he pulls her toward the beach.
I wrap my arms round the dolphin, just behind the dorsal fin, and anchor my feet in sand. Despite the instructor’s earlier warning to avoid tailfins of eight foot long, five hundred pound cetaceans, I try to flip the thing over my shoulders, in the direction of its approaching companions.
Before I make any progress, Meila reacts. It feels like a giant boxing glove uppercutting me in the gut, knocking wind from my lungs, hurling me across the lagoon. Before the world goes black, I watch my toes rise from the water and continue skyward above my head.
Lying on hot sand, I regain consciousness. My entire body hurts. I’m short on breath. Saltwater stings my eyes and dribbles from my ears and nose. I can taste it. Four massive, oily eels with long, thin appendages squirm around me. I blink and shake my head until they transform into a committee of dolphin trainers, clad neck to ankle in tight black wetsuits. All four are young, ambiguously gendered, with long blonde hair.
“Where’s my wife?”
An instructor calmly points. He’s put his tan hat back on, which identifies him as the one who’d been in the water with our group.
Julie sits under a tree, a short distance away. Her body appears whole. There’s no blood but bruises and teeth marks decorate her arms and belly. Two dark-skinned women in blue dresses attend her. One towels her dry and the other swabs her wounds with medicated cotton.
“She’s okay but you failed to disclose her condition.”
I’m being accused. “What condition?”
“You both signed waivers, then went scuba diving. No one really knows how decompression stress affects a foetus.”
It’s something my high school health teacher might have said. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“We can book you on the next flight to Miami from Galvez International,” says another trainer, one with fuzzy reddish stubble.
“We get attacked by dolphins, so you kick us off the island?” Steps away, other resort guests stand in a semi-circle, all of them staring, wearing wet bathing suits. Humiliated, I wish someone would come to my defence. “We’re here until next week. Are you refunding our money and paying the airline’s penalty fee?”
“We highly recommend immediately visiting a prenatal healthcare centre. Any losses or costs are your responsibility. You both signed the waiver saying you were fit to dive.”
“We weren’t diving! Not today. We were swimming with a dolphin – one that bit my wife!” I feel betrayed. Instead of helping, the experts lay blame and absolve themselves of any wrongdoing. “Are you people mad? These are vicious attack dolphins with a taste for human flesh.”
Fearing litigation, no one wants to admit responsibility or show sympathy. As though my wife and I did this to ourselves, the dark-suited minions look to one another, shaking their damp, blonde heads.
A black woman in a bright blue polo shirt and white shorts comes running along the dock, her dark wavy hair streaming behind. “Here comes Margery, our manager, maybe she can explain better.”
She arrives, looking patient and fair. Our instructor informs her of the details. Speaking in a whisper, he mentions yesterday’s scuba dive. That’s when I realize he’d been with us on the boat, helping everyone into their gear. He’d looked different in a green hat.
Before I can question the relevance, I overhear, “I don’t think he knows about the pregnancy.”
Now everything makes sense. “You let guests swim with a pregnant dolphin? No wonder it attacked. The mother-to-be felt threatened when my wife kissed it. That’s why you’re gaslighting me. I’m not crazy, you’re hiding your mistake.”
With elegance, Margery kneels next to me in the sand. “Sir, the dolphin isn’t pregnant, your wife is.”
This is murky territory. “The dolphin impregnated my wife? Yet I can’t? You people are insane.”
Placing a sympathetic hand on my shoulder, Margery clarifies, “Sir, your wife has been pregnant for some time. Meila either saw the baby, using echolocation, or heard the second heartbeat. Dolphins are amazing that way but, unable to hug or shake hands, they sometimes communicate with their mouths. Meila didn’t intend to bite, she was congratulating your wife for her blessing. She was excited and happy. You should be too.”
I’m skeptical. My mind remains cloudy.
Julie is still under the palm tree, chatting with the women. Smiling, nodding, beaming, she leans forward to embrace both at once, having grasped the revelation faster than I did.
At last it’s clear. After four years of trying, news of my wife’s pregnancy has been heralded by dolphins.
The End
This story was inspired by a dolphin encounter similar to this one at Anthony’s Key Resort, Honduras. 2013
Trainer with dolphins at Anthony’s Key Resort in Roatan, Honduras. 2013.
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