THE DAYS OF THE DOLPHINS

IN WHICH AN ENGLISH PROFESSOR GOES SWABBING, GETS SPYHOPPED, AND FINDS TRANSCENDENCE ON A SUN-DRENCHED CONSERVATION EXPEDITION IN THE SPANISH MEDITERRANEAN.

By Gary Goshgarian

Fifteen miles west of the Rock of Gibraltar, we are surrounded by 600 leaping dolphins.

Charlie has the Zodiac throttle wide open. I’m straddling the seat behind him holding the camera. Ric hangs over the bow with a swab to get a skin sample from one of the sleek torpedoes of muscle riding below. Two feet to my left, a formation of bottlenose dolphins bound out of the water, turning slightly in midflight to make eye contact. On my right is an eight-foot mother and her calf, a three-foot bullet practicing aerial jumps.

It seems we’ve died and gone to Jacques Cousteau heaven. For here we are, an English teacher and his former student–turned–businessman, playing out high-seas fantasies far from our everyday world.

Our eleven-day expedition in July actually began taking shape thirty years ago, when I was a young Northeastern English instructor and Charlie O’Neill was a senior on the maiden voyage of my “Science Fiction” course. The syllabus ranged widely, from Shelley’s Frankenstein, to Wells’s Time Machine, to contemporary tales of alien worlds and gee-whiz gadgetry. In one class, The Day of the Dolphin, Robert Merle’s 1969 best-selling novel, sparked a spirited discussion on the nature of dolphin intelligence.

Also thirty years ago, coincidentally, a nonprofit organization called Educational Expeditions International was born in a cramped Belmont, Massachusetts, office space. Now known as Earthwatch, it’s a kind of scientific Peace Corps, matching up scientists looking for field-research volunteers and funds with ordinary folks looking for unique vacations.

In 1975, after I read I could spend two weeks in Mallorca, Spain, exploring for Phoenician shipwrecks, I was hooked. I earned my SCUBA certification through a class offered at Northeastern, and three months later I was off on my first Earthwatch expedition.

I went solo. My wife, Kathleen—a former Northeastern English grad student and admissions officer—doesn’t dive, and prefers vacations with lounge chairs and books instead of boats and clipboards.

Though this year’s Earthwatch trip, my thirteenth, wouldn’t include diving, we’d spend days and nights aboard the Toftevaag—a sixty-foot research vessel built a century ago as a Norwegian fishing boat—looking for dolphins. We’d also prepare meals in a galley the size of a steamer trunk and share a pump toilet. Kathy would rather undergo serial root canals.

So I turned to old friend Charlie, who shared my low standards and was tired of hearing me flaunt my Earthwatch stories. Although Flipper reruns provided his only reference to dolphins, he thought the idea was terrific: guy adventure on the ocean deep while helping to save cetaceans. After our wives gave us permission to go to Spain and get macho, we signed up.

Since Charlie and I would have counted whitecaps to sail the Mediterranean, we were thrilled by our official charge: find dolphins, record data. According to the Earthwatch write-up, common dolphin populations are declining at an alarming rate. In the Med, the causes include overfishing (especially by the Japanese industrial fleets, whose mile-long nets catch everything in their path, including whales), the urbanization of the coastline, oil spills, and pollution from the twenty-two countries rimming the nearly land-locked sea.

The Toftevaag project was headed by skipper Ricardo Sagarminaga van Buiten and his wife, Ana Canadas, both marine biologists. Ric and Ana hope to create internationally managed protection areas in the Med to benefit the dolphins. But before arguing the wisdom of the proposal to the many governments involved, they need solid data on dolphin distributions, group ranges, and feeding habitats.

The crew included two grad students specializing in dolphins. And there were eight of us volunteers—three women and five men. We would do everything from holding crow’s-nest dolphin watches to taking DNA samples off dolphins’ backs.

Yikes! And just last month I was grading papers on Edgar Allan Poe.


DAY 1

3 p.m. Jet-lagged to numbness, Charlie and I rendezvous with the other volunteers in Málaga. Our group is driven to an exclusive yacht club in Sotogrande, just east of Gibraltar—a two-hour ride that allows us to get acquainted and share some laughs. The latter is encouraging: For the next week and a half, we’ll be living together on a boat, an experience that redefines “close quarters” and demands a sense of humor.

5:15 p.m. We arrive at the Toftevaag, docked in the last slip at the marina. It looks like a boat designed by Leif Ericsson, big and clunky, constructed completely of yellow pine, with two thirty-foot spruce masts furled with maroon sails. Light years out of place beside the long sleek yachts and cigarette-hulled rocket ships, this giant Viking clog serves science, not glamour.

A warm and handsome couple, Ric and Ana greet us and direct us below to claim a bunk, whereupon I immediately bang my head on a beam. Given the cruelly low headroom and cramped quarters, the boat’s original fisherman crew must have been gnomes. Or wore motorcycle helmets.

They also probably did their business over the sides, since the toilet is a three-by-three-foot space with a micro sink and matching commode, both pump-operated. And a loose-fitting door: Using the toilet will be like making a conference call. Worse still, no shower. Maybe Kathy was right. But after Ric tells us we can use the marina’s facilities, I unpack.

Passing on the tiny bunks, Charlie and I opt for sleeping on the deck, under the stars.


DAY 2

7 a.m. Tilted by the bow’s pitch, I slide off the air mattress during the night, waking up curled against the anchor chains, thinking I’d been reborn a galley slave. But, as Charlie observes, you adjust downward on the hierarchy of needs when having a good time. Sleep, food, air, ocean, and a yachtsman’s hot shower each morning. Paradise enow!

Our expedition officially begins with a growl of the ship’s engine. The plan: Cut triangular transects twenty miles out; look for cetaceans—dolphins, whales, and porpoises, which I learn are not dolphins; record data; return at night to an upshore port.

Ric and Ana explain our research duties, which change hourly. Manning the wheel. Taking portside and starboardside watches. Noting environmental data, such as our global position; the water’s temperature, salinity, and depth; the amount of fish detected by the sonar; and so on. Keeping track of any acoustical activities picked up by the 100-meter hydrophone cable the ship trails. (Cetaceans are famous for their music, we discover—especially dolphins, which have a broad repertoire of whistles, squeaks, clicks, rasps, and blowhole belches.) We’re also assigned rotating daily chores related to meal preparation and cleanup.

Unfortunately, this first morning we hear little and meet with whitecaps and six-foot swells, which keep us within a mile of shore. We ride up the coast, parallel to the sun-blasted hills of the Sierra Nevadas. Even so, the rock-and-roll waves leave several of us green and scrambling for the scopolamine patches.

9:25 a.m. Spot our first dolphins—a small pod of commons, distinguishable by their yellow flanks. The magical sight dispels the soupiness in my head. The dolphins bound to the ship; we cluster at the gunwales with our cameras, oohing and ahhing. Then they take off. The only encounter of the day, and a brief one at that, but an exciting trailer for the blockbuster shows we hope lie ahead.

7 p.m. Pull into Fuengirola, a busy, sprawling marina, less luxurious than Sotogrande. After dinner, Ric gives us a slide show and project overview, underscoring the importance of the research goals. Because fishing practices go virtually unmonitored in the Med, checking up on the dolphins offers one of the few measures of the sea’s overall health.


DAY 3

7 a.m. No winds today, so we head out under a rising sun on a gold-enameled sea. I’m rested, vigorous, and scopolamined to the earlobes.
9 a.m. Take over the wheel and hold the ship on a southerly course, feeling like Errol Flynn, ready to take on whatever the sea raises up—cetacean, giant squid, or fleet of marauding pirates.

11:15 a.m. Our first sighting of the day: three juvenile striped dolphins, so-called for the bluish slash across their flanks. They spot us and shoot to the bow like teenagers hitching a ride. Minutes later, a dozen adults join them, and the group stays with us for a half-hour, leaving only when we stop the boat to take photographs.

Clearly, dolphins seek human attention, probably out of curiosity. But they bow-ride for fun. And as ancient frescoes illustrate, they’ve been doing it since humans started seafaring. Why? The pressure wave created by the advancing bow gives them a free ride, like the sensation humans get while bodysurfing.

I’m just ten feet above the dolphins, so I can study their movements closely. The ship is traveling at 8 knots; they keep pace in perfect formation, with barely a flick of their flukes. When they get bored, they simply slide off the bow waves, leaping away with marvelous grace and exuberance.

I snap off a series of photos, attempting to capture what eludes both film and human understanding. As Ric says, though scientists have studied dolphin dynamics for years, they still can’t explain how the animals are able to maintain speeds upwards of 40 mph and unleash huge, effortless leaps.

As our group disappears, Charlie turns to me, his face aglow: “Do you believe all this?”

I know exactly what he means. Charlie runs his own consulting company; he works too hard and worries too much. Right now, he should be at home eating a bowl of Rolaids and reviewing résumés. I should be inching down Storrow Drive, planning my fall syllabus. But we aren’t.

4:10 p.m. Ana calls down from the crow’s nest: a large sighting. Half the horizon is churning with fins and flukes, a pod of maybe 200 dolphins. The hydro headphones click like a million cicadas.

Instead of clustering on the bow, we take the Zodiac, a fast inflatable boat. Charlie has an inflatable back home, so Ric asks him to drive. Charlie gets so excited he puts his life jacket on upside down. I grab my camera. Ric has the skin swabs—aluminum poles with a scouring sponge balled up at one end, for brushing against the exposed backs of bow-riders, scraping off skin samples for cell analysis.

We shoot away for a twenty-minute dance with the dolphins across the waves. The more Charlie pushes the throttle, the more they like it, bounding alongside, crisscrossing the bow. My adrenaline surges as I simultaneously watch the animals and try to photograph their impossible acrobatics. Meanwhile, Charlie looks like Al Unser, one hand on the wheel, the other on the throttle.

On a cue from Ric, Charlie cuts the speed for a swabbing. As we slow down,

I notice something that sends a ripple through me. The three dolphins on my right aren’t just leaping out of the water. They’re turning slightly to get a look. Technically known as “spyhopping,” it’s how the animals check out the water surface. And at the moment they are checking out me—through eye-to-eye contact.

I’m not a spiritual person. However, at this instant I feel a strange bonding across the evolutionary divide. A profound connection. A synchronicity. In Robert Browning’s terms, I experience an infinite-moment.

8:20 p.m. Still buzzing from the encounter, we pull into Caleta de Velez, a handsome marina rimmed by steep hills, grazing goats, and ancient ruins burnished gold by the setting sun. Perfect.


DAY 4

7 a.m. Wake to calm seas and head out.

10:20 a.m. A volley of sperm whale clicks fills the headphones. When the noise stops, Ric tells us to keep watch, because the animal is heading up. Sure enough, three minutes later a huge black body explodes on the horizon like a Saturn rocket, coming down in an enormous splash. But our large guest isn’t a bit interested in us; a giant fluke waves adios, and it heads back to the deep.

2:30 p.m. Winds begin roughing up the sea, so we turn for land—this time Marina del Este, an upscale port lined with German and Dutch beer gardens. After a day at sea, there are few greater pleasures than a cold Amstel. And if there are bars in heaven, there’s a bowl of fresh Spanish olives on every table.


DAY 5

9 a.m. I’m scheduled for portside watch. Bypassing the gunwale, I climb the rope ladder to the crow’s nest for better viewing. Above blazes the blue dome of the sky; around me the blue dome of the sea. Splendid relief from the claustrophobic boxes of my life—home, car, office. I never think about syllabi. Charlie never calls his office or his answering machine. Our concern is dolphins. This is vacation.

10:17 a.m. Madonna sings “Like a Prayer” from the bridge CD player as five juvenile common dolphins come by—scouts for a huge pod ahead.

We cut the engines; Ric calls to man the Zodiac. We grab cameras, swabs, and the underwater camcorder. Happy as a sunfish, Charlie drives again. For maybe twenty minutes, we race with the dolphins, getting good tissue samples and footage. Then we head back to the Toftevaag. Dolphins are still bounding around her bow.

We pull alongside so I can snap off shots of Ana poised aloft with her telephoto. “You’re photographing the three things I love most in the world,” Ric says. “Ana, the Toftevaag, and dolphins.” In the warm sun, Ana waves, the juveniles cavort, Madonna keeps insisting, “It’s like a dream.” I agree and click on, all the while thinking, I don’t want this moment to end.

It does, of course. But two hours later, we come upon a pod of fourteen pilot whales. And the magic is back. Pilot whales look like huge black-lacquered zucchini, with fins. They have bulbous heads and twelve- to fifteen-foot tapered bodies. Less frenetic than dolphins, they move in slow, closely packed herds, sometimes corralling newborns with their bodies. Since their social structure demands constant communication, they’re also noisier than dolphins. This pod whistles, snorts, and sputters, then drops out of sight.

The rest of the afternoon is uneventful. That’s relatively speaking, of course; the only thing that could have topped today is a mermaid encounter. We head into port again at Caleta de Velez, where the waterside strip of restaurants, bars, and hotels is crawling with vacationing Europeans.

After dinner, while Ric and the crew rest, some of us find a music store and buy a dozen CDs for the Toftevaag. Its current selection ranges widely, from John Lee Hooker to Celia Cruz. But half the discs are smudged with sunscreen. And Madonna is growing old.


DAY 6

7 a.m. At the blush of dawn, we leave port, appropriately, to the strains of “Yellow Submarine.” But the winds kick up again, so we head back in and tour the town.

5:30 p.m. Ric takes us to a dockside fish market, where locals bring their catches for auctioning. I’m struck by how small the fish are. Red snappers, usually a foot long, are half that size. Bonito are as small as bass; octopi the size of squid. The prawns you can barely see.

It’s stock right out of the nurseries. And the catches are minuscule. What should have been fish-by-the-ton is just a few kilos strong. Sobering evidence of the need for protection areas. The Alboran Sea is being fished out.


DAY 7

8 a.m. Gale-force winds keep us in port, so we record data into the ship’s computer, identify photos, and evaluate videos, some catching dolphins and pilot whales in sexual interludes. But you can’t blink: The encounters are over in a click with nary a grunt. Good thing they’ve discovered bow-riding.

10 p.m. After dinner, Charlie and I take a stroll along the beach promenade. Amazing how late the Spanish hit the town. At midnight, as we head back to the ship, the streets are just starting to fill. Don’t people have to go to work in the morning?

We do—although “work” may be a little strong.


DAY 8

7 a.m. Sea like glass. We set off on a southerly transect.

9:25 a.m. A small pod of commons gets us out on the Zodiac to collect genetic samples, but we can’t get a hit. You have to catch the animal when its tail is out of the water, or the sample washes away.

12:05 p.m. About twelve miles out, we notice a white mist ahead. Within minutes, a cool, moist fog engulfs us: a confluence of chilly Atlantic air and a warmer mass from the African coast. A rare occurrence, according to Ric, which happens only once or twice a year. The gauzy visibility puts the kibosh on dolphin watching. We return to port at Fuengirola through an opaque, eerie calm.

As we move along, I think, I could never get bored doing this. Like Ric and Ana, I have a half-mystical yearning for the sea—always have. But they live theirs. The Toftevaag is their office. Their view is the endless blue and the misty Spanish coast. Mine is Willis Hall (silly me).


DAY 9

7:40 a.m. Leave port with a University of Valencia film crew aboard. Like
the BBC and National Geographic earlier in the month, they’re interested in the Toftevaag project. Cameras poised for cetaceans, they get a lensful.

8:15 a.m. Come upon a pod of maybe fifty striped dolphins—the first of five sightings. A mad scramble into the Zodiac, Captain Charlie at the wheel, five others with cameras and swabs. Lots of leaps and splashes and box-seat cheering—as the cameramen capture a happy blur of species at play.

10:50 a.m. Somebody actually shouts, “Thar she blows,” words that in any other context would have sounded ridiculous. But not when a sperm whale breaches. Everybody jumps. The camera crew look like Larry, Moe, and Curly as they try to aim their equipment. But, alas, the water settles, and it is gone. “Just a fluke,” somebody mumbles. Another phrase that now makes perfect sense to me.

A few distant sightings throughout the afternoon, but nothing close.

5:30 p.m. Just when we think the day is over, that maybe all the magic is behind us, Ana yells down from the crow’s nest. A half-mile out, the sea is boiling. We’ve hit a monster pod of about 600!

Another mad rush for the Zodiac. Faithful dolphin paparazzo, I have my zoom fixed, and my finger hums on the shutter release.

This encounter, which lasts for over an hour, surpasses every other, not just because of the size of the pod, but because of the spectacular acrobatics. For swimming among the commons are bottlenoses, larger dolphins—eight to ten feet long—with a distinctive snout and an endearing smile, à la Flipper.

Bottlenoses leap fifteen feet into the air, propelled by an exquisite biomechanical spring in their tails, motivated by pure cetaceous joy. They’re notoriously curious, friendly, and easy to train—which, unfortunately, is why they’re seen so often in captivity, in the Sea Worlds of the world.

All dolphins play. We watch as juveniles and adults chase each other around and under the boat, and into the air. Mothers show babies how to breach the waves, the offspring imitating in tandem. According to Ric, play is both an integral part of the dolphins’ social relations and a mechanism for learning survival skills.

Dolphins also touch. They make body contact with traveling companions, bump each other, rub pectoral fins—it’s clearly a way they communicate. Ric points out a pair riding pectoral fin–to–pectoral fin, perhaps the dolphin equivalent of handholding or hugs.

The high-level play and arresting spyhopping gazes convince many that humans aren’t the only intelligent, self-conscious species on the planet. Though still a subject of debate, dolphin intelligence is generally thought to be considerable: Dolphins learn fast, they have a complex system of communication, and their brains are as large as ours. And given their charming behavior, they’re easy to anthropomorphize.

It probably misses the point to measure these wondrous creatures according to how closely their intelligence compares with ours, instead of appreciating them on their own terms. Nonetheless, watching them up close, I recall Ric’s joke: “Man claims he’s more intelligent because he invented New York City, high technology, and warfare. Dolphins claim they’re more intelligent for the same reasons.”

10 p.m. Still high from the spectacular encounter, we sit at a bar and watch the tourists flow by. Though they bump and spyhop and make noises, too, I’m not nearly as interested.


DAY 10

Every Earthwatch expedition has a day set aside for touring; today is ours. We take the van to Ronda, a quaint town full of tourists who make us yearn for the sea.


DAY 11
Alas, our last day. By week’s end, we’ll be home. And another team will be slipping into our places.

7 a.m. Calm seas.

10:20 a.m. Our final pod of dolphins. For the last time, Charlie pilots the Zodiac, I ride shotgun with the Nikon, and Ric brings the swabs. We cavort with the animals, take photos, and get a good tissue sample.

12:15 p.m. Return to port at Sotogrande, where Ric gives a wrap-up talk and thanks us for our good work. Group photos and farewells. There are tears.


A few days later, we touch down at Logan Airport around 10:30 p.m. As usual, I whisper a silent prayer of thanks that the plane didn’t crash.

I also look longingly at the water of Boston Harbor, rippling under the moon. At the other end of the ocean bobs the Toftevaag and a new team of Earthwatchers holding watch, reading the sonar, and banging their heads on the beams. Two hours from now, they’ll rise from their cramped beds to cut a transect to pods of leaping dolphins—and discover for themselves an infinite moment.

Charlie seems to read my mind as I gaze through the window. “Next year,” he whispers. I nod.

The plane rolls to the gate. When I get up, I smash my head on the luggage bin. I’m home.

God, I miss those beams.

Gary Goshgarian is a professor of English and the author of five novels, including Gray Matter, published in September. For more information on Earthwatch programs, visit <www.earthwatch.org>.