I Broke Up With the Ocean, But a Wild Beast Brought Me Back

When I was a kid I wanted to be a marine biologist. After spending my summers in Ocean City, Maryland, the sea was so mysterious and beautiful to me. I remember hopping out of bed at 6 a.m. to play on the sand bar at low tide. I loved studying the waves, seaweed, and occasional jellyfish.

Fast forward one “Jaws” movie and one Bethany Hamilton shark attack memoir later, and my oceanic romance was fading. And then it all came to an official end when I was 13 years old, wading in the surf with my family in Ocean City.

“Hey, look at that!” my Uncle Bryan said, pointing down into the murky gray water around me.

I looked down and saw a large, dark shadow circling my feet. With a quick calculation, I figured it was either A) a plastic bag from Candy Kitchen or B) a hungry great white shark waiting to devour a chubby kid. The fear sent me leaping into the air. I landed on my belly and paddled to shore like there was no tomorrow.

To this day I’m still not sure what, if anything, I actually saw. The fear still scarred me though, deeper than any shark bite could. Standing there soaking wet in the sand, staring out at where I had come so close to death, I broke up with the ocean right then and there.

This separation followed me into college. That is until my first winter break when I traveled abroad for the very first time. I found myself in the Caribbean, face-to-face once again with death himself.

I did not choose the “Dolphin Swim” excursion. No, when I agreed to accompany my way-cooler best friend Meghan on a cruise to the Cayman Islands, I apparently relinquished all decision-making to her. That stipulation must have been in the fine print somewhere.

So when I disembarked the Carnival liner in Grand Cayman, all I could do was count down to my fate. I should have been enthralled by the colorful bracelets for sale at the port, the smell of jerk chicken and Johnny cakes wafting through the air. I was outside of the U.S. for the very first time! But I was numb. Every step toward the “DOLPHIN SWIM HERE” sign was a march toward my death. I really was thankful that Meghan was introducing me to a new, tropical world, but I also secretly wanted to strangle her with the strap of my fanny pack.

We arrived at the Dolphin Cove, a roped-off section of the Caribbean Sea with a built-in dock. To access the Cove, guests first had to walk through a pristine gift shop of ocean-themed trinkets and plush dolphin toys. This was personally offensive to me. I had become so comfortable living in my fear that I didn’t like when an “I heart Dolphins” T-shirt tried to wear me down.

Once on the dock, I strapped on my yellow life vest like a suit of armor. I listened carefully, but with great skepticism, as the trainer explained exactly how this “once-in-a-lifetime experience” would unfold. I was to swim to the middle of the cove and wait (surely, for my untimely demise). The trainer, from the safety of solid land, would use his special whistle to signal the dolphin. At this point, I was to hold my arms straight out in front of me, and the dolphin would swim under my legs and pop to the surface, belly up. Its flippers would hook into my hands and it would take me for a leisurely ride around the cove.

It was unclear why no one questioned this sort of intimate contact with a wild carnivore that, according to the National Aquarium, could easily chomp off my arm with its 86-to-100 sharp, cone-shaped teeth.

The trainer pointed at me with a big, super-genuine smile. “You’re turn!” he shouted.

Standing under the warm Caribbean sun that I figured I would likely never stand under again, I quickly assessed my circumstances. And so with my knees shaking and palms sweating, I climbed down the ladder, entered the cool blue water, and assumed my position. I couldn’t turn back now.

With Meghan, the trainer, and all the other tourists watching from the dock, I bobbed helplessly in the water, clutching desperately to my life vest. I made sure to keep an eye on that damn dolphin, all 400-to-800 pounds of it, again according to the National Aquarium. And then the trainer blew that damn whistle.

The beast dove down and began circling me. I could feel its energy in currents through the water, sending shockwaves through my legs, which were just dangling there like bait. Is this what it feels like to be hunted? I thought.

Then, without warning, the water displaced underneath me. A flash of pale gray appeared before me and two rubbery flippers slipped into my hands. My head snapped back as we shot off, and a strange noise escaped my mouth. It sounded something like “Aack!” The dolphin dragged me across the cove in what was absolutely not a “leisurely ride.”

The crowd cheered from the dock and the trainer made piercing commands with the whistle. I was left holding on for dear life to this wild animal that easily could have struck me in the gut with its tail, surely causing severe internal bleeding. Meghan would later tell me while looking at the automatic photos taken during my “once-in-a-lifetime experience” that I seemed like I was “having so much fun.” Looking back at the photos of my distorted and strained face, I laughed.

When the trainer signaled the dolphin to stop, I dropped its flippers and made a break for the ladder. And the beast swam away, preparing for its next victim.

And with all body parts still attached, I lived to make it to my next excursion (partying with Jamaican rum on the beach). While I still hold deep resentment toward Meghan for not considering my irrational fear during the trip, I admit that the swim wasn’t a totally bad experience. No, it didn’t rekindle the fiery romance I once had with the ocean, but it forced me to have a regulated interaction with sea life that didn’t end in tears. Let’s just say, the excursion put me and the ocean back on speaking terms. But no, I definitely didn’t feel the need to purchase a photo souvenir and remember it.