I feel like a beached whale, and I’m not referring to the medieval tightness of my wetsuit or the Christmas cookies I’ve been housing like oxygen. I’m referring to being beached – literally – like a whale. Unable to move. Immobilized. Stuck. I’m in Hawaii on the island of Oahu, traveling alone in paradise in an effort to heal the raw little hole punched into my heart as a result of a breakup breakdown. I’m hoping the waters of the Pacific will purify me and that Pehle’s fiery spirit will deliver me back to myself. I’m also hell bent on swimming with a sea turtle.
For years, I seethed with jealousy when I listened to friends gush about swimming with sea turtles. If foolish enough to boast about frolicking with dolphins, they would find themselves mysteriously deleted from my inner sanctum. What can I say? I love turtles and dolphins.
Non-negotiable Hawaii goal: Swim with a sea turtle—end of story.
I pay $15 to snorkel in Haunama Bay, a marine sanctuary teeming with aquatic wonderment. It’s 7am, and I’m delighted to note that nary a soul has arrived at this early hour to infringe upon my adventures. A park ranger at the cliff’s edge points out a tiny puff of spray toward the outer fringes of the reef. It’s an orphaned humpback whale, a newborn calf most likely separated from its mother in a recent storm. A bizarre flaring of maternal fire suddenly blazes within me, and I suppress the urge to rescue the baby somehow. Seeing the crazed look in my eye, the ranger powers down my emotions with the warning, “Swimmers aren’t allowed beyond the edge of the reef. It’s too dangerous out there with the tiger sharks.” Sharks – Second only to snakes in the hall of fame of my least favorite animals. Hate sharks. My visions of cradling a newborn humpback in my arms and whispering comforting words into its earhole are thankfully diffused.
I return my attention to Operation Sea Turtle, excitement building as I descend the cliffs to the beach below. I’m standing at the water’s edge when my cocky attitude suddenly flips a switch. I find myself very much alone, willing to give anything for the company of a previously abhorrent tourist. It’s windy, cold, and expansively open, and I shiver from a jolt of fear as I swim toward the reef. Kicking my dorky flippers and bobbing over rainbow fish and coral, it’s beautiful in an otherworldly way.
The reef is not unlike an underwater metropolis, with stores and high-rise apartment structures, neon lights, luxury hotels, and zipping traffic; it reminds me of Times Square. There are alleys and streets; avenues and boulevards; superhighways and terraced parking structures. There are eccentric personalities, colorful characters, cloistered beauties and crotchety old codgers. I’m hypnotized. My pupils are dilated wide to take in the hustle and bustle of the domestic reef-scape when, in the distance, I see something large and flat. I stalk it and almost faint. Really, for realsies, for sure…. there’s a giant Green Sea Turtle in my masked scope. Like a floating dinosaur with a soul as old as the sea, we make eye contact, and I blush. He’s gorgeous—variegated shades of emerald and sage, rust and umber. I have the distinct recognition that I am somehow in the presence of a petite, elderly British man. He gives me a painfully bored glance, as if to say in a droll, British accent, “Oh. It’s you. I suppose you’re going to follow me about and be a terrible bother.”
Turns out, sea turtles are a cantankerous lot. Elitists, they can’t bear the inconvenience of a bobble-headed humanoid. I notice his disinterest in my presence, yet flipper on like a boneheaded puppy or an obnoxious younger sibling. Through the submarine byways, he munches algae and occasionally glances back in my direction with utter indifference. The water grows shallow over the reef, but I follow the little British turtle ever farther out to sea. Suddenly, he turns to me and winks before flying like a glider through a corridor of water too shallow for me to pass. “So long sucka!” he quips as the tide withdraws her gauzy skirt, leaving me squarely beached atop the coral reef of Haunama Bay.
On all sides, the water has retreated to the exact level of the reef surface, and I sit atop, like a rubbery baby whale. The polyp colony of a coral reef is extremely delicate and is illegal to harm in any way. Walking across it is strictly forbidden, and to the naked foot, it’s as sharp as fresh glass. So I wait. An answer will surely come. I gaze up at the cliffs and am deflated to notice the barricade overlooking the bay is now teeming with Japanese tourists awaiting their shuttle to the beach. They enjoy a front row seat to watch the American girl flounder atop the reef like an idiot.
Tiny waves roll in every few minutes, and I realize that if timed appropriately, I can use their buoyancy to move an inch or two across the reef toward the edge. Like a walrus lumbering on dry land, I worm about for an hour, finally discovering a crack large enough to slip down into the water. No telling where the crack will lead, but I decide to follow its underwater highway. It’s my only option. Narrow and sharp, the crack slices and dices my hands and shreds my wetsuit while the deceptively forceful tide knocks me about like a toy.
I squirm, I wriggle and flipper, pulling myself along the corridor wall before finally snaking my way into open water where I can freely swim once again. By the time I return to the beach, I’m bloody with gashes and scrapes, bruised from sharp corners and coral knobs. I look like a defeated boxer. I walk past the Baywatch-grade lifeguard, all bronzed skin and snow-white smiles, and ask if he caught any of the action. “Sure did. My buddies and I saw the whole thing, and we were wondering how long it would take you to get off that reef.”
Great. I’m happy you all enjoyed the show. Shoulders hunched, leaving a trail of blood in the sand as I depart toward the cliff trail, I reflect on a morning well spent. Operation Sea Turtle = Complete. I also reflect on the ocean; how she has the power to school the bravest heart and sink the most impenetrable ship. The ocean is not to be trifled with, and high-fives to her for maintaining the upper hand over the immortal delusions of our species. She can deliver an ass-kicking like none other, and all her creatures play on the same team in that endeavor. The sea turtle is her secret agent. Dolphins are her spies. Stingrays and jellyfish are her snipers, and sharks… in their refusal to go extinct for over 300 million years are her assassins. But man, is she pretty!
