Captain Abby's Dolphins

In the flat strike of afternoon sun, we were escorted (first slowly, then not) into the bay by a rubber-boat captain named Abby. He promised dolphins. He told stories about strand feedings—dolphins who assaulted the muddy margins of low-tide creeks with gang slams against miniature fish. It happens nowhere in the world but here, he said, and he said, too, that only a privileged few have seen it. We wanted to see it. We did. Strand feedings of a violent magnitude—600 pound dolphins throwing their bodies to the shore.

Afterward we were out on the open sea, or, at least, the wider, deeper bay, following in the wake of a shrimp boat. We were a small thing among the bigger beasts of the sea–the 1,000 pound dolphins with their war scars, their scratch marks, their torn-into fins, their babies. They came near enough for touching—almost. They nudged beneath the underbelly of the boat. They roared at us from either side, and the camera was not fast enough.

Except for once or twice.

Our idyllic three and a half days have come to their end.

But oh, it was something. Oh, it was.

And if you ever have a secret urge to spend a few hours with dolphins, ask for Abby at South Beach, Commander Zodiac. He's the real thing. He still loves the job he does.