For our first anniversary, my sweet husband Jake took me to
SeaWorld. For the past few months, all I’d been able to talk about was how much
I wanted to touch a dolphin. Dolphins had been showing up in my paintings. They
even ended up in a couple of my dreams. Jake, fully aware of this, surprised me
by letting me have my hearts wish to actually touch one. I was, of course,
beyond excited about this, to the point where I was physically shaking with
joy. He beamed with happiness to see me happy. He’s just the best.
When we were in line to pet and feed dolphins, my pulse was
racing. I made Jake feel it in my neck. I understand for most people that
happens in line for rollercoasters and not for dolphins, but for me, this was
the ultimate thing. The British people in line behind us were laughing at how
weirdly excited I was.
And I had expected that excitement. But I honestly did not
expect the rest of my emotions that day at Seaworld.
I had, at best, paid half-attention to the idea of Shamu at
Seaworld for most of my life. I remember when the tragedy happened a few years
ago where a whale had killed an Orlando trainer, my reaction was, “well, duh,
you can’t take a wild beast out of Iceland and expect it to act like a
domesticated puppy or something. You certainly can’t blame the whale.” But that
was pretty much the extent of my thoughts about it. I didn’t really consider
the frustrations in the mind of the whale that may have led to the tragedy. I
still had a mental picture of Shamu that was really a caricature of a whale: a
cartoonish, tame, Mickey-Mouse-of-SeaWorld type thing.
As the Shamu show started, I felt a small and unexpected nausea.
The pool was bright artificial blue and there was loud music and theatrics and
colors and lights. Everything was typical of a major Orlando themed attraction,
except for the creatures that swam into the tank. They weren’t the cartoons I’d
somehow expected. Before us were incredibly real, enormous, powerful living
beings. I remember being struck with the obvious yet overlooked fact: they’re smart. They’re like, the smartest
animals besides us. They’re surely thinking, and they’re surely feeling. Their
authenticity juxtaposed with the artificiality they were surrounded by made me
feel uneasy. All at once I felt embarrassed to be there.
I tried to push those feelings aside in order to enjoy the
show. The whales performed tricks for fish kind of like my dog Henry “shakes”
for a treat. They were really cute. We smiled as they wiggled and spun around.
Jake leaned over and asked, “Don’t their fins only flop over like that in
captivity?” I didn’t know. “No I think they’re just like that.” I said.
A quick google search that night proved me wrong. Less than
one percent of whales in the wild have that floppy fin-atrophy thing. In tanks,
nearly all of them do. In the wild, they’re swimming at high speeds all day. They
live their entire lives with their families—caves never leave their mothers,
even as adults. Within pods, the whales
use what we can only describe as languages to communicate with one another.
They can live to be a hundred years old. But in captivity, 35 is as old as they
usually get. They’re isolated from their natural families, babies are sold away
from mothers, and a lot of the oldest Orcas were captured as babies in Iceland.
As I lay in bed next to my husband that night, I was able to
focus on just one thing: the memory of a music box my grandparents had given me
as a child. I had cherished it. Three small porcelain Orca Whales sat
immortalized atop a rolling wave of blue. They were frozen in one perfect
moment of joy, leaping together, smiling. I use to stare at them and imagine
the water surrounding them extending forever--that they were boundless--a part
of endlessness. My young mind pondered the implications of eternity as I
watched them turn. When I wound the bottom, a quiet melody played, bitter
sweet.
“Born Free.”
The sudden flashback was enough to make me want cry. I knew could
no longer defend to myself the idea that keeping these sentient, spiritual,
wild beings in captivity was okay.
I had to forcibly shove “Whale Thoughts” out of my mind in
order to get sleep for work the next day.
When I did wake up, I left the house early to go to Barnes
and Noble and buy a book about Whales. It’s called “Death at Seaworld.” I have
a feeling I might stay up all night for a few days reading it.
For the past few days, I have been able to think of little
else than Killer Whales. I’m not entirely sure why this in particular has affected
me so deeply, but it certainly has. Part of my spirit feels tied to this. I
feel like I’ve just begun to realize something important and urgent right in front
of me, and I can’t look away. I’m not sure what the next step will be for me,
but I’m trying to educate myself right now, and feel all the emotions I have
associated with this. I am looking forward to watching the Blackfish documentary at the Downtown Disney theatre this Friday with
my hubby and sisters. I am looking forward to that book I got. Most of all, I’m
looking forward to a hope that maybe I can be involved in some kind of change
for these animals in the near future…
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