Read Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover's Soul (8 page)
L
ook deep into nature, and then you will
understand everything better.
Albert Einstein
Each time the dolphins and trainers meet a new student, excitement charges the air. How will the dolphins react to the individual’s personality? To his or her disability? How will the child (or adult) react to meeting a dolphin eye-to-eye for the first time? And, the most important question, will this unique experience trigger something inside the student that will open his mind and allow new learning to take place?
When we met Justin, we all wondered how these questions would be answered during his first dolphin encounter. His parents had arranged a two-week visit to Dolphin Research Center (DRC) to participate in our Dolphin/Child Therapy program. Justin had cerebral palsy, a neurological disorder. Cerebral palsy is a serious condition, causing paralysis or muscle weakness as a result of trauma to the brain. Typical symptoms, which range from mild to severe, include partial or total inability to walk, little or no speech production, seizures and generally impaired coordination.
Justin had better motor skills and coordination than many children with cerebral palsy, but one primary difficulty he had was with speech. At three years old, he had not yet spoken his first word. We hoped that the interaction with Annessa (who we nicknamed Anna) would encourage Justin to speak at least some components of words.
Justin was a beautiful child, with blond hair and green-gold eyes. When he joined the therapist, his mother and Linda (the dolphin trainer) on Anna’s dock, Justin’s small face was devoid of expression. It was very hard to figure out what he was feeling. Anna tried to engage Justin in play while he was on the floating dock, but he would only glance at her briefly then look away. We decided to place Justin in the water with Anna to see what progress could be made in that environment.
Floating in the warm Gulf waters, Justin’s mother held him in her arms as Anna slowly circled them. Justin’s eyes locked onto Anna’s movement immediately. Anna offered her dorsal fin and towed Justin and his mother gently through the water. Anna then approached Justin head-on, very carefully, and he reached out a pudgy hand to touch her snout. Anna inched closer. Justin then raised his arms and gently hugged Anna’s big, gray face. They held this embrace for several seconds, then the eight-foot-long dolphin delicately eased herself backward, moving with incredible care, barely rippling the water’s surface. Linda watched in awe. This was not a behavior trained to Anna, but a spontaneous gesture and offering from dolphin to child.
Justin wore a solemn expression throughout the exchange, but immediately began vocalizing when Anna backed away. The therapist asked Justin to try to make specific sounds, such as the “B” sound in “baby,” promising Anna’s return if Justin attempted the new sound. Justin quickly caught on to the game and responded to the coaxing. After each sound he looked expectantly for his new friend Anna. She was ready and waiting with a kiss for him!
As the lesson time came to an end, Justin was much more animated than when he started. After getting out of the water, he smiled and pointed around with excitement as his mother dried him with a towel. Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around her neck and quietly said into her ear his very first word.
For any parent, hearing the first word from your baby is a magical moment. For the parent of a child with disabilities, however, that moment is much, much more. It is a miracle that brings hope for a brighter future. Most children’s first word is “mama” or “dada,” but Justin was different. Justin’s first word was . . . “Anna.”
Linda Schnecker Erb
It was the last thing anyone expects. I had rounded the corner on my motorcycle at fifty miles an hour. Unfortunately, so did the car coming from the opposite direction. I learned later that the collision had sent me flying a hundred and seventy feet. My legs, hips and internal organs—just about every piece of my body—had been crushed. Doctors said I would never walk again. Let me tell you, there are few more sobering words in life than that. Now the question was: What was I going to do? With little else to do over the course of my recovery, I began to examine my life. A friend suggested I try boating.
Right,
I thought.
As if that was going to make a difference!
But my friend insisted. And, yes, the spring-fed rivers around my home in Florida were beautiful this time of year. The channels were fringed with Sabal palms, live oaks and southern magnolia. I was skeptical, but maybe he was right. Maybe I could spend some quiet time on the river and perhaps even find the answers to some of my questions about life.
After I was discharged and feeling a little better, I bought a kayak and volunteered my time with a local organization to teach visitors about the endangered manatees that inhabited the rivers. Every day, I would paddle through the river with my dog Sky, a two-year-old red chow, perched at the front of the kayak. Pretty soon I was enjoying the sounds of nature and talking to boaters about rules regarding manatees.
The work was comforting and relaxing, but I still couldn’t escape the feeling that something was missing. Then one day while I was doing a manatee count for a local research group, I saw a tiny, wrinkled nose poke out of the river. A baby manatee, less than two weeks old, was swimming with its mother close behind. Sky’s ears shot up. As I paddled toward the manatee family, Sky moved to the front of the kayak, her black tongue hanging to the side. This was her first experience with a baby manatee, and I figured she probably wanted to get a close look. The water began to bubble. Sky barked. She wanted to know exactly what this thing was. It probably looked too small to be a manatee. For all she knew, it was some chubby, little alligator. When the baby manatee finally came up, it sprayed foam all over Sky, who, for the first time in her life, looked too shocked to bark. But Sky was nothing if not a trooper. She regained her composure, leaned in again and balanced carefully until she and the baby manatee were touching noses and greeting each other like visitors from different worlds. With the mother close at hand, I reached down and scratched the little manatee. I scratched and scratched. The manatee couldn’t seem to get enough. She was in absolute manatee heaven.
All that winter, Sky and I took the kayak out on the river. Pretty soon Sky and the baby manatee were greeting each other like old friends. That’s when I first noticed the change. My whole outlook began to shift. I had been undergoing physical therapy all this time, and slowly, but surely, I regained full use of my legs. Eventually, I could even walk without a cane.
There was something special about those days on the water. I think I was inspired by the affinity for life all these creatures had, even the baby manatee. She had a tranquility that I’d never seen before. She just moved around with the sure and certain knowledge that things were okay. Being out there with them day after day, I began to feel like that, too. Eventually, I became certain about life again and gained the understanding that, no matter how bad things got, life would take care of itself. And that feeling has never gone away.
Paul Dragon
As told to Steve Creech
Sacred Waters
Original painting by Wyland © 2003.
T
he sea fires our imagination and rekindles our
spirit.
Wyland
It was Christmas Day 1984, and I began painting my first Whaling Wall in Hawaii. The giant blank wall, three hundred feet long and twenty stories high, faced Kaiser Hospital. Patients, many sick and dying, looked out of their windows and saw a depressing beige wall, the architects’ answer to saving costs. But I saw the wall as a perfect canvas to display life-size humpback whales and other colorful marine life.
As I began painting that first day, I noticed an old man with an IV attached to his arm sitting in a wheelchair, watching my every move.
Day after day this man would come out on the balcony of his hospital room and spend nearly every moment watching me paint my largest marine mural. I would wave to him each day, and he would wave back with all the energy left in his fragile body. Four months later at the dedication of the mural, I cut the ribbon with city officials and thousands of supporters and looked across the parking lot where, among the many hospital rooms, I caught a glimpse of the old man. He tipped his hand to me for what I knew would be the last time. I tried to hold back my emotion as I waved back. I found out later from his family that he had an incurable cancer and should have died months before, but had wanted to live to see the mural completed. The man died shortly after the dedication ceremony; his memory and spirit will live with me—and within that mural—forever.
Wyland
A Signal Is Worth a Thousand Words
On a bright, warm Tuesday afternoon, Alan met Merina. It was love at first sight! Twenty-four-year-old Alan, deaf and mentally challenged, was an excellent swimmer participating in a therapy session at Dolphin Research Center. He was thrilled with Merina’s ability to imitate his every move. He yelled with enthusiasm when Merina dorsal-towed him through the water and laughed when she splashed saltwater in his face! The therapist, Alan’s watching family and I, the dolphin trainer, all caught his enthusiasm, and everyone sported ear-to-ear grins.
As Alan climbed onto the dock after his swim, I showed him some dolphin sign language (hand signals). Since Alan speaks American Sign Language fluently, he loved the fact that dolphins understood sign as well, and he gave Merina several signals. She responded perfectly to all of his requests, until she saw an unfamiliar one. Alan presented the same sign over again to Merina, as he gazed at her with bright eyes. Merina kept touching her snout to his extended right hand, where his fingers formed a signal unfamiliar to her. Then she rose up and kissed Alan on the cheek.
Alan cheered wildly!
I turned to Alan’s parents and asked, “What does that sign mean?” With tears in their eyes, they replied simply, “I love you.”
Linda Schnecker Erb
Gateway National Park at Great Kills is located in New York City. Visitors to the park number in the tens of thousands each season. They come to fish, swim and picnic or just to stroll along the beach. As a “regular” at the park for the past thirty years, I have seen just about everything there is to see in this wonderful place. From harbor seals and sea turtles to egrets and herons, it is easy to forget that you are still within the confines of “the big city.”
Every day in spring, a small group of us fish at the park for striped bass. Casual fishermen shy away when confronted with the worn look of our faces and the rough tone of our conversation. True striped bass fans work hard for their success and are reluctant to part with “privileged information.” We begin around 1:00 A.M. and fish until dawn. At thirty-five years old, I was the youngest of the group. The Nelson brothers were in their early forties and still lived with their mother. Jimmy was the older of the two, a dyed-in-the-wool “bass hound” with two fifty-pounders on his resume. John was by far the loudest of our group. Recently divorced and retired, he was six feet, two inches tall and built more like a linebacker than a fisherman. John had a broad smile to go with his wit and a knack for catching huge fluke, which earned him the title “Duke of Fluke.” And, finally, there was Frank. In his late sixties and in failing health, Frank was the general target for most of John’s wisecracks. Frank seemed to enjoy the attention, though. I suppose the daily verbal jousts kept Frank’s mind off his problems. His wife passed away during the winter, and years of hard work had taken their toll on his body. Unable to haul heavy gear across the sand,
Frank was relegated to fishing near the parking area.
We were friends in the quiet, casual way of fishermen, but we really didn’t get to know each other until the spring of 1999. That was when we first noticed the little seagull with one leg. White and gray with a long slender beak and dark eyes, it swam surprisingly well, although a bit slower than the other birds. The real comedy—and what really caught our attention—began when it got on dry land. Hopping around in search of a meal, it looked like a drunk staggering home. Or, as John put it, “like Frank on a good day.” We felt a little sorry for it, so we fed it some of our bait. Jimmy figured it had lost its leg to a bluefish. He was probably right. A hungry bluefish would eat anything that moves, and with its powerful jaws, there
was no question it could bite a bird’s leg clean off.