Field Note: There She Is

Field Note — There She Is

For years, I looked for dolphins.

“Look! There!”

I would look and see nothing. As a child, I felt upset that everyone else seemed able to see what I couldn’t. It became a game: someone older would say, “Look at that!” And I couldn’t.

I misspelled and misread things, too. It turned out I needed glasses. I also had learning difficulties that went overlooked because “try harder” and “you should be making A’s” replaced care.

Later, dolphins could apparently be out there, and I still wouldn’t spot them. It brought back that familiar feeling of trying and somehow failing. I could study until I was miserable and stressed, and still struggle with grades. When I did really well, I was sometimes told I must have cheated.

Then I started going to the ocean regularly. Eventually, I saw pods moving up or down the coast—backs and fins briefly appearing, disappearing, then appearing again.

I tried to get photos and videos, although they were usually too far out.

The moments became about creating proof. As though it hadn’t happened unless I could share it.

That took something out of them. Joy gave way to anxiety. I saw less. I stopped looking.

Just dolphins anyway, I told myself.

But there were other encounters.

Once, I watched rays beneath the large pier, gliding through the water, circling and feeding.

Another time, my daughter and I stood in the surf among jellyfish that weren’t stinging us. We made a game of scooping them up and sending them into deeper water rather than letting the waves carry them onto the sand.

We found hitchhikers: little translucent crabs riding along, their tiny black eyes the easiest part to see.

It was delightful.

By then, I was quietly shutting down social media. Sharing had begun to feel like being monitored rather than being among friends. I anticipated corrections, unsolicited explanations, and people turning my experience into a stage for their own beliefs.

I wanted to enjoy the beach without preparing to defend what I had seen or how I had described it.

So I pulled away. Eventually, I stopped taking my camera out so often.

On a dolphin tour, I decided to enjoy the sunset, the wind, and the ride with my kids. Fully.

It was a great trip. I learned that fall was the best time to spot dolphins in the sound. This year, I’ve seen them there several times, right off a short pier. Close enough that I didn’t have to search distant water or wonder whether I had imagined a fin. Close enough to notice differences between their fins.

Then, one evening, I was riding over the bridge. I glanced over the railing because the sunset was reflecting beautifully on the water.

There was a small pod of shiny backs.

One dolphin broke the surface, almost her whole body emerging. I wondered whether it was for the sheer joy of being with her pod at sunset, gliding through the sound.

“Oh yes! There she is.”

A glimpse, and then I was past her.

It was wonderful.

Dolphins are not unicorns. But after so many years of looking with apprehension or self-consciousness, I’m seeing them with full joy.

That is what nature does for me.

I’m satisfied to be present.

And there she is.