Dolphins

I’d not been sitting at the end of the long dock more than a minute before noticing a fin break the surface. My walk had been over rivulets inside marsh grass; I didn’t expect to see a dolphin this far up river—dawdling its way inland, checking out each little watery cul-de-sac. First one eye out, then submersion, then under water a beat longer to resurface at a bend in the streamlet. I watched it move forward in this lazy manner, happy to witness such daily routine. Maybe we should work our bucket lists on a daily basis—small achievements, nearby adventures. Baby steps toward fulfillment. The next day, we took out our kayaks. A pleasant young man rented us a map and handed out advice on tidal flats, tides, pocket mud. “We call it that,” he said, smiling. “Because it comes up to your pockets.” He helped us haul the kayaks to water’s edge and gave us each a push into the current, watching us paddle tentatively under the bridge that links James and Folly Islands. The first hour or so out was, of course, stunning, with islands of marsh grass, big puffy clouds drifting by, and one elegant heron standing upright. That windy silence one encounters in such a habitat, sight drawn out to the horizon. It was on the way back that things got interesting: when we got disoriented and misjudged the map so that returning we were both a little late and a little off course. The low tide was draining away our water, and we weren’t sure we’d find an outlet back to the main river. At one point we started scraping bottom, a school of little silver fish jumping and shimmering all around us. The mud flats were iridescent grey in the afternoon light; a single pelican kept watch on a post. If the waterway dead-ended, we realized, or bottomed out, we'd have to wait in our kayaks for a few hours until the tide rose again, lifting us back over the pocket mud and “razor sharp” oyster beds. Eventually we found a way out into the larger river current—raising arms in mock triumph—and paddled into deeper water against a strong wind. Which is when the dolphins appeared, a group of four, fishing close to shore, flopping around to force the fish onto the mud flat—“strand fishing,” a learned behavior first observed in these waters. They broke up when they noticed us; one swam over and passed under my kayak. Soon they reunited downstream, leaving us to struggle against the current and drag our boats through sandy mud onto shore. We were tired, and it was difficult to get the boats onto the car and tied down. Luckily, we'd parked right next to the fish market and so bought shrimp and scallops and a bottle of white wine. We headed home, eager for an outdoor shower. When I unlocked the door, a song on the radio must have come to a soft stop, for a small jazz-club audience broke into applause as we crossed the threshold.