‘What Shamu Taught Me About Life, Love and Marriage’

Sitting at my desk in Maine this summer morning, I hear my elderly neighbor clear his throat with undue enthusiasm as he trundles down his driveway. A foghorn moans. A car door slams. I hardly notice these ordinary, everyday sounds as my eyes are trained on the extraordinary, a delicate underwater dance a continent away. A black figure, a swimmer in a wet suit, I can't tell if it's a man or a woman, splashes in the middle of a deep pool. Behind the swimmer, a killer whale glides through the tank. His dorsal fin stands tall like a sail. His sharp black-and-white markings reflect in the water's surface above.

Thanks to a webcam, I can see the shimmering show tank at SeaWorld San Diego. That is, I can see the seven-million gallon pool from the surface down, an altogether different view from that of anyone actually at Shamu Stadium just now--what I would call a crab's-eye view. This is a very blue world. The chilly water is the color of lapis, but the shade brightens and then deepens as the sun arcs overhead. The rocks on the tank floor are the indigo of a starless night sky. Aquamarine light crackles across the tank's white bottom as the water tosses to and fro.

Even the killer whale casts a blue shadow as he circles the tank. Today there is just one whale in the water, but I've seen two, even three. I've seen babies. I've watched them scratch their backs along the rocks and gush balloon-sized bubbles. Some like to lap the pool upside down, their alabaster bellies turned skyward. One has white markings in the shape of a ginkgo leaf. When the whales swim close to the camera, and their stomachs suddenly fill the frame, I can't help but whoop. My dogs will lift their heads and turn their bright, curious eyes to me. Downstairs at his desk, my husband will call "What?"

Nothing, though, compares to when a trainer is in the tank. Their little legs kicking and arms waving about, the trainers look like water bugs compared to the sleek eight-thousand pound whales. I can't tear my eyes away from the sight of these two wildly different creatures working in tandem. And so I remain glued to the screen as the whale turns its bulk toward the swimmer and nudges its broad black rostrum under his feet.

I admit it. I'm procrastinating. I should be writing, actually, this very book. But this cross-country cyberview of a multiton animal in synch with a relatively itty-bitty human is a very apropos way to dither. It reminds me how much I have changed.

I'm an altogether different person than I was three years ago. My friends and family may not have noticed, but I am almost unrecognizable to myself at times. My outlook is more optimistic. I'm less judgmental. I have vastly more patience and self-control. I'm a better observer. I get along better with people, especially my husband. I have a peace of mind that comes from the world making so much more sense to me.

What brought about this change? Counseling? Nope. Happy pills? Nope. Yoga? Nope. A religious awakening? Wrong again. Acupuncture? Definitely not.

I discovered a school for exotic animal trainers, and wrote a book about it. That's what.

Funny thing is, I wasn't looking to change, but change has always had a way of finding me. I learned early in my journalism career that whatever I wrote about, whether it was blueberry farming or avant-garde jazz, eventually got under my skin to some degree. When I wrote a book about the world of competitive cooking in America, before long I was dreaming up recipes and submitting them. When I worked on a series about domestic violence, I began to have nightmares. If I was this easily influenced, I decided, I'd have to stay clear of darker topics. Complicated was okay, deeply troubling was not.