Free Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield Page B

pointed suddenly. “Look, Eve!” she said. A small pod of dolphins was circling just beyond the breaking waves. Next to one of the larger dolphins, a small white buoy bobbed. “I think that dolphin is caught in a line.”
    We both knew that being tangled would eventually kill this magnificent creature unless we could find assistance fast. We looked around the beach for someone who could help. But there was no one—it was up to us.
    We entered the water and swam toward the pod. Our progress through the cold, choppy waves was slow. As we neared the pod, the dolphins moved just beyond our reach. Every time we moved closer, the dolphins moved away. It soon became clear that no matter how close we got, the dolphins would move just that much farther from us.
    We treaded water, our hearts pounding, trying to think of what could be done to release the trapped dolphin. But with the dolphins continually moving away, it seemed hopeless. Suddenly, the dolphin with the “buoy” next to its head turned away from the pod. It must have sensed that we might be able to help it and began to swim directly toward us.
    As the dolphin neared, it turned enough to reveal that what we thought had been a buoy was, in reality, a newborn baby dolphin that she was pushing to the surface for its first breath! We watched in awe as she pushed the baby repeatedly toward the air then turned back to her waiting pod. Slowly, as if seeing something we didn’t want to believe, we noticed that the baby dolphin wasn’t moving. We realized that the baby wasn’t alive. All this time, the mother had tried in vain to bring it to life, to get it to behave the way she knew her newborn should behave and take that first breath that meant everything would be okay.
    Not only did we not need to help, there was, indeed, nothing we could do.
    Until that moment I had always distinguished humankind and the creatures of the sea in terms of “us” and “them.” As I witnessed the ocean’s ebb and flow—the joy of life and the grief of death—I knew we were more alike than different.
    Eve Eschner Hogan

“Help!”

    © The New Yorker Collection 1991 Mick Stevens from cartoonbank.com . All Rights Reserved.

The Friendly Isle
    I met the old dockmaster by accident. I had been on vacation in Cape Cod and was taking a walk along the beach when I came across a set of footprints that led to the office of a rickety old marina. The area was littered with abandoned skiffs, their carefully printed names now obscured by barnacles and rot. Wondering who else might have interest in this dilapidated landmark, I followed the trail.
    On the other side of the marina a group of teenage boys and girls was playing Wiffle ball. A boom box beside them blared loud music. They seemed to be having a good time until an old man emerged from the office of the marina. He marched toward the kids and told them they had to leave immediately.
    “But where else can we play?” a boy asked.
    The man glared at him. “That’s not my concern. This is private property. You have to leave.”
    The teenagers grumbled for a minute, but seemed to respect the old man’s wishes. They quickly collected their belongings and left.
    Later, as I stopped to drink from the nearby water fountain, I struck up a conversation with the old man, who was scraping the remains of a frozen dinner into the sea. When I asked how he came across this place, he explained that he was the owner. He said the marina had been very successful until he had taken ill with melanoma and could no longer spend any length of time outdoors. Since then, he said, he had acquired a reputation as a hermit. I learned that the disease had struck him just a few months into his retirement. It forced him to abandon his dream of building his own vessel and sailing to the Hawaiian island of Molokai, where he had spent an unforgettable leave during his time in the U.S. Navy.
    As I went on to enjoy the rest of my vacation, I could not escape the sadness of