I looked up from the kitchen sink just in time to see a dark cloud moving quickly across the surf just beyond my window. The shadow was headed toward shore and suddenly the dark mass split into six distinct pieces.
“Dolphins,” I yelled to Steve as I wiped my hands on a dish towel and headed for the balcony.
There they were frolicking in the shallow water between the shore and the line of buoys that keep boats away from swimmers. Rythmically coming up for air, sometimes just a fin, sometimes a full face, and once in a great while a jump out of the water and splash.
It’s a hypnotic display and I usually forget to pull myself away to take a picture. When I do try to snap one I seldom catch more than the splash, so I have little evidence that the miracle dance of the dolphins really happens. Not every day. Sometimes we have gone weeks without seeing them. And then suddenly when you least expect it, looking up from the computer screen or talking on the phone and there they are: the graceful, playful showmen of the sea.
Their visits are extra special now because our four-month winter on the beach is coming to an end. The past two weeks have been the strangest of all as we have been “stuck” in this beautiful spot afraid to get too far from our balcony for fear we might get closer than six feet to another mortal in this surreal Twilight Zone of international quarantines.
I find myself watching for dolphins a little closer now, needing that moment of magic to convince me that maybe everything will be okay.