From dew@znet.com Wed Jan 22 06:07:40 1997 Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: A cry in the sea. From: "Bonzer" Date: 22 Jan 1997 06:07:40 GMT His eyes opened wide to the wonders cascading into his consciousness. The green water so cold, so unlike what had been his home. A warm, comfortable, dark abode. Not cold, nay, but cool as the currents rippled across his smooth skin. Skin that has only now, this very moment, felt the sun's rays flickering between daylight and darkness. Eye's that only now, this very moment have seen the glorious sights that are beheld. By any who so choose. Refreshing. Stimulating. Invigorating. Life sprung forth within his pulsating flesh. As he groped for experience, he groped too for the warm comfort of his mother. Although he knew the experience had some how changed him. What was he to become? It was an open world for the curious. No boundaries would limit his scope. Strange creatures inhabit this place of rare splendor. Organisms that show interest only in their haste departure from his presence. "Wait, wait, come back! I wish only to satisfy my yearn to learn and experience. Alas, I'm misunderstood. I shall find my place of nourishment elsewhere". Mother smiles to herself at his precociousness, for one so young, and feels his gentle nudging. "Ahhh . . . this one will be a great one among us". Once again at his mothers side. Holding near, and dear, yet drawn somehow . . drawn to the very sum and substance of the young, that which has been from time immemorial drawn to apperceive all that these new feelings can offer. drawn to make a way, apart from that which is usual, comfortable, easy. drawn away. Not such a great distance in time and space, but enough for the moment. Not so far as to be estranged from the familiar resonance's of his mother, both real and imagined Not so far as to quite reach the limits of his courage. Such as they are. But far enough, and exhilaration is his! "The sights, the sounds, the smells and feels. Surely none has experienced this as I? How can they remain so calm in the face of such magnificence, such grandeur"? "I cry out in joy at the gift of life! I cry out in joy to my mother"! I cry out in joy for myself"! and his mother sighs the sigh of mothers throughout. The sigh of love and impatience and expectation. Such is the articulation of the young. The impetuousness. The Naiveté. When the ecstasy of life is wrought upon their unsuspecting and unprepared senses. Probing ever forward in this glorious realm of the mesmerizing currents of life, he ventures without fear. For the impudence common to his kind surges through him. It does not go unnoticed by him that, aside from family, he is the largest in his domain. He is gentle, but with his ample bulk comes self-confidence. And conviction not annealed by caution. This is the glory of the young, even the curse of youth. What proves to be it's very life blood can also cause it's spilling forth on the waters and the earth. "The waters you say? Never may that be. This is my home. The place of my birth. Unheard is a thing such as this, that I, even I should quake in my own manner, that I should shudder at a false danger". As he frolics in his folly, the forest becomes dense and impairs his progress. Almost imperceptible at first. It feels only as though his great muscles are becoming tired. That must be the explanation. He turns to retrace his steps to mother. A slimy hand clutches his throat. Then another and another and another. "I mustn't panic . . . but it is with difficulty that I move, for I have become tired. MOTHER . . . MOTHER . . ." A familiar sound reaches him and his heart leaps in gratitude. Yet . . . the cries of his mother are not the cries of happiness, nor of a common scolding. It is hauntingly unfamiliar to him as he lay in the clutching recesses of an undulating grip. "MOTHER . . . MOTHER . . . I am tired. Please, I need to eat". "My son, my dearest son . . . you have strayed too shallow. I dare not approach lest I become entangled as well". "I don't understand Mother? I'm just tired. I neeeeed you". She struggles to approach. For she is unable to simply stand by and do nothing. Indeed, she would give her very life for his. But to no avail. The tide is on the ebb. Kelp is tightening it's grasp with every outward surge of the waters. With every diminishing cycle of swell. She knows her hope lies only in the sound of the approaching water craft of the strange ones who walk the earth. It is a slim hope she knows, but the only one. The legends are many, of these strange creatures. It is thought that in ages past, they inflicted a terrible scourge upon her ancestors. One that still fosters wounds of the heat and flesh to this day. In fact the old ones bear scars that they attribute to this terrible epoch. And rumors abound of distant cousins who still battle the creatures above. Yet, it has occurred that some have observed a sea change. Strange ones who approach with what seems to be great interest. And rumors persist of these ones, the upright ones, rendering assistance to some who have been distressed among us. Is such the case now? It is paradox she is unwilling to consider. Only the hope is allowed to remain within. A flurry of activity has begun at the surface and now many of these land walkers are in the sea. All around her son. Thrusting sharp instruments at him. She recoils in horror, fearful for her own life. But no blood bursts forth. It is the kelp. They are cutting the kelp. The rumors of war are without merit. Her son struggles and in his effort slaps his tail against the emancipators. They know his emotion. They can feel it through the waters. They know he holds no malice, as they sense he too feels their emotions, their urgency. Suddenly, almost as quickly as it began, it stops. Like a hard summer rain, less the cleansing of spirit. "What is it. Why are you stopping"? she screams. But they hear little and understand less. Except for the few, those who hear with the eyes of the heart. And stand with hands bound with the cutting ropes of savage red tape. Their wrists bearing the deep wounds of serious struggle against this implicit travesty. They can hear the young one cry . . . "HELP ME MOTHER . . . I can't do it alone . . . I am sinking . . ." Mother knows the odds are diminishing rapidly. Time drags by as the darkness descends, just as it seemed that light was to prevail. "Be patient my son, they are doing what they can". But the undertone of worry, confusion, and despair is not lost on the young son's ears. He is not heartened and cannot persist in the struggle. Life is so much harder than he envisioned. The recent memory of elation has turned to a dirge. For himself. He feels the sadness upon and from beneath the waters. None who witness this have escaped the deep despondency. The mother drifts away. She cannot bear to see the end in it's immanence. "I'll always be with you my son. Just sleep for now". With that, the young one's head bobs toward the surface and he slips gently into the black sea, his tail pointing the way to his icy oblivion. As the last few bubbles waft towards the surface of an inky sea, he glimpses a final flicker of light. But it registers not. He is so tired, and has found his blissful sleep. And the kelp has claimed it's reward. And dances anew. As the powerful light from above pierces the deep, inquiring, yearning for a sign, only a trickle of bubbles is seen. Deep distress moves one of them over the side and into the chilly water in what he already knows is a futile and belated attempt to rectify this tragedy. But he must try. Now that the arbitrary shackles of stupidity and foolishness have been removed. This is the ultimate paradox. To know what is right, and have the power to do it. Yet to be restrained from committing the deed. To be twisted, even wrenched by the things you can't change, simply because they remain at odds with selfish purpose. One that in the light of day defy explanation. They will pay for their folly. We must see to it. Because . . . The young one is gone. Forever . . . and his mother sings a song of pain, and sorrow, and emptiness. For her son . . . And sheds an unseen tear in the sea, For us all . . . Bonzer -- For the record: A valiant effort was made by some to save this infant gray whale just off the coast at Sunset cliffs in San Diego county yesterday. There are factors of which I'm sure I am not aware. But it defies imagination that the rescuers were restrained from assisting at the outset because . . . it was not caught in a man made device. If this is true, as so reported, I weep for the sad condition to which those responsible for that decision have come. And I applaud the efforts of those who tried their best in the face of the daunting odds against the kelp, swell, and foolish people. If you would like to register your feelings on the matter, you can email to them at tmcintyr@kingfish.ssp.nmfs.gov If any have a better email address, please post it. This was all I could find.