I saw a dolphin swim up to our ship, Not gray or blue but green, Just beyond the sea lions lying on the rocky beds That protect the docks from the wrath of the ocean. But today it is still, Our boat making ripples in the dark blue water, Fresh air washing my face, Waking me out of my morning slump. “Over there! Over there! The dolphins are jumping!” The ghost of my grandpa beside me, Like back on his old boat, His spirit still living With the mud and the fish smell, And the sunlight hitting the water and the swaying deck, And the dark brown leathery pelicans Flying low over the horizon. Theo Taplitz, 10Los Angeles, California
March/April 2014
Call of the Dolphins
INSPIRED BY A TRUE STORY It was just one of those foggy afternoons when, suddenly, my dad’s phone rang. Of course, his phone rings a lot considering he’s a marine biologist, and people call him about sea lions, seals, and whatnot. But this call was different. It came from a local fisherman, fourteen miles off the coast of Northern California. He said he had found a bottlenose dolphin trapped under fishnets and that he didn’t know how long it had been there or how it got there, but he was certain of one thing: without help it was going to die. My dad frowned, drummed his fingers along the countertop, crossed the room, made a few quick calls, got some equipment, and headed for the door. Right then and there, I decided to go with him. “Dad,” I began, “I was wondering if I could… go with you?” He shrugged and pushed out his lower lip. “Should be OK.” I smiled, and together we left the house. We met up with four of my dad’s friends at our boat, The Porpoise. I realized that all of them were dressed for the adventure, while I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Oh well, it was too late to go back, so I just stepped on board, and we started off. We live in Berkeley, so we had to cut across the San Francisco Bay in order to get into the open Pacific. The ride took us under the majestic Golden Gate Bridge, although we could barely see it; it was veiled in mist. As we continued out to sea, I kept hoping to see some sign of the perishing animal. I never like that feeling, when you know somebody or something is dying, and there is nothing you can do to help. I could feel a coldness in my stomach and perspiration running down my neck. I glanced up at my dad’s fellow biologists and saw them talking comfortably. I gotta say, I was envious. I mean, I’m sitting here all queasy and they are chatting away! Everybody looked up when my dad turned off the boat’s motor. I started staring out at the sea, which was as smooth as glass. I was about to ask where the dolphin was, when my dad seemed to read my thoughts. He said, “We are gonna go in silently. We don’t want to make the dolphin anxious.” I liked the way my dad was saying “we.” It made me think that I might be included. His next words confirmed my thoughts. “Your wetsuit is on the boat,” he said, “and I’ve got an extra pair of goggles you could use. Do you wanna come?” I nodded happily and crossed the boat to get changed. Our boat slowly drifted toward a tangled mass of fishnets and buoys. When we were about twenty yards away, my dad, two of his friends, and I slipped into the water. The only exposed part of my body was my face, but still, my whole body got chills when I dunked under. Getting to the fishnets was slow progress. I could have gotten there much faster if I didn’t have a life jacket on; it gave my arms a very limited amount of space, to say the least. It took a while to get to the nets, but let me tell you, it took a whole lot longer to find the dolphin. It was somewhere in what looked like a massive knot. Finally, we found it, and it was in pretty bad shape. The dolphin was almost in a vertical position in the water. Ropes ensnared its entire body. One of the traps was weighing down the animal’s tail fluke. We were all armed with knives, and both my dad and his colleagues had oxygen tanks, meaning they could dive under to free the dolphin’s tail. I had to free its mouth and head. When you’re freeing a dolphin, you’re going to want to be super careful. And when I say “super,” I mean it. If I were to miss any of the ropes and cut the dolphin, it could freak out, thrash around, and maybe hurt us and itself. So it was slow work. Now, I’m up at the surface sawing away at the ropes, and my dad and his friends are down at the tail. Do you think the dolphin was enjoying all this activity? No. It’s slashing its pectoral fin at me and flipping its tail. In fact, it was using all its remaining strength to get us away! And if it didn’t have any more strength left… That thought made me work faster. After half-an-hour’s work, many of the ropes were already loosened or cut away. But that wasn’t enough; I wanted every one of these horrible nets at the bottom of the ocean. The dolphin was free! In another fifteen minutes my wish was granted. The nets slipped down, down into the endless abyss. The dolphin was free! My dad, his two colleagues, and I, swam happily to the boat to celebrate. When we turned back, the dolphin was still there. We waited for ten minutes. Twenty minutes. The dolphin wouldn’t leave. Then I noticed a small gray object, in another set of nets, eight yards from where the dolphin was swimming. I pointed it out to my dad and his eyes widened. Then he smiled at me. “She has a calf!” he exclaimed. That got me and all four of my dad’s friends diving into the water. The mother dolphin reached her calf before us, but surprisingly she let us touch and untangle it. Once it was freed, she nuzzled it. We smiled and swam back to the boat. I climbed aboard and turned around. She’d followed us. She popped her head out of the water and gave a short whistle. It could have only meant one thing. “Thanks.” Kyle Trefny, 11San Francisco, California
Kizzy Ann Stamps
Kizzy Ann Stamps, by Jeri Watts; Candlewick Press: New York, 2012; $15.99 Kizzy Ann Stamps is a normal girl. She has a dog named Shag. She lives on a farm with her mother, father, and brother. But there’s one catch to this whole “normal girl” business: Kizzy Ann is black. Today, that wouldn’t be a problem. However, in Kizzy’s time of 1963, being black would have been a huge deal. Discrimination was everywhere back then. If you were a black kid, you wouldn’t be allowed to use public restrooms. Trying on clothes at a store? The owners would’ve required you to put on gloves and cover up any body part that might be exposed to the fabric. Nowadays, we don’t have those types of problems. Black kids have the same rights as any other kids. But discrimination hasn’t left. Some types of discrimination people don’t really realize. For example, how many times have you been told you’re too young to hang out with the big kids? Or that you can’t play in the football game the neighborhood boys are organizing because you’re a girl? Both of these situations are forms of discrimination. One time, I was backstage at my dance recital. I was in first grade, and one of my friends was in second grade. We were in different classes, and each class had a backstage craft/snack table. I walked over to her table to say hi and a girl at my friend’s table said, “You can’t come over here. You’re a first grader.” We have a choice: we can join discrimination or rebel against it. Several characters in this book rebel against it. After Kizzy Ann is integrated into a “white” school, her new teacher, Miss Anderson, chooses to ditch discrimination and teach Kizzy like she was teaching a white kid. However, some characters join forces with discrimination. Kizzy Ann’s older brother, James, also attends a white school. But his teachers don’t hand out books to the black kids so they can learn alongside the white kids. And sports? None of the black kids played varsity regardless of their ability because varsity was for white kids only. Kizzy Ann and her family yearned to be treated normally. No negative attention, no special attention—just normal. When Kizzy and Shag sign themselves up for some dog training, their instructor, Mr. McKenna, treats them just like that: normal. He’s there for them through thick and thin, not trying to force their relationship but not wanting to hurt it either, even if he has trouble expressing it. This trio, plus the addition of the white neighbor boy, Frank Charles, eventually makes it to a real dog show after a fair share of troubles. Then discrimination butts in again—the man at the sign-in desk tries to eliminate her from the competition because of the color of her skin. This book reveals exactly what it might have felt like to be a black child back in 1963. It’s a book filled with excitement, heartbreak, and truth. I would recommend it to anyone in a fraction of a heartbeat. Discrimination is everywhere. We can ignore it, or we can destroy it. Which will you do? Autumn Owens, 11Bryan, Ohio
