A feelgood account of an encounter with dolphins, and their amazing abilities, darkens into a chronicle of their devastating treatment at the hands of mankind
Dolphins are sexy beasts. I was once caught up in a superpod of 200 dusky dolphins off the coast of New Zealand. The sleek cetacean torpedos were zipping all around, and at one moment I turned to face two dozen of them charging directly at me. I thought I was about to be run down. But these animals can detect an object the thinness of a human fingernail at 20 yards. Effortlessly, they turned and swooped between my legs and under my arms.
Only later, as I climbed, exhausted, out of the water, was I told by the naturalist on board that in fact my playmates were continually having sex around me. Dolphins can mate three times in five minutes – not only with their own, but with other dolphin species. They’ll even mount sharks and turtles in their search to satisfy their endless libido. Surely only an animal with a lot of quality time on their flippers – being extremely efficient predators, highly social and intelligent – could have evolved such a lifestyle? And as such, shouldn’t they be the cynosure of our oceans, glorious role models for us, their land-bound cousins? Well, yes, and no.
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