A visiting dolphin breaks his silence

Hey, there, land mammals,

So this is Orange County!  Not as pretty as Palos Verdes but I’m really grooving on the Bolsa Chica wetlands here. I mean I’m literally grooving on the wetlands. I can practically walk through them, it’s so shallow in places.  But no worries, the water is plenty deep enough in most parts for me to get around.

I’ve been here since Thursday and I think it’s time for me to explain some things.  First off, I appreciate all the good wishes but I could do without the finger pointing.  And you’ve got to turn off the TV camera lights at night, they’re just really annoying.  The folks on the yellow paddleboards who veered alongside me—I know they meant well, but I just needed some space. That whole swimming-with-the-humans thing, I’m not a big fan of.  I don’t even like swimming with other dolphins. Why do you think I’m still here?

I know you all believe dolphins are cute and Flipper-like and you rarely see otherwise, but dolphins can be bullies. (In fact, someone should do a documentary on that.) On Saturday I decided to cruise out to Huntington Harbour for a little sight-seeing and this  brutish lout of a dolphin and his homies confronted me. He acted like he wanted a piece of me so I was like, ‘Dude, I’m not looking for trouble’ and I turned tail and went back into the wetlands.


Now everyone is a little freaked out that I’m swimming in circles.  Let me say for the record: I’m not confused. You’re confused. I’m exercising. Don’t you swim in circles in the pool at the gym? And I know that those infinity pools people build are not actually infinitely long. So cut me some slack and stop referring to me as “wayward.”  The media is always so willing to slap a label on you.   

Don’t get me wrong. I like it here. The weather is fabulous and the sardines are delicious. (The food in harbors is so much better than in deep water.) I’m not stressed out, and I’m taking three breaths a minute, which is healthy for a dolphin.

As long as the food holds out, I may stick around. But would you quit calling me “Fred” and “Bolsa Chica Bob”? When I want you to know my name, you’ll know it.



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