SOUTH AFRICA 34.1938°S 18.4357°E
“An entire world beyond our comprehension. An entire world affected by our human condescension.”
In the final phase, the polyps become medusae. They develop bell shapes particular to their species, grow oral arms (or the tentacles we know), and complete the cy- cle by hunting for perfect conditions in which to date, spawn, and start the whole process again. Death comes in many forms: jellies are tasty snacks for a variety of marine animals, including turtles and fish. They are also at the mercy of wind, waves, and currents, and like the froth of compass jellies amassed in the marina, end up as crystalline blobs—beached curiosities from the black deep. A few months after those compass jellies had lost their way, another queer current blew in a wave of miracles. Again, our human expectations were low: The bay looked green and strange; the wind had shaved the tops off even the hardiest shrubs. On entry, the water was witch-groin cold and the visibility weirdly clear. What sorcery was this? A few flicks of our fins, and we were deep in magic wonder. Here, a meter-long siphonophore—its gas-filled float clearly visible—snaked through the water; there, a flotilla of nightlight jellies dangled their laundry-frilled tentacles in the blue. Further out, a spine of salps did a diamond dance, while an iridescent Venus girdle weaved its way between the kelp like a Ziggy Stardust belt. In between, compass jellies bumped into rocks, net jellies caught the light, and by-the- wind-sailors (Velella velella) clogged the surface. It was a day I will never forget. As humans in the ocean, we get just a glimpse of all the complex wonder that exists under the surface. Suspended in our skin, with only a snorkel or scuba tank connecting us to our evolutionary state of land and oxygen—and, possibly, Dave-the-boring-em- ployer—we witness mere seconds of lives that are intricately entwined with other lives. An entire world beyond our comprehension. An entire world affected by our human condescension. When the wind howls, I go back to the marina, hoping for another pink froth. I yearn to peer over the pier and see a hundred bells bunched up against the ballasts. I love the ballet, the Tchaikovsky tentacles dancing like embroidery threads. But I am also relieved that these fantastical beings are out there where they belong, doing what they’re supposed to be doing. Just drifting through life, alongside the spray of whale exhalations, the eyes of ancients.
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MOTHER VOLUME TWO
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