Commentary: My friend, the Risso’s dolphin

Realizing how much I have in common with an animal I may never meet.

Not too long ago, during my final semester of college, I had a dream that I failed a class and wasn’t able to graduate by May. Weeks later, I dreamt that my fellowship director kicked me out of my program for “non-compliance,” whatever that means. Both times, I woke up in a cold sweat, unable to differentiate the taunting of my subconscious from real life, as I lay warm in my bed with no threat other than the sunlight persisting through the blinds to let me know a new day was beginning. Even when I’m unconscious, the weight of my responsibilities keeps me in a state of alertness. 

I imagine this is how a Risso’s dolphin feels, the closest one to me hundreds of nautical miles away in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Like many sea mammals in the same Delphinidae family, Risso’s dolphins sleep with only one half of their brain dormant, the other side monitoring for predators and controlling breathing. This never-ending alertness is a survival tactic Risso’s dolphins forged over years of continuous adaptation. I, on the other hand, picked up this habit by overcommitting myself. It reflects a desire to always be looking to the next thing, one that I am oddly happy to share with a being so different from me. 

Risso's dolphin jumping from the water. Credit: NOAA Fisheries

This isn’t the only way I find myself relating to this majestic, melon-headed creature. Like others, I can point out different stages of my life from marks on my body. Nearly 10-year-old shaving scars dotting my ankles from the first time I took a razor to my skin; an uneven freckling of blemishes from canon-event late teenage-year breakouts; and many other knicks on my legs from childhood fall-downs and lost races.

I can imagine my Risso’s dolphins could attest to evidence of a life well-lived marked on their bodies, although I’d like to imagine their scars remind them of good meals. Their favorite food is squid, whose tentacles have hooked spikes for catching their own prey. Squid don’t go down without fighting, and this is seen on Risso’s dolphins, from the top of their bulbous heads all the way down their four-meter (12 feet), 1,000-pound bodies. Their scars look as though a professor, listless in their classroom, arbitrarily began marking a chalkboard with long, broad strokes without rhyme or reason: the more scars, the more diligent the hunter. 

Risso’s dolphins are lucky; they mark each other, too, using their teeth for social behaviors and mating, meaning that every thoughtful interaction they have comes with a permanent keepsake. Older Risso’s dolphins carry more scars, similar to how my body will begin to show wrinkles as I age. I’m slowly starting to see them pleat around my eyes when I smile. I’m 22. Signs of aging are never too far away from anyone, whether a life span is 35 years, as Risso’s dolphins are, or 77 years, as mine may be. 

I’m not interested in hiding these tiny snippets of life marked on my body. In a world of anti-aging creams and an obsession with maintaining the appearance of youth, I want visible evidence that I have lived a fulfilling life. Like the tapestried skin of Risso’s dolphins, every stretch mark, old scar, and wrinkle is a reminder to be grateful for this odd, once-in-a-billion chance I have to be alive — even if it means half my mind is still seeped in the real world while I dream.

This story was originally edited by News Watch mentor CD Davidson-Hiers.