Tag: travel blogger

How not to die while swimming with dolphins

I am not entirely sure when the dream to swim with dolphins started to take root. Was it one of the endless summer days I spent swimming in a docile lake, pretending I was a dolphin? Was it their understood kindness, their keen intellect, their impressive flips? I had heard of tours where one could swim with dolphins, but every time I took a closer at the pamphlets, I grew discouraged by what I saw. Glossy photographs of large dolphins, small containers, tourists slicked over in sunscreen in a glorified fish tank clinging to miserable looking dolphins. No thanks.

In New Zealand I found what I thought would be a true swimming with dolphin experience. This tour was not held in a tank hanging off a dock of some tourist-trap resort. Instead, we would board a boat and swim with a pod of bottlenose dolphins in the wild. This, I thought, would be magical.

We boarded the boat and cruised through the glassy water, our captain safety briefing us and then discussing the plan. They were tracking the different pods of dolphins, and because of conservation laws, we could only have so much time with each pod before we would have to turn back. “I’m following one right now and I’m pretty sure we will get you in the water very soon!” He chirped over the loudspeaker, and with that, my beloved and I gazed out at the magnificent scenery along the New Zealand coastline.

As promised, it was not long and we were nearly on top of a pod. Only now, as I gazed below the boat into the dark blue vastness of the water, did I realize that my smug desire to swim with dolphins in the wild might actually be… dangerous.

“They’re right below us!” Our captain exclaimed, and I nodded quietly as I looked and saw absolutely nothing. “Quick! Put on your wetsuits!”

Everyone on the boat scrambled to find a wetsuit, each of us struggling to get the neoprene over our bodies while rocking gently on a boat and trying to hurry before the pod disappeared.

Wetsuits on, we were handed snorkel masks and our next set of instructions: each of us were to sit on the back of the boat, from which two long bars extended off each side.

“So when I say ‘go’,” our captain explained, “grab hold of the bar, and scootch out to the end, then the next person will go, and so on. There should be four people on each bar.” We all looked at each other.

“Then,” he went on, “we are going to pull you through the water with the pod.”

Was it the use of the word “scootch”? Perhaps it was the precarious nature of keeping a death grip on the metal bar, each of us undoubtedly mentally recounting pull ups in gym class and questioning our strength. We all seemed to share a collective “WTF” thought.

I was starting to feel the panic rise in my chest just as the other crew prodded us to get moving, and, stuck in between two others, I had no choice but to scootch my way into the deep blue.

Clinging to the bar, I dipped my head below the surface and saw the tunnel of darkness. No dolphins. “They are down there!” The crew cheered to us, which enhanced the terrifying feeling of a great unknown just below my feet.

Just when I thought it could get no worse, the engines next to me roared, and like a piece of bait on a line, I was being dragged through the freezing dark blue waters. I tried to leave my head below water, but the force of the boat motoring through the choppy waters had me skipping across the surface like a stone.

It didn’t take long before common sense bubbled to the surface and I raised my hand, signaling to pull me in from the deep dark sea. Others did the same and it was time to turn back from the pod.

Disappointed, I shed my wetsuit and wrapped myself in a towel and stared off into the distance, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Just as I came to terms with the fact that this trip was a complete flop, something caught my eye.

Right next to the boat a fin emerged, then another. Soon, we were surrounded by dolphins, some leaping out of the water, others swimming just below the surface.

I stared in awe as they danced around us, grateful for this magical moment. It might not have been the experience I had planned, but as I hung my feet off the bow of the boat, the dolphins creating beneath me, I realized it was still a dream come true.

Cycling Through Amsterdam

I have found there are many archetypes of cyclist here in Amsterdam, where the only way to get around seems to be by bike. It is the Dutch way, the Amsterdammer way, and as a tourist whose main goal is to blend in and not be perceived as a tourist, has quickly became my way to explore this cobbled city.

Among these archetypes you have the young and chic: ladies cruising on their omafiets (translated: old lady bike), something that looks like a beach cruiser, only older and clunkier, often adorned with baskets and racks. While the bike may be a beater, the ladies are effortless in their style. Tights and skirts and hair in french twists, oversized sunglasses, and always, always Airpods poking out of their ears, the clear go-to accessory for any Amsterdammer.

Then there are the parents, an endless stream of attractive thirty-somethings, a baby seat in front, an older child seat behind, or for the more boujie of this set, what looks like a Santa sleigh on the front carting children, dogs, and in one case, a small elderly woman donning sunglasses. These bikes are apparently the SUV of Amsterdam, and in true hipster mom vs soccer mom fashion, there is some debate about what kind of person might ride one of these.

We also have the elderly riding sleek, modern bikes in hip matte colors, some complete with built in alarms, which did surprise me as I accidentally bumped into one while unlocking my bike one day. The alarm, in true Dutch fashion, was less a wailing warning to back off, and more of a gentle “ahem” as I clumsily fiddled with my lock.

While the archetypes vary, I have found they all have one thing in common:

They are all faster than me.

Not that riding around Amsterdam is about speed. Still I can’t help but feel that I am getting in the way during the evening commute as I clumsily try to steer my bike, point my finger in the direction I’m headed, and try to merge with 20 speedy Amsterdammers into one slim bike lane. I pedal my legs faster and still within seconds “ding ding” rings behind me and I am being passed, far too close for my own comfort but business as usual for the locals.

My daily inner dialogue is some iteration of the following: “oh no, you’re tire is so close, please do not hit me, ohhhh, keep it steady, one jerk to the left and I take us all down. Oh, please do not fall, I repeat, do not fall. Oh no, I need to turn left, how do I do that when three other roads feed in to this intersection? And there is a train to contend with? Who has the right of way? What do I doooooo???”

Luckily, I have found power in mass: when in doubt, follow an Amsterdammer through the intersection and hope for the best. I can only imagine their inner dialogue as I tail them in as if in a hot pursuit police chase, “I have to lose this girl, why has she been following me for twenty blocks?” Still, it’s worked to keep me alive so far: I have managed without being hit by a car, train, or other bike.

In the few moments when I have found myself riding the wrong direction (which is apparently okay on city streets, but not okay on the bike paths), I have managed to worm my way out of the situation without any grave injury.

And when I have been scolded by another cyclist for any indiscretion, it has been done so in Dutch. I’m just going to call that a win.

xo HZ