Swimming with dolphins has cachet. It’s a ‘thing’. It’s considered cool. People fly thousands of miles to do it. It’s supposed to be therapeutic. It’s supposed to be lots of things. It makes the news every so often.
Yesterday, we (myself, the ladies from ‘Carding‘, MIP — the only person here that’s older than I am — and a young gentleman who shares a name with my father — Underpants Boy) were avoiding the heat by splashing around in the lake. As is traditional there was also an alligator wearing purple lipstick and several interesting rocks. There were no dolphins. There was no pink inner tube.
Ms. Rose was the one that noticed that we had an extra in our little group. A black-and-white extra. One with feathers.
In roughly the geometric centre of our group was a loon. Loons are cool. I like loons, but they don’t often do that.
On realizing that he (or she — I can’t sex loons without my glasses and a copy of Sibley — and probably not even then) had been discovered, he submerged, not to be seen again.
Later on I checked — ‘Swimming with dolphins’ gets 1.4 million hits on google. ‘Swimming with loons”? A little under twenty thousand.
Clearly we’re special.