THE COLORS WE SEEK

By Blake Mogabgab, Chi / Mississippi '07

 On a small boat, miles from shore, a feeling of nakedness and vulnerability overwhelms me, as thousands of sparkles reflect from the water towards the horizon. I squint as I scan the water for any sign of the fish we seek. The water extends in all directions farther than my eyes can see, and I am reminded, as always, that I am a helpless visitor in a world in which I have no control. 

Reassuringly, the massive sea below, one of immense power and spectacular beauty, rocks my boat gently, letting me know, for at least this moment that I am supposed to be here. The sea sings quietly with "shhh's" and swishes as it rises and falls, occasionally knocking the hull of the boat with a "pop," spraying a salty mist onto my sunburnt face. The feeling is exhilarating and, for this one day, I am with nature, out of the empirical and intellectual world of day-to-day life. 

As a predator, I may join the food chain, and exist as the animal called human. Our goal, as fishermen, is to catch fish, but mine, as I gaze into the endless depth below, is to merely exist. I've explored existence through so many means, but never felt it so vividly as when out at sea. The world is completely out of my control. For this reason, I love to travel away from the safety of land, seeking the deep and meaningful waters, hoping to find in their lonely dark-blue colors, a new sensation of life. Perhaps I'll catch a fish, admire it and smile. Maybe I'll put it in the icebox to eat later, or let its slimy body jolt out of my hands as I lower it in the water, setting it free, but no matter what, I'll know that today I want to connect with the sea.  

My mother told me she fell in love with my father while fishing with him on the ocean. I imagine that somewhere in the maze of marsh and grass in the wilderness of southern Louisiana's Mississippi delta, my mother found the connection of life and equally saw how humans could be connected to each other. This same bond compelled my father to bring his children to fish with him. I believe it was the best way that he could express his love for us. I'm not sure if he found poetry in fishing, but his passion and vigor for life was nothing less than poetic.

I remember when I was small, my father would bait and cast my line for me. I would stare attentively at the cork, orange and green, bobbing and rattling, with a live shrimp dangling below, and focus with all my might, anticipating that any speckled trout or redfish that attacked the line would not get away. My father, with the same set-up, would simply watch me, making sure that my experience with his ocean was fun and complete. He wanted to share his passion with those he loved.

On land, as I grow older, I fear everyday that I might have difficulty expressing love like my father and his father did. Even more so, I worry that I lack the loyalty and devotion to truly connect with someone. After all, I've never cried at a funeral. I constantly fear that I'm incapable of the true closeness of friendship.

Somewhere in my heart there is a barrier. Perhaps this is why I journey to the depth and darkness of the sea in search of the most beautiful fish I know.

Of all the mystery and amazement alive in the salty sea world below, I've never encountered a fish with such devotion as the dolphin. (Also called mahi mahi or dorado.)  While swimming casually, they glide through the water. They are mostly yellow with green, blue and white spots and a blue top and white belly. They swim along the deep blue side of the ocean's sargasso rips, where the deep sea water abruptly changes from an emerald green into a clear, beautiful deep blue. Where the water is clear and warm, their bright colors shine vividly, as if their beauty would be wasted if they swam in the low-visibility waters closer to shore. The rip is tattered with floating piles of seaweed, pieces of plywood, and occasional buckets or logs, providing shelter for the dolphins. They are drawn to the bait fish and shrimp that harbor at the rip, feeding on the sargasso grass that forms in a line above where the water changes colors.

Bull dolphin, the most prized of the dolphins, are always in pairs, the male and female refusing to leave each others' sides, resting underneath one of the pieces of debris for shade and protection from danger above. A bit deeper down, their close cousins, chicken dolphin, hide as well. Although smaller and less colorful than bull dolphin, chicken dolphins possess a similar devotion, which has always amazed me. Traveling in schools, they swim together no matter how panicked or spooked they are. Whether the predator that nears is a shark, seagull, or human, the school remains close, accounting for every single dolphin.

Somewhat shamefully, we use their instinctual loyalty to our advantage. As we spot a school of dolphin, one of us will hook just one, but will not reel the fish up, allowing it to pull and tug at the rod. As the one fish remains, so too does the rest of the school, swarming frantically in circles around the hooked fish. Everyone on board drops their line to the school. The dolphins viciously attack the shrimp and squid bait, and they are quickly reeled out of the water and onto the deck. We are careful not to let the dolphin that remains hooked die, because the school will immediately leave, so someone else will hook a dolphin but not reel it up to the boat. This process continues until all the lines break, or the school stops feeding.

The entire scene is incredibly chaotic. As the fish's slimy bodies hit the deck of the white boat, they flap, jump and twist, throwing spots of blood all over. They are small but colorful, miniature versions of the bull dolphin which we also seek. Tragically, however, within seconds of being out of the water, their vivid greens, blues, and yellows fade into an ugly yellow hue. I am always saddened that I cause the color to leave something so beautiful, but the exhilaration and art of the entire adventure leaves little time for pity. I respect the fish, and promise that its meat will not be wasted.

After Florida instituted its net ban in 1994, which made nets above a certain size illegal, gill-netting and shrimping, which tore through the fish population, were put to an end. The population immediately began to flourish, and we began to fish off the coast of Destin, Florida for dolphin. My family purchased a condo there, and surprisingly, after four years of ownership, they finally let me use it over spring break with my best friend, Chris. Because it was our freshman year of college, our friendship was relatively new. However, spending this year together and experiencing the chaos and insecurity of a new place brought us closer than I have ever been with any of my friends from high school.

Early one morning, while Chris still slept, I walked to the beach and gazed from the white soft sand out at the blue ocean, remembering the qualities of loyalty and devotion that I envied so much in dolphin. I wondered too, if I could be devoted to the friend I had spent so much time with this year, or if it would be as past relationships had been, fun but temporary.  One of the nights during the week, we decided to cook hamburgers, and take a break from the repetition of ham and cheese sandwiches, which previously had been our only sustenance besides beer. Chris began to cut an onion with a filet knife he grabbed from a drawer. In a quick, thoughtless moment, he accidentally jabbed the end of the thin sharp knife into his palm. To our shock and surprise, blood squirted forcefully out of the wound, even reaching the low ceiling and cabinets of the small kitchen. Frantically, he screamed, turned on the faucet of the kitchen sink, and placed his bloody palm under the cool stream of water. As the blood washed off, I inspected the wound and felt quite amused. The cut was no more than a centimeter wide, so I thought little of it, expecting that he would be fine if we just put pressure on it. Amazingly, the cut continued to bleed, regardless of how much pressure we applied. Chris didn't want to go through the hassle of going to the hospital, and I didn't think he needed to go, so we just waited, putting pressure on the wound over the kitchen sink.

We stopped the bleeding, finally, after several minutes, but he was still worried, hurt, and in a little bit of shock at the amount of blood that had come out of his hand. Blood was scattered in drops all over the kitchen, and several rags were drenched in it. I wrapped his hand and taped it tightly, expecting that the whole chaotic scene had finally come to a close. He went upstairs to call his mom, seeking some advice about what to do. Several minutes later, he frantically returned downstairs and ran to the bathroom, his hand now pouring blood. His face was flustered. As I walked into the bathroom to check on him, sat on the tile floor and bent over the toilet, his hand resting over the bowl, and to my shock he was weeping.

"I got worked up talking to my mom and it started to bleed again," he gasped.

"What's wrong?" I asked him.

"The first girl I ever loved just died, and no one even called me. Her funeral was yesterday."

I didn't know what to say, or if I should say anything at all. As he hunched over the toilet, still bleeding, I rested my body over his back and rubbed my hands on his shoulder, comforting him through something I imagined was incredibly painful. While Chris broke down in front of me, I seemed to break with him, and hoped beyond anything that I could ease the pain in his heart.

"I think I need to go to the hospital," he said quietly, as he began to calm down.

I agreed, grabbing his right hand to help him up from the white bathroom floor. I gave him a new towel to wrap around his hand, and drove him to the hospital. The doctor told us that he had hit an artery, and, to our shock, the small cut could have actually bled him to death, had we done nothing about it. After jokingly applauding his brush with death, we returned to the condo, and I finished making our dinner. We sat, ate, and afterwards talked for over an hour. Chris shared his story about the time he spent with his ex-girlfriend and compassionately I told him storyies of my ex-girlfriends, hoping stories might comfort him. I knew, however, that although I felt closer to him than ever, I was limited in my heart as to how much of myself I could give. I had an idea, though. I told him that I'd take him fishing on my father's boat the next day, and he excitedly agreed.

We launched the boat out of the marina in Destin. After passing the "no wake" zones inshore, I accelerated driving as fast as I could to find a rip in the water. After several miles, we came upon the sargasmo rip that I knew would hold dolphin. I cut the engine, allowing us to hear the calm, quiet sounds of the ocean. Seagulls cawed in the distance and the familiar "shhh's" and swishes of the ocean eased my heart. I watched Chris carefully to see if he felt the same comfort that I did, hoping that I could share the love of the sea with him.

With Chris standing at the bow of the boat and me at the wheel, we slowly drifted down the line of grass and trash, attentive for signs of dolphin. Ahead I saw a large piece of plywood.

"Look under that big piece of wood," I screamed up to him. He nodded and stared directly under it as it neared.

"I see one," he yelled, as he frantically began to try to throw his line out. New to fishing, his cast landed nowhere near his target, and in the blur of adrenaline, he was unable to attract the fish to his hook. I quickly grabbed a rod, baited it, and cast perfectly. Immediately, the line became taut and my rod bent forcefully. I was so excited to hook it, but instead invited Chris to the back of the boat to fight the fish. He grabbed the handle of the reel with his right hand, but I had to hold the rod for him, as his bandaged hand still hurt. As I pulled the rod back, we witnessed a beautiful sight. The fish leapt out of the water, and we saw the large male bull dolphin reflect its magnificent blues, greens, and yellows to our boat.

We continued to fight the fish together, and after forty minutes, I gilled it and threw it onto the deck of the boat. We sighed, gasped, and fell to the deck, exhausted. Chris hollered excitedly, screaming with satisfaction, as we took time to admire its bright lustrous colors that looked like wet paint on the fish's smooth scales. I just smiled, and watched Chris, knowing I had shared with him something important to me.

There is something important about being at sea and looking for the beautiful fish that live beneath it. The sea reminds me that somewhere deep in humanity, there are the most beautiful things. Each day I seek to find them in myself, and more than anything I long to share them.