"It's funny how just when you think you're done with life you find out it's not done with you."
Jesse Barnham is a depressed artist contemplating suicide until finding an abandoned baby sea otter brings her back to the land of the living. She may not be able to recall a happy past but she can still, just barely, imagine a happy future.
Ted Wallace is a marine veterinarian, who has neglected his health for too long, thinking that ignoring the signs of his progressing illness will make them go away.
When Jesse and Ted meet in an attempt to save the baby sea otter, it’s unclear whether they can move beyond their differences. Each clearly sees the other's failings but not their own. And as Jesse begins putting her life back together Ted is slowly losing his.
This heart-warming tale is a reminder that the things that we save, often hold the power to save us.
"It's funny how just when you think you're done with life you find out it's not done with you."
Jesse Barnham is a depressed artist contemplating suicide until finding an abandoned baby sea otter brings her back to the land of the living. She may not be able to recall a happy past but she can still, just barely, imagine a happy future.
Ted Wallace is a marine veterinarian, who has neglected his health for too long, thinking that ignoring the signs of his progressing illness will make them go away.
When Jesse and Ted meet in an attempt to save the baby sea otter, it’s unclear whether they can move beyond their differences. Each clearly sees the other's failings but not their own. And as Jesse begins putting her life back together Ted is slowly losing his.
This heart-warming tale is a reminder that the things that we save, often hold the power to save us.
The wind was strong from the northwest the day I decided to die. I sat in the sand, the gray sky mirroring my soul. Waves rolled in black and tubular, like the storm drain I used to yell into to hear the echo when I was a kid. I liked to pretend there was a magical land on the other side of that concrete abyss. Now I know better.
I don't remember being scared as I sat contemplating a dive into the November-cold water. I don't remember being anything but numb, so numb I didn't feel the grit whipping my face and hands. I took one last drag of my cigarette and stubbed it out, putting the butt carefully back in my pocket. There was no reason to pollute the earth, even if I wasn't going to be on it much longer.
This was a reflexive habit. I've always cared a lot about littering and recycling and stuff like that. I know better than to try to convince anyone else though. When I got on Rosie's case for using those stupid little straws in the customer's drinks she laughed at me.
"Like the straw I put in some guy's rum and coke is going to make it out to the ocean and up a sea turtle's nose!"
"Yeah, actually, that could happen. Lots of plastic we think is going to the landfill ends up in the ocean."
"You're insane."
So much for me trying to raise my sister's social consciousness.
It was fitting that my life should end where it began. Mother once told me I was conceived there on the beach after a bonfire party that involved magic mushrooms and a fifth of Jack Daniels. Not the kind of information you share with a ten-year-old but I guess she wanted to scare me into not doing the crazy stuff she did. It seemed to have worked. I was still unattached; a twenty-two-year-old virgin. Pretty pitiful, right?
For that, or some other unfathomable reason, I always ended up back on the beach. Whenever I lost another dead-end job, or had a nasty fight with my mother, or sold a painting so I could afford some reefer I came back to this beach. There was one winter that my friend, Billy talked me into working the ski-lifts up in Tahoe and I spent six months in the mountains. I painted some awesome landscapes that winter and the lake was gorgeous and all that but I couldn't breathe being away from the ocean. So I came home.
There isn't much here in Pacific Crest—population one thousand eighty-four. I came back and took another minimum-wage job at the resort only to be dumped, wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am at the end of the season. Story of my life.
Drowning can't be that much different from getting tumbled by a gnarly wave. First, there's the grab of the vice-grip that twirls you so dizzy you don't know which way is back to air. Then the saline rushes into your nasal cavities and your lungs explode as your body crashes against the bottom like a kewpie doll. Knees like rubber, I could usually make my way back to the surface after being pulled under by a wave. But that day I figured I'd let the rip take me.
Done procrastinating, I kicked off my flip-flops and headed down to the dirty foam edge. A big storm had whipped up the waves to a feeding frenzy. I could already taste the salt at the back of my throat and feel the hard rush to my sinuses. The crashing sound of the waves was not unexpected but then, as I was about to take the plunge, I heard a baby cry.
What moron has brought their baby to the beach on a day like today? I wondered. I was ready to give them a piece of my mind. You never, ever bring a baby out in a wind like this. But everywhere I turned, there was nothing but sand and water. The cry came again, a strangled wail from down the beach where the rocky tidepools start.
It's funny how just when you think you're done with life you find out it's not done with you. I put my self-destructive state of mind on hold long enough to figure out what this charming new development could be. I might as well relight my cigarette—I mean, at the price of cigarettes these days. I took a drag and pounded down the beach toward whatever miscreant was disturbing my already disturbed morning.
The noise stopped but I have a good ear and had a good sense of where it was coming from. I rounded a sand dune and scanned the tidepools beyond. Things were pretty churned up but the inhabitants of that uncompromising ecosystem have mastered the art of holding on tight (unlike myself). The rock-spewed tide blasted through fronds of aggregating anemones like drunken fingers through a punk-rocker's green hair. Colored buttons of chitons scraped tattoos across the pink coralline algae. And there, tangled in a thick bed of mussels and seagrass I saw the source of the strange wailing cry. Looked like someone's drowned puppy.
I waded closer to investigate. A renegade wave knocked me down and banged my knee hard against the shale. I yelled, which brought an equal and opposite reaction from the drowned puppy. We sat there screaming at each other for a moment, and then I realized that my puppy was not a puppy at all but a baby sea otter.
Now, regardless of my sister's opinion, I'm not a complete idiot. I know that you should never handle a beached marine mammal. It's bad for the animal and it could be worse news for your hand, especially if you aspire to be an artist, like me. I mean, like I used to. The problem was, I could see that this little guy was in trouble and if I didn't do something quick, he'd be a dead baby sea otter. I know you're asking yourself why I should care about a dying sea otter. Life sucks, and animals die all the time. This was what I tried to tell myself but as usual, my bleeding heart whacked me upside the logical brain. I ripped off my jacket and cradled the baby, disentangling him from the plastic six-pack ring still entwined around his leg. Turned out, my worries about my hands were for nothing—this little one was surely a goner.
In most cases (unlike mine), where you find a child you expect to find a mother. Cradling the half-dead otter I made my way, more careful not to slip, to the highest rock out-cropping around and searched the ocean. Sea otters like to hang out in kelp beds—I knew that much—but the only kelp around there was the stuff that got ripped out by the storm and spat out, desiccated on the sand. As far as I could see, all was monotone gray. Angry rainclouds tore across the sky melding with furious waves edged in tattered steel lace. Even the shorebirds who dodge my steps in the ugliest weather made themselves scarce that day. A single gull swirled, helpless in the wind, trying to beat its way to shelter. A slaughtering gust of wind battered me down. It was not a morning for the faint of heart.
There was no mother there.
My brain lumbered through the fog I'd been living in for the past few days, trying to figure out what I should do. It's dangerous to give your head free reign when letting your guard down brings on crippling pain. But this was not about me. I made a deal with myself—I'd figure out what to do about the sea otter and then I'd go back into my cocoon. That seemed to hold the demons at bay for the moment.
That settled, I pulled out my cell phone. There must be some kind of animal rescue close by. I should be able to find something online. I looked down and swore at the "No Service" message where four bars should be. Nothing for it. I'd have to hike back up to where I left my truck—my truck that hit "E" about twenty miles before—and try to find cell service. I hadn't planned on doing any more driving so why bother to put gas in the tank? Nothing for it. I had no better plan. I began slogging back to my truck.
After waddling downwind through half a mile of soft sand, trying to avoid a face dive, I saw my truck, forlorn and forgotten in the empty parking lot. I called it my truck but it had also been my home for the past several months—this despite the No Overnight Camping signs everywhere. The end of resort season meant an end to incoming cash so I got creative. I tried couch crashing but I didn't have many friends that like me that much so I exhausted that option pretty quick. Seemed like my fallback was always camping in the woods. I preferred being outside so it was no real hardship. The problem was, it was dangerous for a girl alone, even with the pepper spray Rosie gave me for Christmas—lovely, thoughtful Christmas present. I kept moving and that way nobody knew I was there, at least, that's what I hoped. I found a good place to take a shower and fill my water jugs; there were some nice restrooms on the sports field at the community college. They had janitors that kept the place clean, despite the hobos like me.
Once my otter and I were inside the covered truck bed, the wind died down enough for me to catch my breath. I don't eat much and I'm religiously opposed to alcohol so I don't have many bad habits but I admit I'm a bit of a slob. I shoved the Diet Coke cans and half-eaten top ramen packages out of the way to make a sort of a padded nest in my sleeping bag. It smelled of mildew but my little friend didn't seem to mind. I think he preferred stinky sleeping bag to stinky human, at least, he cuddled down into the bedding and stopped shaking so hard. Within moments he was asleep. I wanted to curl up next to him and sleep, too but I wasn't sure how long an otter could survive out of water.
I checked my cell phone. Still no service.
There was nothing for it. I'd have to drive to where there was service or I ran out of gas, whichever came first. I didn't think driving around with a sick baby sea otter in the back of the truck was a brilliant idea. Once again, I struggled to make my brain function. What could I use to confine an animal so he didn't roll around while I drove? If I put him in my cooler would he suffocate like a kid hiding in an old refrigerator? I could rig something up to keep the lid open far enough so he could breathe but not escape. I grabbed the cooler and wrestled it outside to dump out the water and half-rancid bits of leftover food. I scraped out the worst of the slime with sand and then jury-rigged the lid. With a soft touch I didn't remember I had, I wrapped the little guy in an old towel and placed him in his makeshift carrier. Now, if I could wedge him on the passenger side floor, we'd be in business.
With everything positioned as good as it was going to get, I hopped in the driver's seat and said a little prayer. Chug, chug. The engine turned over—that was a good sign—but didn't engage. Earlier in the day, I hadn't cared (much) that my truck/house was an old turd but now it actually mattered.
Please, please start! I promise I'll get you more gas as soon as I lay my hands on a few bucks. Heck, I'll even change your oil if you'll only start! The god of forsaken automobiles heard my prayer. The truck started and we were off.
Back up on the highway, the phone was working again. I pulled over and typed in 'animal rescue' and a bunch of places came up—Foxy Friends, Have a Heart Dog Rescue, Chicken Little Farm Animal Rescue—no, no, and no. Wait, there was something: Wild Things, Marine Mammal Rescue. I called the rescue line.
"You have reached Wild Things, Marine Mammal Center. All our volunteers are currently busy. If you have found a stranded animal do not touch, pick up, or feed the animal." (a little late for that). "Our Rescue Hotline is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Please leave a message with as much information as you have about the stranded animal at the sound of the tone and we will get back to you."
Dang. Now what?
Oh god of forsaken automobiles, you've granted me one wish already. Now here's my second. Please get me to this address that's twenty-five miles away on less than an empty tank of gas.
I peeked into the cooler to check on my little friend again and fell in love. The baby sea otter's hair was the color of amber honey and thicker than the softest rabbit fleece. His dark eyes stared back at me with an almost human expression. It was clear that this was an intelligent and sensitive animal. He had soft leathery paws and a squished, doggy nose. But what undid me were his long bristly old man's whiskers. They quivered without stopping as he investigated his strange surroundings. "EEK!" he shrieked. You have to be loud if you want to be heard above the roar of the ocean.
"How ya doin', sport? Hang on. I'm going to get you some help."
At that moment my engine sputtered and died.
Trigger warning: suicide constitutes a key theme.
Following her 2019 debut Throwing Bricks, Margaret Hontos returns with a life-
affirming tale brimming with hope. In Wave Dancing, Hontos deftly explores the tribulations that come with being human whilst signposting moments of joy that make life worthwhile.
Hontos begins at what is supposedly the end for twenty-two-year-old artist Jesse. Protagonist Jesse is about to take her life when the sight of a distressed sea otter- Lyra- stops her. Rescuing Lyra leads to Jesse finding a job, a home, new relationships, and reasons to live. Upon taking Lyra to a wildlife rescue centre, Jesse meets the wonderful enigma that is veterinarian Ted. The blossoming of their relationship underpins the plot and is gorgeously understated. Jesse’s efforts to rebuild familial bonds with her mum, dad, sister Rosie, and niece Kitty likewise creates poignant parts of the narrative. Not only is Hontos’ work of contemporary fiction a vehicle for discussing themes of mental health, family, and self-love, but also humanity’s role in protecting wildlife.
Wave Dancing is a five-star read as it went straight to my heart, a huge contributing factor being the likeable and relatable characters. Their seemingly mundane actions become riveting as they are expertly told. Some of the best passages arise when Jesse observes the colourful characters who traipse through the diner where she works. Likewise, the focus on marine life gives the novel extra vibrancy. It is excellently written and greatly benefits from Hontos’ years spent on the water and her work as an aquarium volunteer.
I must also applaud Hontos for so aptly dealing with the heavy yet delicate subject matter of suicide. The still taboo topic becomes almost approachable; Hontos creates a narrative space in which to discuss it sensitively and openly. Jesse’s frank discussions with Rosie throughout the novel (regarding her mental health) are wonderfully candid.
Admittedly, to begin with, I was sceptical of whether it would be a worthwhile read but the writing grew increasingly confident. I awarded it five stars because I didn’t want the story to end, which is a mark of exceptional writing. I could read about Jesse and Ted’s life for hours.
I would say this is not the book for lovers of fast-paced reads but perfect for those who like reading about everyday life. Fans of Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower will adore Wave Dancing’s similarly thoughtful style.