Grayson by Lynne Cox

brilliant melting kaleidoscope of green, yellow, indigo, violet, and soft blue. As I pulled deeper, the pressuretightened around my head and body like an invisible shrinking knot.
    My ears popped, and I pulled deeper. The increased arm movement was using oxygen more quickly, so I had to keep enough air in my lungs so I could make it to the surface without passing out. I was grateful for those training sessions my coach had given me where I had swum one lap of the pool breathing every five, then seven, nine, and eleven strokes. Still, I wasn’t used to swimming with the weight of the water on me and I knew I couldn’t stay down too long.
    There he was floating right below me, inches above the soft light brown silt-covered bottom. He looked right at me with his large brown eyes. He was so peaceful. I laughed and I wanted to swim over and hug him. He had been there all along, just watching me.
    He lifted his fluke, did a little nod downward with his head, and glided toward me underwater through beams of white and green sunlight. The liquid light dappled and waved along his skin.
    He swam in a small circle and I laughed out of relief and delight. And tried not to get a noseful of water. He wanted to play with me, but I was out of air.
    Following my bubble stream, I raced to the surface. My lungs were down to zero.
    Floating on my back, I gasped for air, caught my breath, and then dove again.
    He had the most incredible set of lungs. He was able, it seemed, to stay down forever. He did one giant dolphin kick and slipped through honey-colored sunbeams, and they changed with his movement through the water, becoming squiggles of lime green light.
    He grunted softly, squeaked, paused, then grunted softly again. He paused longer this time, as if he was waiting for me to respond. Then he clicked and chirped. He made a small symphony of underwater sounds: high and low tones, soft and loud; all were new and different.
    For the first time in my life, I heard a baby whale speak. I heard the voice of the whale. I was thrilled. The baby whale had spoken to me.
    More than anything, I wanted to talk to him and I wished I could understand what he was saying. It was like going to a foreign country and not being able to speak the language. It was frustrating, wanting tosomehow make a connection but not being able to understand anything.
    He looked at me with his big chestnut brown eyes and I wanted to reach out and touch him. I wanted to be able to do something that he would understand.
    Instead, I just watched him, trying to think of a way I could help. Watching for any gesture he might make, anything I could comprehend.
    He tried a few more sounds, louder in volume, higher in tone. And he waited as if he was expecting me to say something.
    When I didn’t say anything, he turned on his side and looked at me. He opened his mouth. He had a large pink tongue. I think he was clicking it against the roof and base of his mouth, like a human child. He continued talking or vocalizing.
    And I listened to the sounds with real awe. Years later, I realized that if I had found the baby whale on my first dive, I might never have heard him speak underwater, I might never have seen the graceful bat rays or the swimming sea turtles, and I never would have known how far I could go down into the ocean depths on a single breath.

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    There was no sign of the whale’s mother by the jetty, underwater, or anywhere else so I started swimming back toward the pier, hoping the baby whale would follow. He didn’t.
    I thought that if I could communicate with him he would come with me, like a dog responding to a familiar whistle. I thought that maybe if I could try to speak in his language he would understand. I tried to repeat his chirp. It was pathetic. It didn’t sound anything like him. I tried to grunt, a really big grunt, but all I got was a noseful of saltwater and tears in my goggles from the salty sting. I returned to the surface to clear the water out of my