Unimaginable, but imagine—birth into water, but needing air
Your head emerging last, sheltered until the last moment within your mother
Then, the shock of ocean—the world—and the powerlessness
Your flukes folded, useless, body limp, the surface unreachable
But you are not alone, and your mother is not alone
There is a community, her old friends, and your aunties and sisters
They are there, all around, excited, anxious to welcome, to help
Their bursts of clicks your first hearing, this code meaning “belonging”
They balance you on their great heads, lift you into the light, and you breathe
Between their gentle bodies they squeeze you, and you breathe
They keep away the circling dolphins, and you breathe
They keep watch for sharks, and you breathe
At last your body stiffens, balances in the water
You take your first milk, wise with a baby’s knowledge
Your aunties drift apart, exclaiming as they go
At your mother’s side, you slowly swim, and begin to be a whale
Based on detailed observations of a sperm whale birth, as reported in Nature and Science.
Listen to an NPR report.
