BEFORE
The boulder was so high that I had to take off my beach shoes so as not to slip while I climbed. It was more comfortable that way. With their rusty buckles and translucent plastic straps, these jelly shoes—or “jellyfish” sandals, as we call them in French—hurt my feet even more than their undersea namesakes. And they slowed me down with each step I took in the water. I preferred to take my chances on the jagged rock edges, even if that meant spending the rest of the vacation with my ankles covered in water-resistant Disney-character Band-Aids.
I was determined to reach the top of the rock. This promontory stood at the end of the sandy beach, where grown-ups drowsed behind their books. On the near side of it, the merciless “summer workbook” awaited me; beyond it stretched the wild coastline. From the summit you could survey the entire small cove, the tide pools and channels running between the rocks. The sea swelled in and ebbed out like a slow respiration, and when it breathed in, the water was so smooth you could see, through its crystal-clear depths, all that hid beneath the surface. This was the perfect moment to observe the creatures who live under the sea. I loved seeking out those creatures, waiting for the sea to inhale so I could spot them, try to catch them in my net. All of them fascinated me: green crabs with seaweed wigs, translucent shrimps, periwinkles blowing streams of bubbles, and even the scarlet sea anemones I didn’t dare touch because grown-ups had warned me that they stung. The only creatures I wanted to avoid at all costs were the fish that lived far from the rocks, out in the open water where my feet wouldn’t touch bottom. Those fish scared me. My parents would sometimes bring them home from the market, and their big round eyes frightened me, as did those two slits just behind their head which made them look like decapitated beasts. For fear of those fish, I never dared venture beyond the world of tide pools and shore rocks. The free blue water that I glimpsed farther out awakened in me a profound terror.
From the height of that rock, as the sea inhaled, I glimpsed something glittering at the edge of the waves. A gleam that riveted my gaze. Perhaps it was a tiny treasure, a piece of pearly seashell or some lost object. I had to go see. Cautiously edging my way down the jagged rocks, I approached the flash of light. And in that moment I met my first sardine.
I didn’t know then that it was a sardine, nor how rare it was to encounter one so close to shore. Normally sardines live in the open water. This one had probably lost its way, perhaps fleeing a tuna, also a rare occurrence because, back then, there weren’t many tuna left in the Mediterranean Sea. Have you ever seen a live sardine? Few people know just how lovely a live sardine is. This one was shining and silvery, with an electric blue line like a garland along its back. On its flanks was a broad streak, glowing and golden. It was at once resplendent and fragile, like one of those tinplate collectible toys that so tempted me when I saw them in stores, but which I was forbidden to touch except “with my eyes.” By the way it rolled on its side, tormented by the waves, I could tell this sardine was not in great shape. It didn’t even seem bothered by my presence, whereas normally even the smallest shrimp would scurry off at the mere vibrations my feet sent through the water.
Carefully I collected the sardine in my net, then gazed in disbelief at this remarkable gift from the sea as it writhed in the water of my plastic pail. The sardine stared up at me with its black-and-white eye; it seemed to be trying to tell me something. I sensed that its silence contained secrets it wanted to confide in me, about its life in the deep blue sea, about its strange daily routine as a sardine. Its existence, the way it perceived the universe, intrigued me. I wondered what landscapes it moved through, what creatures it swam alongside, and whether it conversed on occasion with other sardines. All at once, the deep ocean ceased to frighten me; I felt attracted to the silent secrets of the sea.
Little did I suspect that, after this chance encounter with a sardine, my fascination with these undersea mysteries would stay with me. That I would be carried ever farther out to sea in search of an underwater universe whose captivating inhabitants, by no means silent, would willingly share their stories.
How do these creatures communicate? Through what senses do they experience the world? Are their lives and their emotions comparable to ours? Driven by the desire to solve these mysteries, I became a scientist. Hydrodynamics and biomechanics, my chosen fields of research, have offered me fresh insight into the marine world, revealing wondrous new answers, and even more new questions.
Since then I have swum, sailed, and even dove, by day and by night, to observe these fascinating creatures. Back when, for fear of fish, I didn’t dare venture any deeper than where my jelly shoes could touch bottom, I would never have dreamed that soon I would spend my days studying them and my free time traveling to find them. I wouldn’t have believed that one day I would hear whale song, visit the swordfish of the Mediterranean, count albatrosses, or play with manta rays. Nor that I’d find, just a short walk from my home in the middle of the city, even more remarkable fish and other aquatic creatures.
Along the way I’ve also encountered fellow humans who’ve bound their fate to that of the sea: scientists who shed light on its secrets, fishermen who live in harmony with the water, volunteers who devote their time to protecting it. I’ve shared in their projects to better understand the undersea world, to preserve it, or simply to find my place in that ecosystem and learn how to converse harmoniously with the ocean. They have taught me how to understand the signals of dolphins, how to catch tuna, how to approach seals. So I have come upon other stories, stories written or narrated by humans, illuminated by science or by the magic of legends, embellished by the innovation of discovery or by the poetry of oral tradition.
What have all these stories taught me? In addition to sharing its captivating beauty, the undersea world offers us other kinds of knowledge, especially about ourselves.
The inhabitants of the sea have, first and foremost, taught me to speak. Their ways of communicating, each species in its own fashion, and their ability to create stories in spite of the sea’s apparent silence have revealed to me the art of rhetoric. These stunningly eloquent beings have confided their stories to me and given me the desire and the inspiration to recount them in my turn. It is thanks to these creatures that I am able to share with you, in this book, the stories they have led me to discover.
This book will plunge you into the depths of the ocean and of history, of the scientific world and the world of legends. I will introduce you to the secret society of anchovy shoals, and together we will take part in the conversations of whales. As we go, we’ll meet some unusual characters, such as Åle the eel, who lived for a hundred and fifty years in a well, and the remora, friend to the Indigenous people of Australia. We’ll take time to listen to the song of the scallop and the ancient saga of the extraordinary periwinkle. We’ll decipher the latest scientific discoveries on the immunity of corals or the changing gender of wrasses, and be lulled into reveries by the ancient legends of mariners, often more believable than the incredible truth.
I hope you will emerge from your reading the same way I emerged from the water that first time I dove in it—with your head filled with stories and an immense desire to recount them in your turn. And I hope your beach vacations or visits to the aquarium will never be the same, and that you’ll look in a new light at your goldfish, your seafood platters, and your tuna salad sandwiches.
The sardine flopped around in my pail, leaping up the sides decorated with pink and blue starfish. It was clearly yearning to be back in the sea. So I carried it to where the inlet flowed into the ocean, where the water was calmer and deeper. Balancing on the slippery rocks, taking care not to spill the pail, I made my way to a small stretch of shoreline and emptied it into the water, safe from the breakers.
As it swam away, hesitantly, toward the open ocean, the sardine motioned for me to follow it. It invited me to come along and began to recount its story.
How did the sardine tell me its tale? That will remain my secret. Everything that follows in this book is absolutely true. Whether my sources are the findings of rigorously peer-reviewed scientific studies, references from ancient works, or personal anecdotes and observations that plenty of witnesses can confirm, they are all trustworthy and verifiable. But as for the way that sardine began telling me its story, I’ll have to ask you to take my word for it.
Copyright © 2019 by Bill François
