Belonging Wild
Kristy Finstad
Galapagos, August 2013
A pack of bonito tuna splits a mob of gringos – once a curtain drawn across the water column, blocking our view of a pelagic stage—the silver bullets aim and shoot and open the curtain. We sit in the theatre and watch the wild show.
A river of hammerhead sharks flows against the current effortlessly, bodies thick and muscular and finely adapted to feel the vibrations of our bubbles, the magnetic pull of Earth, even sensing my heart pounding electricity. We all emit our own unique frequencies of fear, awe, wonder, fatigue, nerves, joy. A curiosity runs between us – the hammers, the bite marks, the white belly and black silhouette. A feeling of fulfillment, of belonging.
A hundred dolphins move under me, relaxed eyes half-open, I dive down and want to belong with them. My craving for air pulls me away and suddenly I’m aware of silkie sharks circling and I’m not sure I want to belong to this wild side.
Big noses and double chins, spotted eagle rays with white scrawling artistically drawn over black wings. Ease and grace with the slow steady confidence of belonging. Blue-footed boobies squished together on the bow sprit, awkward but belonging.
Wildness reminds us not what we are separate from, but what we belong to. Mostly belonging in the theatre, sometimes belonging on stage.
