Sitting on this rusty mushroom that moors the ferries, my thoughts drift on the fuming vortexes down at Doolin Pier. Where has she gone, where is she now? The last I heard is three weeks ago, an exciting telephone call.

'I was with Dusty today and she's big! She's definitely pregnant, I saw the calf moving in her belly!'. And suddenly the pieces I had been in since the troubles this summer came together. That's why she'd had this temper, thrashing about with her fluke and even ramming some people into hospital.
 
But this sudden understanding did not take away the hurt, the helpless anger about the sensation hungry attention Dusty got from the media. For widely over a decade she bestowed her benevolence upon thousands of aficionados, bringing peace of mind, happiness and wonder.
Only darkened by the notorious case of the German photographer she belted when he flashed her right into the eye. The memory of which we regularly were confronted with up to eight years after the occasion. And now this. She will never lose the worldwide Angst that took the 'friendly' away from the dolphin and left her with 'wild' in its worst ferocious verdict.

Everybody always was praising her intelligence, her reason that outsmarted us all once we took to the water. But now that she showed this mind of her own so perpendicular upon our sentimental expectations, away was her noble image, her gentle generosity, her beauty and elegance, replaced by our darkest fears. And the water turned into a hostile environment that rendered one defenseless to the whims and fickle of an angry predator.

There was an abundance of excuses, all grown from the philosophy one should respect the dolphin, behave like a guest in her house, leave it to her to initiate interaction. Instead people clambered all over her, tried to hang on to her dorsal fin because they thought she liked taking people for a ride. A misconception inspired by her unlucky kindred that are forced to do so in marine amusement parks on the threat of being withheld food or put into solitary confinement. There where stories of children dive-bombing her, even of idiots that tried to pour cider, even put sand, in her blowhole. But all the discharges did not save her from being labeled as aggressive and dangerous.

We all presumed she needed us. 'Being solitary and all'. Only a few of us know she doesn't. We're bonus in her busy schedule. Her only need was for to give. To give us from her wealth of love and attention. We appointed ourself as the generous, the understanding, the wealthy in affection and expected her to be grateful. Little did we realise the treasures she bestowed on us. Only now that she's gone we stand there empty handed. No women, no cry? My tears are blurring the distance.

Crab Island, that sanctuary for roving eyes, by it's godforsaken isolation more of a holy island, throws up the swell in blinding whites. A symbol of love lost, unreachable again, a speck of promise in an empty ocean.

'Where is my woman, can I bring her home? Have I driven her away, is she gone?
I grow weary of the torment, can there be no peace?
And I find myself just wishing that my life would simply cease'. ('Deja vu', Stephen Stills, '4+20').

But, then again, on a brighter note, she's somewhere out there. Would she really be suckling her calf, her future, her new love? And maybe, just very maybe, she'll be back, sharing her most precious darling, and open up again like a friendly mild dolphin...