The dolphin was the unicorn of the nineties. They were everywhere, from computer games to lenticular pictures. A wildlife icon that combined spiritualism and consumerism in a perfect blend.
This is not a criticism. Grunge and dolphins formed the palate of my childhood bedroom, and the latter won overall. They became an obvious gift choice for birthdays and Christmas. My Mum tried so hard to always fit the theme. She was the one who found me the record.
What a cover. A dolphin jumping over underwater pillars dusted with seaweed, beneath a full moon and starry sky. Above the waterline temple ruins and broken statues dotted ragged islands. A band name ran along the bottom, but the font was puffy and psychedelic to the point of illegibility.
The music was not my usual genre. Pappy soft rock from the early seventies. Neverending lyrics about surfing, chilling by fires on the beach, and kissing girls. I should have rolled my eyes, and moved on. But that cover was so awesome.
I listened again and again, and over time understood they were talking about a real place. Somewhere that existed on the other side of the temple. A place where you can drink beer, and drive a Cadillac all night long. A place with dolphins.
The coast is an hour’s train ride away. I used the money from my dolphin purse within my dolphin handbag, and carried the record in a plastic bag.
At that time of night the beach was empty. The wind was an aggressive force willing me back from the dark looming water.
I held up the record to the horizon. The islands were not technically apparent, and the temples were hidden. But the coastline was the same. Although the Moon was a fingernail shaped sliver, I recognised those stars.
The freezing chill of the first wave shattered my heart. But I tossed the record into the foam, and the music began. I was a lonely figure shivering in the winter coastline. But those temples and Cadillacs were so close. The dolphins were waiting. I knew once I dived under, and took that last choking breath, they would guide me home.
