Here the water is a capricious beauty, changing colors on a whim like outfits to suit her mood. Blues and greens are favorites, but I have also seen gloomy greys and the softest of pinks. And after every sunset she dons a jet black evening gown sparkling with sequins of bioluminescence. One might guess this mystical image was captured in the quiet tranquility of night—but it is merely a fluke of both light and dolphin.

A unique photo captured during our first day exploring Golfo Dulce; it is a reflection of the water’s magic.

Our boat engine repaired (with epoxy, a small but mighty step above duct tape), I am at last on the water, searching for and documenting marine life in this remote Costa Rican embayment. And I’m excited to share a peek at some of the animals and waterscapes that have already crossed my shutter.

This is a more clear picture of the Pantropical Spotted dolphin (Stenella attennata).

Gregarious family groups are prone to bow-riding and dancing in our wake.

Bottlenose dolphins (Turciops truncates) are residents here.

                             They tend to be more timid in nature and it is a rare treat to have them approach the boat like this.

            Endangered sea turtles nest on the beaches. 

The high season for Olive Ridleys has passed and right now we are seeing mostly Chelonias (regionally called Black sea turtles).

This is a Yellow-bellied sea snake (Pelamis platurus).

                                                                           It's one of the species I’m most interested in.

Golfo Dulce is home to a xanthic phase, too, which is completely and strikingly yellow! I have seen two such snakes drawing Ss on the surface of deep blue water but, so far, I’ve failed to snap a decent photo.

          To the northeast, near Piedras Blancas National Park there are remnants of a once-thriving coral reef with tiny  

                               colorful fish still active in the teal water.

 This is but one of the many soothing sights that compensate my effort.

I am working hard, endless hours. But, truth told, much of this project has been carried on the shoulders of Jorge.

Jorge, who has stood beside me for every fisherman interview, ready to clear up confusion my poor Spanish might cause… who has solved every mechanical crisis with incredible ingenuity (the delicate epoxy work was genius and the motor is running with good efficiency!)… who every day helps me haul a tremendous amount of gear and gasoline to and from the marina… who deftly captains our craft, managing the logistics of my destination requests… and who can reliably spot a dolphin dorsal from one kilometer over troubling seas.

           Above all his capability, Jorge is congenial, an ideal partner for my study.

We are also occasionally joined by Gareth,  a field biologist from the states whose parents live here, and who brings good sense, strong muscle and a steady demeanor to the survey.

Generally up at 4:30am, we are on the water before the sun makes her 6am entrance on Stage East.

Every performance is a little different and I could make a series of my morning shots.

               Occasionally the day brings a small surprise.

                              Like a tiny eel squirming strangely at the surface.

   Or a smooth deep-water current carrying several Portuguese Man-o-wars

                                                                           (Physalia physalis), blue stinging tentacles trailing in its drift.

         Of course we see gulls.  

Along with Brown pelicans…  

                     …and Brown boobies.

I, too, am turning brown (well, everything except my boobies). We spend 6-8 hours per day traversing the gulf, which we’ve divided into four Geographical Areas. By noon, the sun picks at our skin and eyes.

But the sense of freedom we find carving across the wild blue with sea breeze pouring over the bow is one of life’s most perfect sensations.

With 22 days remaining, I still want to photograph Humpback whales and whale sharks. It may happen. After all, the water is lovely and she lures many creatures…

                           …including hopeful humans (Homo sapien).

Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air… Ralph Waldo Emerson

             The water is almost perfectly smooth, the wind calm.

I am silent, breathing slowly through my nose, which hovers just above the languid surface. My legs and arms are hidden, swirling in smooth circles as they tread the aqueous space below. From this vantage I am a sea turtle lifting my head from the echoing blue to peer momentarily at the world of imposing gravity. I imagine myself all shell and flipper, completely at ease in the ocean realm.

Nearby a tern is fishing, nonplussed by my presence; after all, I am nothing but a brown spot bobbing in the expanse. The bird comes very close. It sways above me—delicate, slim and white with a split tail—searching. Each time it dives and strikes for food its flow is halted, a quick snap against the water.

                                       I love this place.  Here, the Osa Peninsula and Gulfo Dulce wrap together like a vibrant Taiji (yin-yang) symbol of land and water. And I’m thankful to feel the embayment’s sweet coolness against my skin since, even this early in the morning, the January air is hot and sticky.

In 2007 and 2008, I worked as a research assistant for Friends of the Osa (http://www.osaconservation.org/), tagging sea turtles and collecting nesting data on the Pacific side of the Osa Peninsula. Now I’ve returned for a unique pilot study under their auspices.

A projected yellowfin tuna farm at the mouth of Golfo Dulce has sparked an urgent call to action. Since little has been published about the gulf’s ecological vitality, there is an imperative need for more scientific data to bolster conservation initiatives.

So I am here to talk with the people and collect 30 days data from a small boat, documenting marine animals in Golfo Dulce, especially “flagship” conservation species (whales, dolphins, sea turtles, whale sharks and some beautiful yellow xanthic-phase sea snakes). My goal is to garner baseline data about this tropical fiord’s unique biodiversity and build greater awareness concerning the importance of in situ conservation.

A man is suddenly talking on the pier, his voice pours across the bay to where I am swimming. I roll onto my back and sigh contentedly. Floating, ears muffled by water, I fall deaf to his chatter, soaking in my own thoughts.

I ponder the work I’ve been doing this week, interviewing local fishermen. Skin weathered to rich mahogany working the sea aside brothers and friends, these earnest men are skeptical of questioning strangers. Their eyes are often shadows as I approach. Yet I’ve felt the honor of having them warm to me and I’m humbled by their hard-earned knowledge of the gulf and its fauna.

                                                                                     Chilo with his night's catch

                                             They have been generous with information and kind of heart,

                                 and my Spanish improves with every effort to understand their dynamic stories.

Yesterday, two people told me they saw Humpback whales just the day before, four individuals from the northern hemisphere breaching in the gulf. These reports make me itch to get on the water myself and, after a few more interviews, I’ll be ready.

But, like most projects, mine is facing some obstacles—an unexpected and fairly expensive repair is needed on the motor donated for my study.

                     So my boat sits waiting.

                                                                        I wait too while we search for a solution, an easier fix or alternative. 

   Mike, Jorge and Gareth looking for parts in La Palma

A half hour has passed since I paddled out into the water and the sun is throwing light across a spray of clouds that are thin and broken into a pattern of triangles, like white scales on a blue fish. Please, I whisper a tiny prayer skyward, I need a boat with a working motor… and soon.

Twisting upright, I see the white tern is gone. The tide is rising and dark wrinkled water is coming a few hundred yards away. When the tiny ripples reach me along with the breeze that’s pushing them, I close my eyes and sniff the fresh salty air.

Another beautiful morning in Costa Rica. It’s time to start the day. With one more deep breath, I turn toward shore and begin to pull myself, one arm over the other.