Rescuing a Ray and Me – BETWEEN THE TRACKS

A mesmerizing underwater photo of a group of eagle rays gliding gracefully through the clear lagoon of Bora Bora. This image captures the beauty and mystery of marine life.

At nine years old, we made the journey from the knobs of rural western Kentucky to the Atlantic Ocean crammed in the back of Father’s pristine white ’59 Impala.

Grandma, Momma, and I watched America blur past the windows while he drove straight through, pausing only when the gas gauge dipped low or when hunger drove us to the dented Coleman in the trunk to eat baloney sandwiches and drink Coke. By the time we reached North Carolina, his eyes were rimmed red with exhaustion, but mine sparkled with wonder.

I stretched out on that rear window shelf, my skinny nine-year-old frame fitting perfectly above the back seat, watching the world flip upside down through glass while Father drove on, oblivious to what these days would earn him a hefty ticket and stern lecture about child safety.

Nothing stays with me quite like that first glimpse of the Atlantic after the piney hills fell away. Momma dipped one toe in the foam, let out a little gasp at the chill, and declared right then she’d seen enough—she belonged back in her Kentucky hills and hollers.

But me?

Upon arrival, the ocean swallowed my psyche whole: the hiss of surf, the sweet stink of salt, the warm sand slipping between my toes. Right then, I knew this vast, restless place would be my church of healing.

Since 1979, I’ve returned annually over the years to cast nets for shrimp, bait lines for crab, and sometimes to simply sit or walk to find myself—at seventy-five, the sea still steadies my heart.

These days, we feel fortunate to live on Tybee Island for 7 to 8 months out of every year. These days, when the weather cooperates, I often perch on weathered deck chairs with my notebook, listening to each wave wash away another fragment of life memory. The rhythm of the tide against the shore keeps time with my two-fingered typing—a meditation more powerful than any pill ever prescribed.

Dolphins darting at dawn, whales belching cloud-bursts of spray, eagle rays gliding like flying angels—these are my constant marvels. Once in San Diego, I watched rays shimmy up harbor walls to say hello. In Alaska, I watched humpbacks break the surface, their massive backs cresting like islands being born, exhaling plumes of mist that caught the rose-gold light before falling back to the sea.

Yet nothing thrilled me more than when I read the other day of the underwater safari that rescued a Mobula Ray off Baja California.

They’d been chasing nothing but rope and drifting buoys when one buoy turned out to be a distressed ray thirty feet deep, tangled so tight it couldn’t slice a breath. Three eight-foot silky sharks circled just out of reach, drawn to the scent of panic.

In shifts, seven divers plunged down with knives clenched between fingers, slashing line as the ray thrashed. One misplaced cut, one drop of blood, and they’d have invited those sharks in. But piece by piece, they freed her.

When she broke the surface, she paused not more than 100 feet away—then spun back toward her rescuers in a perfect “thank you” circle, nose brushing their faces as if to hug them back. She drifted off wounded but alive, vanishing into the blue with their hearts in tow.

I can’t say why the ocean calls every one of us home, except this: the salt coursing through our veins mirrors the salt in its waves. When we sail or simply watch the horizon, we’re returning to whence we came.

“…it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean… we are tied to the ocean.” President John F. Kennedy’s remarks at the dinner for the America’s Cup Crews, September 14, 1962.

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Darryl Armstrong’s BETWEEN THE TRACKS 5 STARS ON AMAZON! Beth Ann Schmucker says:  A delightful book of short stories. It is always so refreshing to read/listen to someone as insightful as Mr. Armstrong. He turns everyday things I tend to overlook into meaningful words. One of my major lessons from this is to quit racing through each moment and slow down to smell all the roses! Much love to your family, sir!

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