The Dingle Dolphin wants to befriend humans - does he know something we don't?
You'll have heard of Fungie, a male bottlenose who has forsaken the open sea to live inside the harbour mouth of Dingle in Ireland, a placid, shallowish inlet bordered by low verdant hills that are speckled with sheep.
According to local legend, he has been swimming around in this area, not much bigger than a few city blocks, since October 1983.
It doesn't seem like an auspicious place for a dolphin to settle. Though the bay is sheltered from snarlier North Atlantic conditions – churning seas, huffing winds – dolphins are well equipped for these things and seem to revel in the action: surfing down the faces of waves, leaping through the wakes of ships, playing in the maelstrom. By comparison, the Dingle harbour is a pond. So what was a full-grown bottlenose with an entire ocean at his disposal doing in this fish tank? And where was his pod? Being part of a pod means protection, hunting success, society, sex, kin – the fundamentals of dolphin existence. A solitary dolphin is like a floating oxymoron. So how did this one survive?
The tales of Fungie the loner dolphin seem improbable. But surprisingly, there are others like him. Scientists don't know why it happens, but tales of dolphins befriending humans reach far back into history. Aristotle wrote offhandedly about dolphins' "passionate attachment to boys", as if everyone just knew this as a fact. In the year AD 77, Pliny the Elder recounted the story of a dolphin named Simo who formed a bond with a boy who fed him bits of bread, giving him rides in return.
In other words, dolphins do not always differentiate between us and them. Maybe that was why Fungie had made his home among the residents of Dingle. To him, perhaps, they were just a slightly peculiar-looking pod.
I drove down to Dingle from Dublin, winding through green and peaceful country, through bustling little cities and quaint little towns, then parked my car near the town square and got out to take a look around. Behind a life-size statue of Fungie there was a stone building that looked like a harbourmaster's office; its windows were plastered with Fungie posters and advertisements and press clippings. One announced that "fun-loving Fungie the dolphin has somersaulted into the record books... as The Most Loyal Animal on the Planet!"
To win this title, I read, Fungie had outdone a Risso's dolphin named Pelorus Jack who spent 24 years, from 1888 to 1912, escorting ships through New Zealand's tricky Cook Strait. Before the dolphin stepped in, these waters had hosted a number of New Zealand's worst maritime disasters. Pelorus Jack's job, as he performed it, was to guide boats to a safe crossing. Usually he would just materialise at the bow; if he didn't, captains would often stall their vessels and wait.
he next morning I bought a ticket for the Lady Avalon, a sturdy blue and white trawler, for a tour of Dingle Bay, where a dinghy, a white Zodiac, and a trio of sailboats circled.
"Anyone see him anywhere?" The captain, stuck his head out of the wheelhouse. No one had, but not for lack of looking. Then, suddenly, from our stern, a lady in a yellow slicker yelled: "There he is! Oh my god! I saw him!"
With a whooshing outbreath the dolphin had surfaced, and he was close enough that I could see his distinctive, gnarled face. Fungie looked pugilistic, and disconcertingly huge, with white markings around his chin like an old man's whiskers. He bore noticeable scars: his beak was roughed-up at the tip and his tail was missing a divot. On his throat he had the dolphin equivalent of deep wrinkles. Still, this was a big, tough bottlenose. I had read that Fungie was 12ft long and weighed 700lbs, but those numbers are low. My first thought was that the Most Loyal Animal on the Planet could knock someone's lights out if he wanted to.
Watching the dolphin, I felt a palpable glee emanating from him. No wonder the town had claimed him as their own – he was a skilled entertainer. He made perfect aerial arcs, walked on his tail and at one point swam along on his back, clapping his pectoral fins.
Observing him, I found myself wondering if Fungie's past might have included a stint in captivity; if, back in the day, he had lived in a sea pen and somehow escaped. It had been known to happen, especially during storms. Unfortunately, they don't always know where to go or what to do with their sudden freedom, and so they seek out what they're accustomed to: people. Could Fungie be a refugee? We can only guess. But back at the docks, I decided to share my theory, with the skipper. "It seems like someone must have trained him," I said. "Do you know if they did?"
The captain , who had been smiling pleasantly enough before I said this, turned and stared at me hard. A shadow passed fast over his face, darkening it like a thundercloud.
"Not at all," he said curtly, turning away dismissively. "He is a totally wild animal."
In so many ways, I came to realise, Dingle is a best-case scenario for a podless dolphin. There is no way to watch Fungie and doubt that he is having fun. He hunts for his own food. He is savvy enough to avoid propellers and dodge assholes. He has bonded with people but he's not completely isolated from his own species. (Lately, he has been seen gallivanting with two females.) In all situations the town protects his interests. And if The Most Loyal Animal on the Planet ever decides that he has been loyal to Dingle for long enough, he is free to leave as he pleases.
Obviously, the town is praying that never happens. What's good for Fungie is good for them. But as I drove away from Dingle, the bay shining behind me, I gave my own silent thanks to the people who had cared enough to protect a lone dolphin, the town with a Fungie-shaped space in its heart.
This is an edited extract from 'Voices in the Ocean' by Susan Casey (£16.99, Oneworld)
