One man's reflection about the seas and what it means to our lives.
ENCHANTED WATERS
 The penguins darted and turned so quickly and effortlessly it seemed they were in possession of some magical technology from another galaxy. At each turn they sent shoals of silvery minnows into a frenzied, glimmering dance over the bright, sun-dabbed reef. I floated over the Technicolor, life-and-death scene entranced, like some interloper in a Discovery Channel special.
At one point, my reverie was interrupted when a Galapagos penguin, the only tropical member of its species, swiveled below me and swam directly toward my head. Like a feathery, torpedo-shaped cork it popped to the surface less than a foot from my mask. I froze, transfixed, as the penguin shook itself, sending a fine spray onto my sunburned forehead. It paddled nonchalantly within six inches from my face passing me with no more interest than if I were an outcropping of lava before ducking swiftly beneath the surface to resume pursuit of its prey.
Later that day I was snorkeling with my son, Caleb, my daughter, Alexis and Mimi, my wife – all helping me celebrate my 60th birthday in the Enchanted Isles. We were swimming – cavorting, really – with a pack of sea lions, perhaps 30 in all. The pups and females were playing with abandon among some inshore rocks, and seemed to welcome us to their joyful party. I swam over a tightly-knit grouping of six or eight sea lions playing nose-sackey a dozen feet below me with a green sea urchin. I couldn’t resist taking a deep breath and diving toward them. As I approached the group I was surprised when, instead of swimming away, they slowly parted and allowed me into their midst. Within seconds I was fully surrounded by these gentle and playful beasts and giggling uncontrollably into my mask and snorkel as they nudged me with their soft pelts and rubbery flippers. A few minutes later I was cavorting with another young sea lion. We were about 10 feet down when the pup turned suddenly and made straight for my mask, coming so close I could see the tiny bubbles trapped in the hairs of his muzzle. As he swam above me, I rolled backward in chase so that I was now staring up at the silvery blue surface and me swimming belly to belly with my sleek new friend. For a few glorious minutes I ceased being Jim Gilbert. I was simply alive, suddenly released into an altered, egoless universe, a friend to no one and to everyone. There was no up or down, today or tomorrow, right or wrong, no mine or theirs. I was free from the common, numbing confines of my everyday life and remained in this state of transposed bliss until I burst above the surface, gasping for breath and cursing my lungs for making me a captive of the land once again.
For seven glorious days and nights we sailed through the Galapagos, reveling at the abundance of life. We swam with turtles and sharks and watched blue-footed boobies in their extravagant breeding color. On one island we had to step carefully along a marked trail to avoid stepping on albatross nests just inches from our feet. It was unnatural to be so close to these magnificent birds, which spend most of their lives soaring over the vast, unpopulated reaches of the sea.
As an advocate and activist for protecting our seas and their life, there was a surreal quality to witnessing such quantity and diversity of marine life. In my daily life, after all, I spend much of my time convincing people of the looming crisis we face from our rapidly deteriorating oceans. I felt something akin to guilt for having the privilege to enjoy such a seemingly pristine place, and a creeping doubt that, perhaps, the oceans are not as threatened as I thought. Why should the Galapagos, remote as they are, be immune from such things as warming and rising seas and increasing acidity?
My perspective returned when I visited Lonesome George, a giant tortoise at a breeding refuge on Santa Cruz. There, I learned that millions upon millions of these magnificent gentle giants had been killed for food by passing mariners over the years. Then, goats and exotic vegetation made the island so inhospitable that only a small number of mating tortoises are left. Lonesome George likely will be the last of his kind and is not alone in his fate. In fact, more than a thousand different Galapaganian species – more than anywhere else in the world – are threatened. The Enchanted Isles might be one of the last remaining paradises, but it has not escaped unscathed. It is only because of its remoteness and the fierce protection of its current human caretakers that it remains as pristine as it is.
Reading stories about the early visitors to the Galapagos brought home the reality that we gauge the world from the bias of our extremely limited perspectives. Our version of environmental “reality” is based mostly on comparing the quantity and quality of fish, or reefs, or birdlife we experienced in our youth or what our parents or grandparents might have told us. Looking at the photos of the early Pacific explorers, I realize that, even 150 years ago the Galapagos had already been significantly degraded, and what we witness now in every ocean is but a pale and vanishing ghost of the life the seas once held.
At 60, I am enough of a realist to know we will never return to the good ol’ days. Like it or not, we are part of nature, too, with the capacity to do both damage and good. Still, as I remember that magical week, I am joyful for the beauty I witnessed and grateful for sharing these experiences with family and friends. And while nothing in nature remains fixed – certainly this is the most lasting legacy left by the Galapagos’ most famous visitor, Charles Darwin – the continuing ability of these islands to enchant and enthrall us serves as a vivid reminder of the precious gifts we have been entrusted. Even diminished, our seas can be a paradise with the ability to nurture both our bodies and our spirit. The choice, of course, is up to us. 
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