Jellyfish Musings

From the Cape Cod Times

...The other day, something else was there — and in the low water just off shore. About a dozen jellyfish were drifting in the shallows or washed up on shore. ...I watched them for several minutes, as they pulsated in the surf, floating and then falling, and then disappearing from view.

I was reminded as I stood there, how as a child of the Great Lakes — Chicago and Lake Michigan, to be exact — I was completely unprepared for the wonder of the ocean when I arrived here 25 years ago.

I felt a surge of that ocean innocence watching the jellyfish. In that instant it was as if I were seeing the ocean for the first time, feeling that initial awe at the otherworldliness of the realm of the seas. I couldn't wait to get home, get my hands on a field guide and relearn whatever I once thought I knew about the natural history of the jellyfish.

I was not disappointed by what I found. The most straightforward information came from "The Outer Lands: A Natural History Guide to Cape Cod, Martha's Vineyard, Black Island and Long Island," by Dorothy Sterling (W. W. Norton & Co., 1978).

"Although jellyfish are creatures of the open sea, great numbers of them drift to shore during the summer," she writes. "Relatives of sea anemones and hydroids, their simple bodies consist of two layers of cells enclosing a jellylike substance.

"The blue-white moon jelly is bell-shaped, with a fringe of stinging tentacles and four dangling mouth parts. It swims in a series of rhythmical pulsations, which are almost like heartbeats. When a bell contracts, forcing out water, the jellyfish moves upward. As the bell expands again, the animal slowly sinks down. On its downward trip, with the bell spread out like a parachute, it snares plankton the animals on which it feeds. Simple sense organs on the margin of the bell control its movements."

Simple? Not to me. The undulations of the moon jelly are symphonic in their beauty and complexity. Under the eye of a marine biologist, the organism might register as more or less simple in the context of the range of life or the array of mechanics involved in movement.

To me, however, the apparent lack of intricacy makes it more accessible to imagination.

What I can fathom, I might understand; what I apprehend, I can cherish. Here on the shore, learning to appreciate anew the creatures just beyond, I might renew the sense of the miraculous in my own sphere. I could recall how precious life is, and remember how to love.