Aquatic Alphabet. From an ocean kayak I watch a pod of barnacle-encrusted whales rise slowly to the surface, breathe and resubmerge. Gouged, engraved hides speak volumes about life in this rough ocean. The incisions on their bodies look like glacier marks on rock surfaces, and in the subtropical heat I am transported to the icefield and remember the paragraphs inscribed into glacial till. On shore, workers kneeling on top of an old hut untie bundles of palm fronds to repair the palapa, or roof, and add this new layer of natural waterproofing. One of them stands for a moment to watch a legion of brown pelicans.

Wings folded tightly to their bodies, pelicans plummet into the surf, one after another in rapid succession. Having sighted lunch from the air, they dive and strike the water with such force that fish six feet below the surface can be stunned; air pockets eclosed in membranes under the bird's breast skin protect them upon impact. Pouches suspended from the lower part of their beaks scoop up seventeen pints of water...vatan, paahu, voda, vand, akvo, eau.

If Pelecanus occidentalis were part of the contemporary constellation lexicon, this web-footed bird would take its place in the watery quadrant of the night sky and be poised near the two fish in Pisces, waiting eternally for a meal.--B.I.