The sound of water was constant and therapeutic, like a nightstand’s white noise generator. But for the school of fish gathered underneath the bilge pump of the ship, the drip-drip-drip was a dinner bell: The kitchen window was directly above it, and the chef had been tossing out scraps all day in preparation for dinner that night.
It was day one of five of my tour of the Galápagos Islands, and I had just boarded the ship. Ever gregarious, I went in search of new friends. A kind-looking older gentleman was taking in the moment above the port-side railing. He looked the sort who would appreciate a joke. I sauntered up alongside the rail with what, in my mind, was a fantastic suggestion: “I want to do a cannonball right into the middle of those fish. Wouldn’t that be hilarious?”
Without missing a beat, he responded in a grandfatherly tone: “Yes, it would. Those are pufferfish.”
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