01.06.2026

Many years ago—when I was still a "young professional"—I considered switching careers from banking and finance to Dear-God-anything-else-but-this-please.

I’d love to tell you this change of heart was well-reasoned and well-researched, but it wasn’t. What it is, is a story I still tell to this day. And I promise you, it is 100% true and exactly as I remember it—because although this happened in the 1990s, it feels like it happened yesterday.

Decades ago, there was a SeaWorld—yes, that SeaWorld—located not far from where I lived at the time in Northeast Ohio. I’d gone there as a visitor several times and had become absolutely enthralled with the people who worked with and trained the dolphins and whales.

I mentioned this new obsession to a friend, who happened to know someone who worked there. That person—who had never met me—somehow facilitated a meet-and-greet with the head trainer.

Now, a couple of things right up front:

• I don’t know what the proper attire is when interviewing for a job involving whales and dolphins, but I learned that it is not a suit from Casual Corner and a pair of heels by Liz Claiborne.

• This was not like theatre, where you say you know how to do something and then go learn it. Nevertheless, I had firmly convinced myself that if I got this (entirely nonexistent) job, I would overcome my phobia of water and finally master the skill that had eluded me since age six: swimming.

• Speaking of theatre, a degree in this art form is great, but it doesn’t quite outrank a master’s in marine biology. Apparently, the folks at SeaWorld prioritized people who could identify a dolphin over people who could tell you what it felt like to be one.

I was greeted at the gate by the head trainer, Ted—an athletic man who looked exactly like the kind of guy who trained whales for a living. He led me to the entrance of the massive tank area, where I was required to put my feet into a solvent that removed anything that might harm the animals.

After decontaminating my brand-new shoes, we entered a building between the dolphins’ pool and the whales’. I assumed the space would be full of dolphin- and whale-related items—food, equipment, flippers on hangers, I don’t know. Instead, it housed a complete fitness center: weights, machines, and equipment clearly intended to build serious strength.

The more Ted explained, the more my heart sank. It was quickly replaced by wave after wave (no pun intended) of embarrassment. What exactly was I thinking? I had no business wasting his—or the whales’—time.

But Ted was gracious, patient, and kind, so the tour continued. Soon I found myself facing three curious, mischievous dolphins who instantly recognized a fool when they saw one.

Ted taught me a hand signal that would send the dolphins around the pool and back again. He demonstrated, and they immediately obeyed like the champion athletes they are.

Then it was my turn.

I gave the signal. The dolphins looked at me. Then at Ted. Then back at me again.

They didn’t move a single flipper.

I briefly considered throwing myself into the pool and prayed that I would instantly drop to the bottom and drown. But then I realized that since I couldn’t swim, either Ted—or the dolphins—would rescue me, thereby making the whole situation even more embarrassing than it was—if that were even possible. So I stayed on land.

Ted soldiered on. Next, he instructed me to place my hand on top of the water. The dolphins would swim beneath my palm, but I needed to be careful because my nails could scratch their skin. Also, I absolutely must avoid touching their genitals.

I assured Ted this was not something I typically struggled with.

Naturally, one smarty-pants dolphin took a lap, positioned himself just so, and arranged for my hand to land exactly where it shouldn’t. Trust me—few things are more mortifying than being reprimanded for accidently assaulting Flipper by a man wearing a wetsuit.

But wait. My Day of Shame had barely begun.

We moved to the orca pool, where two enormous, exquisite whales swam up and opened their mouths. I realized instantly that they could swallow me whole if I happened to slip off the deck.

I also learned that none of the whales were actually named Shamu. Shamu is their stage name. Their “real names,” which Ted asked me not to share, remain the only shred of dignity I preserved from that day.

Ted handed me one of the whales’ Styrofoam toys—a 35-pound foam barrel—and told me to throw it. I did. The whale dove to the far end of the pool, placed the barrel on her snout, and then launched it back at me. It hit me square in the chest and knocked me backward into a concrete wall.

That was the end of my “date” with Shamu.

I also learned that there are buttons located on the sides of the pools so the whales can press them with their snouts and summon a specific trainer. For example, if Ted’s button had a star on it and the whale wanted Ted, she’d swim up, press the star, and Ted would emerge from the marine building.

Another thing I learned: unlike the SeaWorlds in sunnier climates, the Ohio location was open 366 days a year. The park was closed to the public in the winter, but the animals weren’t sent elsewhere during that time. That meant someone was always on call—including Christmas and New Year’s—to feed them, clean the pools, and manage whatever needs the whales and dolphins might have.

That same day, I also learned that whale excrement is, in Ted’s words, “pretty heavy.”

The Ohio SeaWorld closed in 2000 for, I assume, a number of business reasons. I can only hope one of them wasn’t the whales and dolphins begging Ted to keep idiots like me far, far away from them.

Meanwhile, I returned to my job in finance, where I dealt with a completely different kind of marine animal. Compared to the barracudas I worked with, Shamu was a sweet little goldfish.