If anyone had asked me before that year about uncharted places, I'd have told them they belonged to wild roads and towns with names like Eggs And Bacon Bay, or Olifantsfontein, not to a modern glass building in the heart of Baltimore harbor. But uncharted places aren’t always hidden. Sometimes, they’re just waiting for you to need them.
I found the Baltimore Aquarium by accident, which is saying something, since it’s pretty hard to miss. My daughter was inside Johns Hopkins, a few blocks away, participating in a cancer clinical trial that was somehow both hopeful and terror-inspiring. I had two hours to fill and was desperate for air that didn’t smell like antiseptic and lights that weren’t glaringly harsh.
I wandered until the harbor came into view and the blue glow of the aquarium’s entrance drew me in. Inside, it was dim and hushed, like a cathedral built for exhaling.
There was a gift shop with funny stuffed sea creatures and silly fish-related gift items. Upstairs, a new world. A labyrinth of glassed-in oceans and wonderous wet environments unwound before me. I drifted past huge tanks of moon jellies, marveled at iridescent Lookdowns and an improbable Longnose Gar. I lingered to watch a slow ballet by Kai, the rescued green sea turtle. I lost myself for awhile in the Amazon Forest. Then, just when I thought I'd seen it all and started to backtrack to the entrance, I found her.
She was an octopus, curled among rocks, one curious eye watching me watch her. I named her Olivia, because she looked wise and a little bit wicked, and I needed to give my affection somewhere to live. Olivia moved with a grace that made me feel big and clumsy. Each tentacled arm moved independently, yet synchronized with the others. The ache in my chest faded, replaced by awe. I watched Olivia solve a puzzle feeder, the same way my daughter liked to solve math problems. When she magically changed color as a small child pressed her face into the glass, I wanted to climb in with her.
I let my mind go quiet. In that dark, the world felt gentle and beautiful. Uncharted, yes, but also safe.
That two hours became a ritual. Every week, when the trial schedule allowed, I’d slip away to the Aquarium. Eventually, my daughter joined me, though not for those special visits to the undersea kingdom, because it closed before her appointments ended. We'd walk the boardwalk, dine at little out-of-the-way places, and snap funny photos and buy souvenirs. We built a tiny map of ordinary wonders. It didn’t register at the time that we were making memories I’d one day have to revisit alone.
On the final day of the trial, I wasn't able to get away for the Aquarium visit, but I made it a point to stop to say goodbye to Olivia on our way out of the city. It was closing time and I had to hurry. I reached her habitat, but it was empty. I searched nearby to see if she had been temporarily relocated, to no avail. When an attendant passed, I asked, and was told that Olivia had died.
I remember stumbling toward the exit, fighting back tears, and by the time I reached the car I was in full sobbing mode. My shocked daughter asked what had happened and when I told her, she said "Ok mom, I think there's a little bit of transference going on here." She patted my back and reminded me that octopus don't live long in captivity. That was Alex. Compassionate but pragmatic.
Transference or not, I think I really had grown to love Olivia. I never returned to the Baltimore Aquarium, though I still find myself drawn to aquariums in general. Their hush, the solace, the impossible creatures who keep living in the blue.
Now that my daughter is also gone, I find myself cherishing the memories we made on that boardwalk. I think the real uncharted places are the ones you can’t plot on a map, the moments when the world opens up just wide enough for you to breathe again. The Baltimore Aquarium isn’t a secret, far-off place. But it became my secret harbor, a place I found when I needed it most, a place where I could let go for a while, make beautiful memories, and fall in love with an octopus named Olivia.
In memory of the beautiful (and pragmatic) Alex Isaacs. https://obituaries.carewellcremations.com/alexandra-isaacs
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