The year is 1981. I am snorkeling in my gym shoes by myself in the Indian Ocean off the coast of Mombasa not too far off shore. I wear the gym shoes because there is a deadly species of urchin and poisonous rockfish that dwell in the shallows. Something isn’t right. I feel a tingling sensation across my body. It turns into a burning sensation and I swim hard towards shore. The burning is gone. I look around  in my mask but I don’t see anything. Standing on the shore, I have a rash and some welts that go from my right shoulder, across my stomach, and on my left thigh. A black man points to a picture of a jellyfish on a large outdoor chart showing all the dangerous creatures in this sea.

The year is 2005. Max and I paddle a tandem sea kayak in the Pacific Ocean off the coastline of Sitka Alaska. Bruce and Brooke ride in a second. Our guide rides along in a kayak by himself. We paddle over a bloom of moon jellies: white, translucent jellies with white circles on the top of their bell like a four leaf iridescent white clover. There are thousands of them.  Our guide tells us that no one knows how these brainless creatures find one another. It seems especially prudent not to swamp here.

Present day. Max, my mom, and I watch the jellyfish from the safety of the Monterrey bay aquarium. The orange glow of the pacific stinging nettles against the blue backdrop offers the most vivid display. The orange bell looks like the hull of an alien spaceship. Curly white strands hang from the bottom center of the bell like some disemboweled fish. Long black stinging strands hang from the edges like the strings of a deployed parachute missing its diver. The bell flattens expanding at the edges. The center surges forward as the jelly expels water to move forward. The motion gracefully ripples like a pond ripple through the body inching the jelly ever so slightly forward. So goes the last of my significant encounters with these ancient ubiquitous denizens of the sea: both beauty and the beast.