WE landlubbing layabouts barely have time to panic about the idea of breathing through a snorkel, before the Rockingham Wild Encounters boat screeches to a halt and we’re urged: “Go go go!”
“Mnf!” I exclaim through my snorkel as we’re swiftly surrounded by six female bottle-nosed dolphins. “Fngh!”
For the next hour, as we cling onto each other’s belts and gawk, these girls tumble over, skim past our noses like bullets, swoop at us from below and arc through the air in twos and threes. At one point they all stop and lurk at the bottom and I’m convinced they’re plotting an attack – just for a larf – but dolphin dude Justin assures me dolphins are too busy thinking about rooting to think about attacking.
After a mere hour of living out our long-held dreams, pretty much everyone’s ready to pack it in – this ocean’s a bit nippy, as it turns out. As I climb back up onto the deck, my wetsuit puffs out with seawater like a Goodyear blimp and my arse won’t stop shaking. Where are the sandwiches?
“We can’t beat ’em off with a stick,” our skipper says admiringly, as the dolphins swim right up to the steps of the boat and eye us beadily. “And where the hell do you think you’re going?” they seem to be saying – as well they might.
Keeper: At $200, I might just have to treasure the memory.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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