Swimming With Otters

Photo by hamikus via Pixabay (Public Domain, CC0 1.0)

I'm not much for jumping on bandwagons. I'd rather be the first to do something that becomes popular later or be the only one to go somewhere few would choose to go.

I just don't like following trends. And when something gets too popular, too publicized, too pedestrian, I usually recoil.

But there are exceptions to everything, aren't there?

Case in point: goat yoga.

But that fits perfectly in the narrative of the Life of Sandi. I find animals therapeutic. I seek out goats as well as parrots and llamas and alpacas and foxes and cows and sheep and pretty much all manner of fauna.

I'm pretty much always looking to make a meaningful connection with some member of the Animal Kingdom. Sometimes—perhaps by chance—some beast or critter grants me my wish.

So, it wasn't the fact that Nurtured By Nature's "Swimming With Otters" program had become an instant internet hit that brought me on a last minute excursion to North San Diego County this week.

In fact, I'd first heard about it maybe in late 2015—when spots were still available, but I couldn't afford the price.

In early 2016, I'd started working again and had a little money and a little availability, so I tried to book—but at the time, spots were filling up months in advance.

The next time I tried later that year, the rest of the year was completely booked up—as was the entire year of 2017.

No dates for 2018 had been announced yet.

I'd missed my window of opportunity. But despite the fervor that had grown around this otter encounter, I still wanted to go.

I thought it might ease my PTSD. I thought I'd benefit from the oxytocin. And I thought I'd have a lot of fun.



And now that I've managed to swim with the otters, I realize that I'd been right—on all three counts.



So, if all of 2017 had been completely sold out since last year, how did I get in? It's simple: persistence and patience.



For months, I checked Nurtured By Nature's website, email newsletter, and Facebook page diligently, waiting to pounce on any cancellation or any added time slot. At the very least, I thought I'd try to get a leg up on ticket sales for next year's dates, whenever they were announced. (As of right now, they're still not.)



And then by some miracle, the announcement was posted: Three spots had opened up. The only problem? I didn't see the post until hours later.



By the time I got to it, there was one spot that still remained open. I didn't have time to doubt myself. I didn't dare check the balance on my bank account. I just clicked "BOOK," and next thing I knew I was embarking on a three hour drive just before 7 a.m. on Wednesday morning.



Needless to say, the otters—not river ones like in Emmett Otter's Jugband Christmas, and not sea otters like in Morro Bay, but Asian small-clawed otters (Aonyx cinerea)—were worth it.



Earlier in our visit, we'd played with a bunch of babies that squeaked like little chicks or ducklings as they wrestled with each other and ran around us in a pack, climbing up our bodies to investigate our hair and look down our shirts and gnawing on shoelaces and sandals and toes.



In the afternoon, we stripped down to our suits and plunged into a warm, backyard pool that overlooks the stunning Pauma Valley, with a small group of adult Asian small-clawed otters to follow.



Nothing is sacred with these little cutie pies. They go down shirts, out armholes, between legs, and up shorts. They have a ball with the simplest of pool toys—and especially the multi-colored aquarium stones that are like gold to those otters. Put one down your shirt, and they'll dig it out. Let them grab one out of a plastic cup or bottle, and they'll deposit down your top or your bottom.



They are feisty and playful, perfectly happy to chomp down on a rope and have you twirl them in circles forever (or until you fall down in a fit of dizziness, whichever comes first).

We were probably ready to get out of the water before they were—but only because our cameras were wet, our fingers were pruney, and our bodies were exhausted from play.

I woke up the next morning feeling hungover from all the giggling I did. And you know what they say about laughter being the best medicine—something that appears to be true, no matter what ails ya.

It's no wonder this is a favorite for terminally-ill kids sponsored by the Make-a-Wish Foundation. It's too bad it can't be made more widely available for more of us with disabilities and chronic illnesses.

Imagine if a doctor could prescribe an otter swim to you as he would an emotional support animal, therapy dog, or—more likely—antidepressant or pain pill.

Will "otter swimming" start popping up all over the country—or even the world—soon? It's probably better if it doesn't.

Unlike goats, which are an abundant species of domesticated animals that actually make very good pets, the small-clawed otter is listed as having a "vulnerable" conservation status—which means it's threatened and one step away from becoming endangered—and they're so social and active that they don't make very good pets. (At least with goats, you could stop at having just a pair; but with otters, you'd need an entire lodge of them.)

Thanks to breeding programs at zoos and aquariums, there's a healthy population of small-clawed otters in captivity; but, in the wild, their Southeast Asian habitat is slowly being destroyed by development and they're still subject to hunting and poaching for both their pelts and their meat.

After all, there's a fine line between driving awareness about certain wild animals and creating a fad that ultimately sabotages the survival of the species.

So, I hope that we use this otter gift for good and not for evil.

Let's just enjoy their company and let them enjoy ours—as they seemed to do in the pool with me and a handful of others earlier this week.

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Is It Worth the Wait?

It bills itself as "The Ultimate Disney Fan Event."



But, based on my experience of D23 today at the Anaheim Convention Center, either it's not, in fact, the ultimate event for fans...



...nor am I the ultimate fan.



I can think of better ways to spend my Sunday morning than standing in line for two hours outside the Anaheim Arena (1967, Adrian Wilson and Associates).



I can think of better reasons to stand in line for two hours than to attend a convention that's designed to keep me out of its most desirable events and attractions.



And I can think of better reasons to spend $60 than on a ticket for admission to a convention that just tries to sell me more things—and then makes me wait in line even longer to buy them.



For some people, it must be worth it—to spend not just one morning but three whole days this way. I suppose if you've been initiated into the cult of Disney, this could be your revival meeting.



But this morning, as I examined the faces of all those people who were in the same boat as me...



...I didn't see anybody really looking very happy.



Most everyone—especially those who'd bothered to dress in costume—seemed to be asking the question, "When will then be now?"



But "then" couldn't come soon enough for most of us—and by the time I got inside, after two hours' worth of waiting outside, I only had about an hour left in me to look around and learn something I didn't know.



I don't regret the money I'd spent on today's event...



...because I learned a valuable (albeit expensive) lesson.

circa 2016

I may be fascinated with many of Walt's historical contributions to modern amusements, but I'd much rather do than watch.

circa 2016

At least at Disneyland, there's a ride waiting for me at the end of the line.

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The Cult of the Happiest Place on Earth [Updated for 2026]

[Last updated 4/24/26 5:31 PM PT—A Bug's Land closed in 2018 and was replaced by the Avengers Campus. The Tower of Terror lost its hotel/Twilight Zone theming in 2017 and was reskinned as Guardians of the Galaxy — Mission: BREAKOUT! within the same structure and with the same "dropping elevator" mechanism. The Red Car no longer runs on the tracks through Carthay Circle, but there is one still on stationary display there.]

I've caught the bug.



The Disneyland bug, that is.

Looking Down the Barrel of 40

I've been dreading this week for over a year.

I think I've been dreading this week for my entire life.

On Wednesday, I turn 40.

I know plenty of people turn 40 every day—or even 50, or 60—and they say they feel young, and life is just starting for them.

But I don't want to be 40.

I don't want to be 40 and single. I don't want to be 40 and poor. I don't want to be 40 living in a studio apartment with no pets, clutching a stuffed pig as I fall asleep every night.

I don't want to be 40 and damaged goods.

I mourn the life I could've had, if I'd gotten the help I needed earlier. If I'd been spared the trauma that haunts me. If I could have had just one less disability.

When I turned 30, everybody was excited for me. My older female friends told me my 30s were going to be great. Everything would settle out. I would find peace.

Unfortunately, that didn't happen. I jumped out of a plane for my 30th birthday, and I just kept falling, for the next ten years.

When my 40th birthday began approaching, I couldn't figure out how I could "outdo" skydiving. I've already driven a race car. I've already shot guns and paraglided and kayaked the Salton Sea.

But there was one thing I'd never done before, that kept nagging at me. It would feel like a celebration. It would be magical. It would be special.

When I turn 40, in the depths of my despair, I'm going to the happiest place on earth.

I'm going to Disneyland.

Fortunately I've got two partners in crime willing to go with me.

I hope to take some photos while I'm there, since it will be my first time (and it's fully dressed for Halloween), but if I don't, it's because my hands are full of popcorn or ice cream. Or Goofy.

I need something to look forward to. I'm dreading the next 40 years.

The Things I Used to Love

I used to be full of love.

Back in 2011, moving to LA was a great kick in the pants for me – the reset button I needed after my four final, difficult years in New York City.

Even though I lost the job that moved me out here, I decided to stay in LA, and not just because I loved its sunshine, and the year-round ability to swim outside, go hiking, and ride my bike.

I loved LA.

Now...I'm not so sure.

I'm not so sure I love anything anymore.

In dire times such as these, I used to seek solace in my apartment, my gorgeous apartment in a charming Art Deco building in Beverly Hills, the nicest neighborhood you could imagine for a hand-me-down girl like me. But when I lost my job in April and began working for my landlady so I could keep paying the rent, everything went sour. Home was work; work was home. I was on call all day and all night, throughout the week and weekends. Boundaries ceased to exist. I ceased to be a tenant, with tenant's rights. I fielded accusatory emails in ALL CAPS from the woman who controlled my living conditions. My own (legit) residential complaints were ignored, my every intention questioned.

And now, heartbreakingly, I hate it here, and can't wait to get away from it all when my lease is up in April.

But where will I go?

When I got laid off in April, I sought a sense of purpose and a feeling of usefulness everywhere around me. I welcomed volunteering. I went way beyond the call of duty for my job as field agent for Atlas Obscura – which, in some ways, had been a dream job for me, working for my favorite website. But beware of working with what you love, because, like the music industry for music lovers, it kind of ruins it for you. And sometimes, when you try to help, when you take initiative, when you work really hard and spend a lot of time on something, your efforts aren't welcomed. Your motives come off as suspicious. You're bossy. You're too opinionated, with a endless supply of criticisms. And so you're ignored, which just makes it worse because you try harder to make your helpful recommendations not fall upon deaf ears. And, after many unpleasant confrontations and a few tears, you finally realize you are fighting a losing battle. You give up, and you shut up. And you don't love it anymore. And you may never again.

Even despite the car accident which rendered me whiplashed, socially awkward, and dyslexic, I tried so hard to remain relevant and indispensable, in whichever ways I could. Even though I was in constant physical pain. Even though I couldn't have a normal spontaneous conversation, especially with strangers. But I could recite rehearsed lines, and I could bypass dyslexia enough to read off a page, so I continued to attend my beloved Tuesday night cold reading series, the first community to welcome me to LA after I moved here. I even managed to fill in as co-host, somehow finding the right spiel to say in front of 100 people when I had a hard time conjuring words in one-on-one encounters. But somehow, after our annual summer break and the time spent apart, absence made my heart grow colder, and I don't love it anymore. I've had a hard time going back since we resumed in September: I've skipped several weeks and have left early the times I have managed to go. I was so devoted to it for so long – I arrived early and stayed late, every week – and now...I just...can't.

I was looking forward to October because the month-long celebration of Halloween always soothes me, but somehow, this year, I'm not getting much out of it. I've got my costumes together, but I'm not looking forward to wearing them. So far, I haven't been filling my calendar with spooky adventures or haunted houses. Not like before, anyway.

So what can I do? What does "do it" for me anymore? Not record shopping, which is how I would pass hours of my time back in New York City. Not talking on the phone to my friends, who I used to call daily. Not even giving out my phone number, or meeting new guys, or getting taken out to dinner. I don't want to do any of it.

I'm tired.

I'm tired of trying.

When I moved to LA, I absorbed it voraciously. I took my ethos of "avoiding regret" very seriously. I took every road trip I could. I crossed every place off my list. I got up at dawn to go hiking in some far-flung locale, changed my clothes at the car, bathed in public restrooms, and spent all day out on adventures, saving enough energy to tear up the night without a nap.

I burned myself out.

I guess I knew it could happen, but I was worried about leaving LA, or LA changing, before I could experience everything. I was worried about leaving a stone unturned.

And now that I'm still here, I don't know what there is left for me. I don't know that I have any energy for those stones that surely do remain.

Maybe LA is too big for me.

Maybe I'm not as strong as I thought I was.

Maybe I just ran out of love.

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Elevation: Sea Level

When I was in therapy in New York, my therapist thought my biggest problem was something she identified as "poisonous thoughts."

This generated out of a conversation in which I stated that the status quo in my life was unhappiness - misery, depression, disappointment - and that anything happy, pleasurable, joyful, satisfying was merely a fleeting experience, an exception to the rule.

In her opinion, my life wasn't bad (though some bad things had happened to me), I wasn't bad, but the way I thought about things was the worst of all.

At the time, I was the polar opposite of my father, who posited that happiness provided the baseline measurement, and that it could be defined by an absence of sadness. For him (a man I never knew to be depressed though I could've never faulted him for it given his job and marriage to my mother), life's slings and arrows were merely aberrations, interruptions in a pleasant, placid existence of same ol' same ol', in which no news is good news.

I never admired my father's complacency with mediocrity. I pitied it. It took a lot more to make me happy, and even then, I could only achieve happiness in the moment - eating, drinking, kissing, sleeping - and never become happy as a person.


Now that I've moved to California, out in the open air, I'm still unhappy - but I'm unhappy about things, I wouldn't say I'm an unhappy person. Don't get me wrong, I'm not perched atop a mountain of happiness, but I'm not deep down in the lowlands of Badwater either.

Instead, I've found some middle ground between the peaks and valleys of life, along an undulating path whose general trend is stable, consistent, persistent, moving forward. I might gain 500 feet in elevation; I might dip down 500 feet.

But overall, somehow, I've managed to attain a sense of - and a comfort with - Sea Level.

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The Best Thing I Ever Tasted

"I mean, who likes brussels sprouts?" My food snob date was sitting across from me, watching me munch on the fried outer leaves of the brussels sprouts I'd ordered at dinner.

"I do."

"But they're not the best thing you ever tasted, are they?" he nagged.

"Well, no..."

But do they have to be?

I am a fan of good food, good tastes, good flavors, good texture, but I am also a fan of variety. As a child, I was raised on a limited diet, but even my gastronomically provincial parents had to struggle to get me to eat anything more than bologna with French's yellow on white bread, or peanut butter and jelly (on white bread). (Quite frankly, I just didn't like the other options given to me, which were generally boiled meat, stewed tomatoes, a rainbow of cabbages and other German delicacies.) As an adult, though, I will try pretty much anything you put in front of me - any part of the animal, any animal. And although I don't always like it, and certainly don't always love it, I am always glad I tried it.

What would my life be like if I only ever ate the best thing I ever tasted? How much variety could I possibly get out of that, when the best thing I ever tasted was some chocolate and peanut butter product from Reese's? Even if I were to expand it out to the various food groups - the best meat, bread, vegetable, cocktail I ever tasted - wouldn't the repetition of that best thing cause a flavor fatigue on my palate, thereby diminishing how good I think it is?

Although I advocate living the best life one can live, consuming only the best things - or judging their competitors because they aren't the best - would only set me up for a life of disappointment. Sometimes the pizza I want the most is a frozen French bread pizza, or some weird little crackery saucy frisbee from a bar. And at that moment, I may not be craving the best thing, but it's the thing I want.

Happiness is knowing what you want.

During that same date, after seeing a movie I enjoyed despite his constant unwhispered complaints during it, my companion asked me, "You didn't actually like that, did you?"

"Yes, I did."

"But it's not the best movie you've ever seen, is it?"

"Well, no...."

But it doesn't have to be!

I have a lot of patience and appreciation for cheesy pop songs, cheap junk food, Hollywood movies and disposable flip flops. These experiences can be endlessly enjoyable in their fleeting nature, their accessibility, and their infectiousness. And although I truly believe that I can learn a tremendous amount from bad experiences and failures - perhaps more than from good experiences and successes - I won't regret not going out again with this ill-mannered, bratty drunk with no regard for  my enjoyment of our date, because he wasn't the best guy I ever went out with.

And although variety is a good thing also in the company you keep, I choose to share myself and my time with only the best.

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How Our Time Perspective Affects Happiness

Sometimes I think I'm too future-focused but after watching this, I actually think I have a good combination of all three.