Technology Morphology
Tool Time
S. G. Lacey
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Pan Troglodytes – Nouabalé-Ndoki National Park, Republic of the Congo, Africa
I fight through a thick clump of palm fronds, moving about a meter off the ground, via the aid of convenient ropelike vines and twisted tree limbs which create this jungle maze. Reaching an open clearing at the base of a large mahogany tree, I survey the area carefully. And soon find what I’m looking for.
On the typically random and jumbled jungle floor of dead leaves and small ferns is a well-worn path, nearly a meter wide, of flattened debris. A trail. I continue onward, staying up off the ground for another 20 meters, then drop down quietly to the moist earth.
This is the spot. My photographic memory has that broad trunk, and the dark mass entangled in the exposed roots, imprinted in my mind. I’ve been here three times recently, and am glad to see my target is still stationary. I more forward slowly on all four limbs, fingers bend so that pressure with the ground is applied to my tough, hairy knuckles, as opposed to the bare, more tender pads of the palms.
I’m traveling alone right now, foraging for a few hours before returning to the larger group. As an adolescent male, I’m old enough to avoid menial duties with the nursing females, but have yet to graduate up to one of the main adult male packs, which gather and hunt in small, organized clusters.
Fruits are our main diet, occupying well over half of my search time each day. However, I’ve acquired a taste for protein, likely passed on by my grandfather, who also taught me some valuable hunting techniques. The learned skill of tracking is what has brought me back to the base of this tree.
Rising out of the soft earth, and banked against the roots of the mahogany, is a massive ant bivouac. Unlike traditional burrowing hills made from dirt, these army ants are generally nomadic, only settling down in the same spot for a few weeks at a time. The gigantic ball attached to this tree’s base is a complex network of interlinked insect bodies, all oriented in a sophisticated and precise web around their queen. However, they must constantly forage the keep the massive colonies, millions of ants in total, fed. Hence, the packed down thoroughfare on the jungle floor that I was able to find and follow.
This ant colony offers lots of potential nourishment, but it’s not easy to get at. Our troop has learned over time that it you attack the den aggressively, seeking to maximize food intake, issues quickly arise.
First, these ants have long legs, making them fast, and sharp pincers, which can inflict a mean bite. While it’s possible to scoop a few handfuls out of a disturbed hive, the remaining combatants quickly swarm any intruder, biting even through my wiry, black hair. I know from experience; this aggressive approach does not turn out well.
Second, once their lair is significantly disturbed, the army ants tend to disperse, and recolonize at a new location, which can be some distance away, and potentially hard to find.
Therefore, a more delicate technique is required, one passed down by my ancestors. Looking around, I see a flexible length of thick grass, about 1 meter long and quite straight, lying on the ground nearby. That’s convenient. This item might even be left over from one of my recent hunting sessions here. I pick up this plant by the end with one hand, pushing to the other end into the ground to confirm it has the right combination of stiffness and pliability. Perfect.
Raising onto two legs and approaching slowly, lithe rod in hand, I reach out as far as possible. My tool, bending slightly under its own weight, does not quite reach the edge of the insect cluster, but my movements on the ground have been sensed. A black wave of ants comes pouring out of the colony at a rapid rate, headed right for my exposed toes.
Dropping my probe, I retreat rapidly, taking a few bounding leaps, then springing up into the first available canopy limbs. These ants can climb, but unless they are on a coordinated foraging mission, they don’t see to travel too far from the hive for defense purposes.
Time to come up with a better plan.
Peering over at the large tree, and target-rich mound of food at its base, I see a robust vine wrapped around the trunk, attached about three meters up, and angling upwards into the jungle foliage. Maybe if I approach the nest from above, my presence will go unnoticed.
Within minutes I’m positioned above the ant colony, hanging off the vine, using my opposable big toes for grip, and resting my back against the tree trunk for support. I’ve secured a new flexible rod, a small sapling this time, guessing at the length needed, which, when combined with my two-meter body span, most coming from my overlength arms, will reach the nest.
It looks like I’ve estimated the distance just about right. Extending my supplemented appendage slowly, I penetrate the top of the ant’s cage with my tool. There a momentary delay, then a line of ants instinctively attacks this encroachment. The small diameter of the pole, and its flexible nature, ensures that only a few small critters can ascend at a time, creating a perfect line ripe for picking.
As the first ants near the end of the stick that I’m holding onto, I quickly yank the rod out of the nest, stemming the flow of black dots. The insects already onboard continue upwards towards me, relentless in defense of their queen.
Rotating my body upward into a crunch position, I now have more range of motion with my arms. I transfer the upper end of the stick to my sharp teeth, meanwhile using one hand to sweep all the ants off the twig, and towards my mouth in a fluid motion.
My other hand is free and ready, another technique I’ve learned the hard way. Once in my mouth, the moist environment of saliva, combined with chomping teeth, render these insects to helpless morsels. However, if any attackers get on my face, unprotected by hair, their sharp pincers become even more potent. Swatting off a few strays with my free fingers, I hang in this upside-down sit-up position, munching on ant exoskeletons, and thinking.
Why use a single point of entry into the nest. Surely, if I can find a multiple prong stick, where the offshoot branches converge to a single stem, I can get several streams of ants headed my way simultaneously. I contemplate this idea, while enjoying a few more tasty rounds of simple stick ant snacking.
Yep, I’m definitely going to need improve the efficiency of this operation, especially to make up for the energy burned hanging upside down this entire time. I only weigh 40 kg currently, but that’s still a lot of weight to support by my short legs. Time to find an improved tool, and refine my technique.
Central Chimpanzee (Endangered)
Amphioctopus Marginatus – Bunaken National Marine Park, North Sulawesi, Indonesia, Pacific Ocean
The water in this bay is a brilliant blue, it must be sunny up at the surface. Other than my eyes protruding slightly from the sandy bottom, no other creature knows I’m here. I’ve been buried in this position for a while, hoping one of my favorite snacks, a small shrimp or crab, will wander close enough for me to reach out and grab them.
With eight arms you would think such an opportunity presents itself often, but no luck thus far. The tides, or my secretive location, must not be right.
My ever-probing round eyes flit back and forth, the only sign of movement since my head is covered with coarse sand, and my skin is not far off from the natural beige color of the ocean floor anyways.
Suddenly, a dark colored object comes into view, bouncing along to ocean floor. My central processing system whirls to life, going through the options in pre-programed order of priority.
Predator. Nope, movement is too sporadic, and obvious. Plus, I don’t recognize that color as anything threatening in my extensive memory banks.
Prey. I hope so, I’m starving. But as the object floats closer, it appears larger than me. In the past I’ve been able to feast on some clams with shells larger than my own body, but this entity is too round.
Protection. Maybe. I’m always looking for new ways of safely maneuvering around my ocean habitat. This thing looks promising, especially as it bounds fortuitously towards my secluded position, allowing me to better assess size and shape.
The item is hemispherical, like a globe chopped in half. The outside is dark brown in color and covered with fuzzy hairs, with the inside bright white. My memory stirs. I’ve seen one of my kind moving around with one of these before. They seem to be increasingly prevalent on the ocean floor, likely a result of the increased activity on the surface.
I rarely venture up there, especially after seeing the carnage caused by the multitude of motorized propellers, which I can sense through vibrations in the sand. Sure, I’m as greedy as the next critter when there’s the opportunity to feast on a fresh carcass, but the risk of going up topside seems too high with all the recent commotion.
Compartmentalizing these thoughts, I focus back in on the coconut shell headed towards me. Time to make a decision, and act. Hunting in this part of the ocean has been slow, so I may as well move on.
Wriggling my body and arms, a process which starts slow, then steadily builds in vigor, I rise from the seabed in a cloud of sand. This disturbance, while causing a temporary signal to predators, will provide the blurred cover I need.
Reaching out, I secure the shell with a few suction cups on an outstretched tentacle. Flawless execution. My first anchor point allows me to stop the momentum of the drifting vessel, and pull it towards me. The inner cavity is filled with sand, abrasive tan particles within the smooth white bowl. This is likely why this object isn’t floating back up to the surface.
Manipulating three of my other appendages in a spiral motion above the open half of the orb agitates the water enough to swirl the sand out of the shell’s inner cavity, revealing a perfect cave-like chamber, almost large enough to accommodate my body and limbs.
Now I just need to figure out how to move this bulky object. Shuffling along the sand with the rigid covering on top of me seems safe, but very slow. Plus, I won’t be able to see where I’m going. I could drag the gourd along behind me, but its large size would require multiple limbs to be tied up with grasping, rather than propulsion, and cause major drag in the water.
There is another option. Maybe I can carry the shell underneath, rather than on top, of my abdomen. I’ve got eight contact points on the ground, so balance shouldn’t be an issue. I’ve tried moving with as few as two limbs, with the rest tucked under my torso, in the past, so this trick should be easy. Provided my tentacles are long enough to reach the ocean floor after wrapping around the bowl. They effectively double my body length, so should be sufficient. But there’s only one way to find out.
I assess the geometry, confident in the fact that I’ve always been good at problem solving. My body is only 4 cm in diameter, and the coconut shell about double that, but hopefully my long and flexible tentacles can make up the difference.
Securing the shell in the sandy bottom, rounded side down, I hop on top like I’m jumping into a small raft. I reach my arms out in as many different directions as possible, trying to cover the entire circumference. Bending my legs down around the edges of the coconut, I reach for the ground. I find it first with the front, right appendage, the another on the front, left side. Shifting my body weight backward, I gain purchase with a few contact points in the rear. This may actually work.
Stretching my arms to their maximum length, and engaging with the loose seabed, I drive forward, initially with a single jittery motion, then with increasing coordination. The micro-brains in each tentacle work in unison, managing motor control, and providing feedback to my central brain for major decisions.
Limb #1 hits the sand, limb #3 loses traction, limb #4 stays engaged a millisecond longer to stabilize, limb #7 pushes off, and so forth; movements being optimized with each step forward.
I have no idea how this process appears to any onlookers, but it doesn’t feel natural to me. Still, I’m moving, with my new protective cage in tow.
I’ve gone nearly 20 meters. My body is fatiguing, and all three of my hearts are pumping rapidly, managing both circulation of both blood and oxygen to keep up with my extreme physical exertion.
I spot another hemispherical object suspended in the water ahead of me. If I can snag this other half, I’ll have a full, impenetrable globe to hide in. If this new observation is a predator that I’m not familiar with, then hopefully I can flip this coconut shell over and hide underneath. Time to take another risk.
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Veined Octopus (Regional)
Corvus Moneduloides – Blue River Provincial Park, Grande Terre Island, New Caledonia, Oceania
Stepping off my secluded perch, I take flight on black feathered wings. Maneuvering through the lush, leafy growth with a wingspan of nearly a meter can be difficult, but I’m used to it. Flying raptors represent my main predators here on the island, so I spend as much time as possible in the safety of the thick canopy. Plus, the tastiest food is down on the ground.
Quickly reaching forest floor, I begin my search for a downed candlenut trunk, which often house my favorite meal. Fortunately, these flowering trees are prevalent here in the tropics. The dead log I happen upon has been on the ground for months, as evidenced by the lack of bark, and level of rot on the surface. Small holes dot the soft wood; these are my access points. However, the openings are too small for my bill, so I’ll need an acceptable probe.
It doesn’t take long to find a reasonable option, a straight, slender twig, about 15 cm long. Picking this stick up by one end with my pointed beak, I hop across the packed dirt and up onto one of the large tree limbs.
Pointing the slim rod downwards, with it now oriented perpendicular to my mouth, I slot the twig into one of the holes, forcing it down until the tip bottoms out. Jerking my head, and the stick, up and down rapidly, I trying to agitate the log’s inhabitants. Not feeling any resistance on the other end, I extract my probe, and move to the next hole, roughly 30 cm down the branch.
Same technique, same result. No bites. I need a better tool.
Discarding the useless straight offering, I scan my surroundings. A few meters away is a dislodged fern branch. I stand completely still for a few seconds, listening for any rustling in the air, and feeling for any vibrations through the hollow trunk with sensitive feet.
Convincing myself the coast is clear, I hop off the log, gliding low across the ground to the leafy segment, which has undoubtably fallen to earth from one of the massive fern trees that dominate this portion of the forest. Selecting a promising frond, a little longer than my previous stick, with several forked barbs, I proceed quickly.
The fern tips are dead, but the main stalk still has some moisture and springiness to it. The outer leaves are dry and brittle, quickly yielding to my sharp, chisel-tipped bill, which has evolved specifically for this purpose. Satisfied with my initial trimming, I now have a relatively slender stem, with a forked barb at one end where this growth used to connect to the main branch. Pinning this piece of vegetation down with one clawed foot, I manipulate the forked end with my beak.
Twisting my head as far as possible then releasing, the pliable stalk springs back most of the way, but does retain a small amount of curvature. I keep working this business end, tearing off thin strips of the fern’s outer skin to reduce the resistance of the stem, then bending further until it adopts the desired hook shape permanently.
Happy with my craftmanship, I pick up the improved tool and head back to same rotten deadfall. I know dinner is in here somewhere, I just need to extract it.
With the curved end, getting the staff into the small boring holes on the top of the log is more difficult. However, once inside, the bent barb covers a much wider swath of the inner cavity where my preferred prey likes to hide. As with the straight stick, my first several access points prove unsuccessful.
However, this time I am more persistent, knowing I have the right device for the job. On my fifth attempt, nearly halfway down the total length of the trunk, the ingenuity pays off.
Probing the bent fern in and rotating slowly, I first feel a light resistance, as the end bumps into an unknown encumbrance. I switch directions quickly, rotating the hook around the opposite way. When I’m nearly back to where the first contact occurred, I feel a sharp jerk on the line.
Instinctively, I pull my beak upward rapidly, going from a crouched position, with my face very close to the wood, to slender legs fully extended, head raised high. The fern slides quickly out of the hole, the more rigid straight section first, then the flexible curved end.
Securely attached onto the tip is my targeted prize, a large, white bulbous item with many segments.
I’ll eat pretty much anything I can find: nuts, snails, fruit, insects, even abandon carrion if I’m desperate. But right now, I’ve just landed my favorite meal. Beatle larvae.
These plump morsels are very high in protein; just three per day can satisfy my energy needs. These stupid and slow adolescent critters have only one defense, biting and latching onto anything they perceive as prey. With my optimized hunting technique, I use that trait against them, prodding until I find a grub, then enticing it to chomp down.
These beetle larvae tend to feed off the soft, damp wood in the core of the logs, staying away from the sunlit opening holes. Hence the curved stick to improve my reach. Setting my fern apparatus on the top of the wood, I claim my prize, a soft, plumb, and filling ball of nutrients which I inhale in a single swallow.
I unleash a satisfying “Qua Qua”, a hoarse, guttural call that travels well through the dense forest growth. In fact, the native tribes here often refer to me by a name which mimics this sound. I don’t know what else they are saying, but definitely recognize their butchered attempt at our bird species verbal communication, which they often combined with animated hand gestures.
Time to find my son, and see how his toolmaking technique is coming along. He seems to be a slow learner, but it can take years of practice to refine this larvae hunting method. Grabbing my custom fern probe in my dexterous beak, I fly off towards my nest in the conifer above.
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New Caledonian Crow (Regional)
Ammophila Sambulosa – Hartland Moor National Nature Reserve, Arne, Dorset, England
I back out of the narrow shaft slowly, carefully maneuvering my long, slender abdomen, and return to the warmth of bright sunlight. The tunnel is about 5 cm deep, over twice my body length, with a larger room at the bottom. It has taken several hours to excavate, and I feel like I need a nap, but my task is only half complete.
Fluttering just off the ground on paper-thin iridescent wings, I take a few seconds to stretch out and enjoy the fresh summer air, after being hunched down for a while in subterranean confinement.
In the chamber below me is a large caterpillar, paralyzed by the stinger at the end of my red and black tail. This chubby insect weights ten times my body weight, and required significant effort to drag over from the adjacent field. This amount of nutrients is necessary to provide sustenance for the wasp larva that will soon be hatching from the white, oval shaped egg I just implanted in the caterpillar’s limp body.
Now it’s time to seal the compartment off for my pending child.
The first step is to find a stone of the correct size to plug the access tunnel. Walking with my six legs in tandem, I keep my antenna low to the ground, scouring the ground for a suitable barricade. The main shaft of the excavation tapers down in size slightly as it descends into the earth, so a rock of the correct diameter, slightly larger than the width of my abdomen, should wedge in nicely.
Spiraling out from my cave, I soon find a promising option. It’s too heavy for me to fly with, but round, so I can push it along the smooth, sandy soil. Nudging the stone with my forehead, and driving with my legs, I eventually transport this boulder the long two meters back to the tunnel opening.
Giving the rock one final nudge, it teeters over the edge of the hole and falls, wedging about 30 mm below ground level. Excellent fit. Hopping down, I hover above this new door briefly, then drop down on top, causing the plug to settle and bury in slightly deeper. Now time to fill the hole.
When I excavated the den earlier today, I dispersed the sand and dirt in the air to avoid having a mound at the lip of the tunnel, which could hinder both the caterpillar and rock insertions. But now I need to find filler material to finish sealing the entrance.
I start close, pushing the loose sand using my front two legs, while stabilizing with the back four. Once the large chunk is fully covered with sand, it’s time for compaction. This is one of the keys to making an impenetrable fortress. I’m back on the rock search, this time for a smaller pebble that I can easily lift and manipulate with my powerful mandible jaws.
I soon find a perfect item, oval shaped with one flat face. Carrying this tool in my jaws, I return to the hole and dive in head first, impacting the soft dirt with the flat surface of the utensil, and applying all of my slender body weight to the activity. Methodically, I repeat this hammering motion across the entire bottom surface of the excavation. Vibrating my head segment, and thus the pebble, against the sandy earth, turns this previously loose fill into a dense, compact layer.
Content with this coverage, I place my pounding stone on the ground next to the opening. I’ll need it again soon.
There’s now about 20 mm of depth left on my hole. I’ll use small rocks, twigs, and leaves for the bulk of the volume, plugging the remaining gaps with fine sand particulates. I need to travel a little further each time, but after many trips, eventually I have the empty space completely filled with a random assortment of debris.
Picking up my special pounding stone in my mandibles again, I’m soon back at work hammering away. Between tightly grasping the tool, and rapidly vibrating my entire frame, the process is very tiring, but I know it needs to be completed today.
Finally, I’m content with the firm consistency of the crushed earth. This tunnel filling process has taken over an hour, but is very important for ensuring the survival of my young.
Lastly, I need to camouflage this nest. The final phase of compaction has resulted in the fill level being slightly lower than the ground around it. I rummage up a few pine needles and small sticks, which I place in a seemingly random pattern around the area where the tunnel opening used to be. A little rain, combined with the constantly shifting sand granules due to the ever-present costal winds, will soon leave this spot of ground indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape around it.
I take one more look around, noting of the key terrain features so that I can return to check for disturbances over the next few days.
One concern is ants, as they love to poach the prevalent nutrients in the paralyzed caterpillar, a target they can’t kill on their own. However, I’ve already swept the area for these invasive critters, and they won’t be able to enter the impregnable door I just created.
The biggest threat is that one of my clansmen comes by and digs into this nursery, removing my egg and poaching the caterpillar nest for their own seed. This is very common within our species. It has taken me eight hours to create this habitat, but another cunning female could burrow in and steal an existing nest in just an hour.
This scenario is why I am being so meticulous in the dirt packing, and camouflaging of the tunnel entry.
It’s been a long day, but a productive one. If the sun is out tomorrow, I’ll repeat the process all over again. I’m trying to get ten nests established during the short weather window this summer when the days are long enough, and the solar rays prevalent enough, to execute such significant physical exertion.
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Red Banded Sand Wasp (Thriving)
Enhydra Lutris – Elkhorn Slough Marine Reserve, Monterey Bay, Northern California, USA, Pacific Ocean
Taking a deep breath, fully filling my large lung capacity, which helps with buoyancy, I plunge into the water. Instinctively, my nostrils and ears seal up to stop the salty liquid from penetrating inside.
My powerful tail, long and flat, oscillates vertically, propelling me quickly down to the ocean floor at a rate of 8 km/hr. The water is chilly, but this is not an issue on account of my dark brown coat of thick fur. The outer layer consists of long, waterproof fibers, with the hair underneath being short and dense, to maintain warmth. However, this luxurious covering requires constant maintenance. It seems like I spend several hours per day grooming: untangling knots, cleaning off dirt, and incorporating air to maintain buoyancy.
Reaching the bottom, I begin my search. My eyes provide some guidance in this slightly murky water, while my extremely long and sensitive whiskers supplement the exploration.
It doesn’t take long, as I have scoped out this area before. It is plentiful, and this is now my third visit down to the same goal, which has resisted my advances thus far. I soon find what I’m looking for, a 6 cm diameter grey disc. It’s rough surface, and neutral color, blend in with the rocks and barnacles on the ocean floor. But I have a trained eye for this entity, as it’s my favorite meal.
Grasping this camouflaged shell with my clawed fingers, I give it a tug. Still no luck. This mollusk has latched itself onto the boulder below, for stability and protection. Not for long, hopefully.
Reaching my right paw into a flap of skin under my left arm, I extract a smooth, oval rock; this orb is small enough in size that I can manage it with both of my petite hands, but large enough to provide a meaningful jolt to anything it strikes.
Hovering in a stationary position above my target, using delicate movements of my agile tail and webbed feet, I take a mighty swipe, trying to hit the edge of the shell at an angle which will pry it off the securely mounted position.
Nine quick strikes in succession do the trick; on the last one I feel the restraints give slightly, and spot a minute position shift from the base mount. Stashing my round tool back into the storage pocket, I utilize sharp nails to dig under the small gap that my hammering has created.
Success. This package breaks free, and within seconds I’m headed to the surface, clutching this valuable reward in my arms.
Breaking out on the surface, I take a deep breath. I was only underwater for one minute, I’ve done more than triple that time before, but the last dive required higher exertion than usual. Rolling over onto my back, I inspect my latest catch. It’s a heavy one, nearly as large as my head. The tender flesh is unprotected on the back side, but the creature has already retreated into survival mode. I still need to penetrate the outer protective shell to access the tasty goodness within. No worries, I’ve got a technique for this operation as well.
I can coast on my back with ease, using the large toe of my hind legs to steer, which leaves my front paws free. All these appendages are fully adapted for water mobility; I can move on land, but it’s painfully slow. That’s why I haven’t ventured out of the ocean in several months.
Holding the heavy bounty tightly under one arm, I extract a second useful item from my skin sleeve pouch. This boulder is larger than my hammering stone, and has a different shape. A conical anvil, with a flat bottom that allows it to rest comfortably on my chest, and a pronounced protruding top which currently points skyward.
Convinced the rock is sufficiently balanced, I grab the large, hemispherical shell retrieved from the depths, and strike it down briskly on the point of the stone. The hard, resilient armor is thick, a valuable protective layer, but the treasure within is worth the effort. After what seems like an eternity of vigorous pounding, the large snail’s defense mechanisms finally yield to my relentless onslaught.
My prey has realized its home is penetrated, and concedes defeat, relaxing suction grip on its destroyed home. Time to access the hearty prize inside.
The coarse pads on my paws are especially useful for this activity, allowing me to maintain a grip on the slippery upper shell with one palm, while I rake the meat free with my pointy fingers. If these talons aren’t completely sufficient, my front incisors are perfectly shaped to scoop out any remaining morsels.
Extracting a beautiful portion of abalone, one of the tastiest delicacies in the sea, yields an empty shell interior which emits a blinding reflective iridescent glow.
Sometimes I have to settle for mussels; I can eat 75 of those an hour, but the work isn’t worth the small amount on sustenance yielded. However, this gem currently sitting on my chest much more efficient, a massive chunk of protein equivalent to ten mussels. I need to consume about a third of my 45 kg body weight in food each day to stay warm, and keep nourished.
That was a tasty meal. Over time, I’ve learned that I prefer stationary shellfish over swimming seafood, and don’t mind wrestling a few shells to make that dietary choice happen. Unfortunately, abalone seem to be increasingly rare in this region, so I’ll capitalize on any chance I get. This hearty flavor is worth the extra required ingenuity every time.
Stashing my rock tools, I execute a few spiral rolls to rinse the shell pieces and food scraps off my important fur covering. Content with my cleanliness, and my hunger level, it’s time for a midday nap. I plot a slow backstroke towards the soothing protection of the lagoon’s kelp fields, where I can tie off. No reason to risk floating off into the ocean, and falling victim to a great white shark.
Safely back in the kelp forest, I finally relax, letting the warming sun wash over my face and fur. Within minutes. I’m dozing off.
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Southern Sea Otter (Endangered)
Homo Sapiens – Orlando, Florida, United States of America
The sun is hot, beating down on my exposed skin. I’ve secured some portable protection for my head, a welcome relief from the unyielding rays. My lineage is pure, with blond hair where it grows, and highly functional piercing blue eyes.
However, this evolutionary track does come with its detriments. Most notable right now is the lack of defense from ultraviolet light radiation due to my very pale, white body covering.
As an adolescent male, I’ve been allowed to wander on my own for a few hours. It’s nice to get away from the rest of the group; specifically, my parents fussing with my younger twin sisters. These children are a constant irritation to me.
Currently, I’m sitting on the hard metal bench near the top of a semi-circular stadium. Activity in the lake below catches my gaze occasionally: large splashes of water, bouncing colored balls, piercing shrieks from the fledgling members of my species.
However, my main focus is on the image emanating from the object I’m grasping in both hands, holding it less than a foot from my face to allow intense concentration on the tiny moving shapes. I make a few quick finger motions, my mind, eyes, and hands acting as a precisely tuned unit. My opposable thumbs move rapidly, confirming touch points on the flat surface at a rate which seems impossible for my vision to keep up with. Still not fast enough apparently. The screen goes dark, as does my mood.
Frustrated with the poor outcome of my seemingly deft finger manipulations, I stuff the device back in my pocket. This aquatic attraction is boring, time for a walk. Plus, it’s too damn hot out here.
Looking to escape the heat, I move down the bleachers and towards a dark, covered opening in front of me, which hopefully promises protection from both the temperature and the light. Following an angled, spiral ramp that penetrates the thick, concrete floor, my sensory triggers all start firing at once.
The light is reduced, the temperature drops, the air turns heavy and pungent. I’ve clearly entered a different environment than before. Pupils dilate, goosebumps rise, nose puckers. It smells like rotting fish down here.
As my eyes adjust to the changing surroundings, I realize that I’m now below the water level of the large pool I was previously viewing from above. Through the massive curved glass window in front of me, the shapes of two massive swimming creatures are visible: smooth bodies with a stark contrast color scheme of black and white in organic blotches. This closer perspective gives me a better appreciation for the speed, shape, and size of these beasts. I need to document this impressive display.
Taking the item back out of my pocket with a practiced motion, I manipulate the smooth object comfortably in one hand. I use this tool every day, at this point it’s an extension of my body, and my mind. Instead of filling my memory capacity, I can use this instrument to exactly document visual information for easy retrieval later.
Standing with my back to the window, I extend my right arm, which holds a heavy rectangle of plastic and metal, out as far as possible. My mind computes scale and depth perception in real time, but struggles with the sheer size of the swimming blobs behind me. Happy with the composition, I press a specific location with my right thumb, causing a bright light to be emitted from the device. This moment has been captured for eternity.
Completing this exertion causes another animal instinct to kick in, as evidenced by my growling stomach. Apparently, I’m hungry. It seems like I’m always hungry at this age. There must be an easy way to hunt down some food in this maze.
Walking back outside from the dark cave, the invasive sunlight returns. No worries, I’ve come prepared. Reaching up, I grab the protective lenses stashed on top of my head, and place them over my sensitive retinas. Soothing dullness of color, and coolness of touch, returns to my face.
Just as I get comfortable back in this outdoor environment, I sense a tactile vibration on my right hip. Someone is trying to contact me.
At this point, I almost never use verbal communication with others in my tribe, instead opting for this more informal mode of information transfer. Again, pulling out my useful portable tool, the source of the disturbance is displayed visually. It’s my parents. Apparently, my siblings are getting fussy, so we need to leave the facility in 30 minutes. No surprise there, and I certainly don’t object.
Tracing out shapes with my forefinger on the flat front panel, the device converts these motions into communication, which is instantly transferred to my parents, wherever they might be. Pretty slick.
Back to my snack search. I’ve still got time before I need to reconvene with the rest of the troop. I track towards the desired goal, olfactory senses leading the way. There are many tasty aromas in the air: sweet, savory, salty, and sour are all present. But I have a specific feast in mind.
Finding the right location, it quickly becomes obvious I’m not the only one with this idea. I wait impatiently, biding my time with the knowledge that pouncing too soon won’t pay off. Finally, I approach and make the exchange, audible sounds from my electronic tool confirming a successful transfer with the individual guarding the nourishment.
Taking my spoils to a secluded spot, away from the crowds, and with ample shade, I gorge. This energy boost is just what I need for the upcoming journey back home.
Sustenance complete, it’s time to move on to the next key element of the evolutionary circle. Tossing my 2-liter soda cup, branded with the iconic twin dorsal fin logo of SeaWorld, into the garbage can, and licking as much of the sticky sugar off my caramel kettle corn coated hands as possible, I take out my cell phone from my shorts’ pocket, and open up the dating app.
Human (Thriving)
