At the end of the Hundred Years' War, when Edward, the Black Prince of England, nicknamed so after the color of his armor, had captured King John of France, a middle-aged knight stood on the field of battle at Poitiers not sure of where to go next. He had been a fighting man for most of his life, you see, but now, with the war over, his prospects for self-improvement had dimmed, and the best he could look forward to back in England was the modest pension allotted to a militarily useful nonentity. Not everyone will be a Sir John Hawkwood, and some of us wouldn't want to. But at certain magical times in our lives, all that stands between who we are and who we can be is a calculated risk. On one side of this decisional doorway waits our current, perhaps safe and familiar, way of being in the world.
Some cetaceans seem to enjoy human music.