Joining the marines

Guthrie the sea lion is so close I can feel his gusty exhalations on the back of my hand, so close I can see that one of his blond whiskers corkscrews crazily.

The two of us, sea lion and human, face each other on the small deck by his pool at the New England Aquarium. Daniell Hepting, an enthusiastic trainer, coaches me on the finer points of cross-species communication. Hepting instructs me to make a fist with my left hand and point my thumb skyward. That done, Guthrie pokes his bubblegum-pink tongue out at me. I turn around, and he likewise spins his great bulk with a surprising grace. I wiggle my hips. He boogies back. I drop a slippery piece of fish into his toothy mouth. He swallows it whole. Then I bend down on one knee, and he gives me a kiss, a big, wet number on my cheek.

I have signed up for the New England Aquarium's trainer-for-an-afternoon program. For the next two hours or so, trainers will show me a few of the ins and outs of working with Guthrie, Myrtle the sea turtle, and Reggae the harbor seal. I will learn why that seal's fish are frozen, why the trainers don't use whistles, and why they squirt Guthrie with a hose (he likes it). It's a job shadow meets behind-the-scenes-tour meets animal-interaction program. And for an animal lover, it is bliss.

The program is one of a growing number at aquariums and animal parks around the country. At Gatorland in Orlando, Fla., you can help the trainers move the reptiles from one pool to another. At SeaWorld in San Diego you can brush an orca's teeth. At Chicago's Shedd Aquarium, which added a program just over a year ago, you can sit in on a beluga whale training session.

These programs are not cheap, ranging from $100 to $500, primarily because they require a lot of staff time and are typically limited to three people per session. Still, they are popular. Since the New England Aquarium began its program four years ago, it has continued to expand, from being offered just on the weekends to six days a week. For the first time, the aquarium is running it through the winter.

People who sign up for these programs are typically teenagers considering working with animals as a career, adults who still harbor fantasies about being an animal trainer, and adventurous seniors, the kind you find on eco-tours. For the institutions, the programs make money and build audiences. Moreover, these close encounters can make a conservationist out of most anyone, the ultimate goal of most zoos and aquariums today.

''Any time you can allow someone to get close to an animal, it has such a big impact," says Jenny Montague, assistant curator of mammals at the New England Aquarium.

The programs reflect a major shift in mind-set among zoos and aquariums, which have come to realize how these programs can benefit the animals as well. The change of routine and the new faces by the tank or cage are stimulating for the animals, what trainers and keepers call ''behavioral enrichment." It also keeps the animals flexible. At the New England Aquarium, participants touch both Guthrie the sea lion and Reggae the harbor seal, which keeps the animals used to being handled by new people. Then when a new vet shows up, Montague says, ''It's not a big deal."

On my knees, I look deep into the Giant Ocean Tank, a shimmering underwater merry-go-round of life. The trainer kneeling on the platform next to me leans over and whacks two small pieces of wood together just above the blue-gold water. ''Chink, chink," they sound. She's calling Myrtle the sea turtle over for a training session. They've taught the 550-pound turtle to swim to a piece of white PCV pipe they hold under water, what is called target training. Myrtle, however, has ''parked," as the trainer says. The turtle, who is nearing her seasonal fast, has settled her round body onto a rock for an underwater nap. Myrtle is just too groggy to swim to a target today.

The trainer doesn't apologize but rather explains to me that they take their cues from the animals. They never make them train. Like people, animals have moods, they have likes and dislikes, and the trainers respect that. A lot of training is just reading the animal.

Mostly, the aquarium's program is a relaxed one, offering more animal interaction than insight into a trainer's job. At the Shedd Aquarium, which is like a trainer-wannabe boot camp, participants clean an enclosure, rinse fish, and enter computer records.

Still, it's not all fun and games here in Boston. You will hold a gooey chunk of fish or two and experience the sharp chill of the seal enclosure. Ask the Boston trainers how much time they spend cleaning, and they'll tell you about 75 percent. That includes vacuuming underwater the harbor seal enclosure once a week.

For both the Shedd and SeaWorld, participants must be in their teens. At the New England Aquarium, children as young as 6 can sign up as long as an adult accompanies them. Kids make up about half the participants. Consequently the program can change, depending on the age of the participants. Kids want to know how fast the sea lions can swim. Adults, myself included, want to know why Ballou is so much smaller than his pool mate, Guthrie. It's because Ballou's neutered. ''We gloss over that with kids," the trainer says.

On another day, I watched two towheaded grade-schoolers from Bellingham go through the program with their father, Marco DePril. Trainer Paul Bradley kept it light, showing the kids the sea lions' toys, describing how they make fish popsicles for them, to which wiggly 6-year-old boy Morgan burst out, ''My dog eats tennis balls." The kids were, understandably, more interested in doing things with animals than asking questions. However, they were unnerved by Guthrie's large size, pressed close to Bradley, and passed on hugging the sea lion. Their father gladly leapt in for a soggy embrace.

That underscored the biggest difference between how children and adults react to the program. For kids, the program is fun but maybe not so extraordinary. For them there is yet no clear line between the worlds of animals and humans. There is for adults, and it's stepping over that line that is so special. At SeaWorld, trainers regularly see adults cry.

My session ends with Reggae the harbor seal. Before we head out to the tank, a trainer points out the board that lists what each of the nine seals has eaten today. She warns me not to make any sudden motions or I might scare Reggae off, and if he's scared he might also splash us.

We step through the door to the pool. I kneel on the uneven rocks along the choppy pool and hold as still as I can. The trainer calls Reggae from the far end of the tank. His rounded, gray head pops up just in front of us. In the middle of his big black eyes he has specks of white, the beginnings of cataracts. Still, he looks me right in the eyes. The trainer asks him for a wave. Reggae halfheartedly flutters his flipper underwater. Though he seems a hair shy, Reggae is game. When the trainer tells him to lie on his back by us, he readily turns over.

We both reach out to stroke his white belly. It's wonderfully smooth, and wet, and furry. I'm shivering and my knees hurt on the uneven rocks, but my mind floods with the sensation of my fingertips. This moment is why so many of us envy animal trainers.