Harbor Porpoise

Harbor Porpoise

You find the medallion wedged between two barnacled steps on a wave-washed jetty. Slippery, sea-bitten, and cold beneath your fingers.

The moment you touch it, the seagulls go silent. The wind tightens like a string drawn taut.

Then—

“Y’heard of jazz?”

The voice is close. Startlingly close. You spin around and nearly fall into the water.

A slick snout pokes above the surface. A pair of bright, eager eyes follow. The harbor porpoise blinks, then grins. “’Course you have. You’re human. You make toast chaotic. Jazz is just toast with ambition.”

He snorts, spraying mist. “Name’s Pickle.”

You open your mouth, but he zips in a tight spiral and continues. “Short for Pickle Jar Concerto. My parents were weird, okay?”

He slaps the water with a flipper. “Anyway—welcome to the show. Rehearsals every tide. No conductor. No plan. Just vibes.”

You ask your question: Why mammals? Why not birds or fish or… something else?

Pickle bobs once, thoughtfully. “Birds got hollow bones, no rhythm. Fish? Pfft. Scales but no soul. Mammals though—we got lungs and lounge style.” He glances around as if the sea itself might be listening. “You ever hear a sea lion riff on kelp loss? That’s real blues, friend.”

He dives. You count to five.

He pops up again behind you.

“Also,” he adds, nose inches from your face, “we know how to hold a grudge musically. You ever been serenaded in E-flat minor for seven hours straight by a spiteful walrus? No? Count yourself lucky.”

You try to ask more, but Pickle spins into a tailstand.

“Anyway! Can’t chat long. I’ve got a duet with the beluga and a beef with the sea lion. Different keys. Literal and emotional.”

You shake your head. “Wait—what about the medallions?”

He whistles low. “Oh, those things? They’re like a melody caught in stone. The kind of thing that echoes if you hum just right. Open doorways. Closed fish markets. Possibilities.” He pauses. “Also, they might be ancient squid tech. Don’t quote me.”

He starts to sink again, only his snout above water now.

“If you see Allegra,” he says softly, “tell her I didn’t mean to steal the solo. I just felt it, you know? The tide took me.”

Then he vanishes in a gentle splash.

You’re left with seafoam on your shoes, a damp medallion in your palm, and the strange certainty that the ocean is humming somewhere behind you.