California Sea Lion

California Sea Lion

You spot the medallion just past the tide line, half-buried in sun-warmed sand, blinking like a bronze wink. You reach down, brush off the kelp, and touch it.

From behind a rock, a voice lets out a theatrical sigh.

“Oh, finally. I’ve been warming up since sunrise. The acoustics are horrid onshore.”

A sleek figure lounges dramatically across the rocks like a furry diva mid-recital. She flicks a flipper with flair.

“Petra,” she says. “Petra Pearl, mezzo-soprano, kelp soprano, seaweed alto, and retired kelp forest lead.”

You open your mouth, and she lifts a flipper. “No autographs. Unless it’s a shell.”

She adjusts her position, lifts her head to the sky, and belts out a haunting note that echoes off the waves. Several seagulls take off in alarm.

“Ever since those medallions started appearing, everyone thinks they can just chat with sea mammals. But where’s the etiquette? Where’s the rehearsal schedule?”

You try to interject, but she barrels ahead.

“You’ve met Pickle, haven’t you? Porpoise with a vibrato like a spinning beach ball? Delightful tone. Zero discipline.”

You ask, “What do you think the medallions are for?”

Petra blinks slowly. “Darling. They’re obviously instruments. Not in the literal sense—don’t go blowing into one—but instruments of change, of harmony, of upheaval! The world is tuning itself.”

She narrows her eyes. “It’s not always in tune.”

A wave splashes the rocks. She shifts positions, smoothing her whiskers. “I once sang a duet with a humpback over three nautical miles. He was in B minor. I was in love. These medallions… they feel like that. Like a key change waiting to happen.”

A gull shrieks nearby. She snarls at it. “Tone-deaf.”

She turns back to you, suddenly serious. “You must listen more than you speak. Not just to us, but to the world. The sand, the wind, the pause between waves. That’s where the story is. And if you can’t hear the story, you’ll miss the solo.”

She stretches, yawns, and slides gracefully into the water.

Just before her head disappears, she calls, “Tell the mink to stop sending me clams. I don’t do duets with percussionists.”

And then she’s gone—leaving behind the smell of salt, a swirl of bubbles, and the lingering sound of something ancient warming up beneath the waves.