Striped Dolphin

Striped Dolphin

The medallion is bobbing. Literally. Stuck to a piece of driftwood that keeps trying to escape the shore. You lunge, splash, and snatch it before the tide carries it away.

A burst of water explodes behind you with a fwsssh! and a dolphin arcs out of the sea, twisting midair with dramatic flair.

“Ta-da!” she cries, landing with a perfectly timed splash. “You may applaud.”

You stare. She stares back, upside down, only her eyes and smile above the waves.

“I’m Zippa,” she says. “Two Ps. One splash. Soprano sparkle of the Seafoam Ensemble. Part-time prankster. Full-time genius.”

You barely open your mouth before she interrupts, “Yes, I know what you’re going to say: ‘Zippa, how do you hit high Cs underwater?’ Trade secret. Next question.”

“Uh…” you manage. “Why mammals? Why not fish or birds?”

Zippa rolls her eyes with such enthusiasm it practically ripples the water. “Fish don’t listen. Too busy panicking. Birds? Birds never shut up. Constant squawking, zero harmony. Besides, they don’t even have lungs. Amateurs.”

She does a little backflip for emphasis. “Mammals know breath. Breath is rhythm. Rhythm is life. Music. Magic. That’s why.”

You’re about to ask another question, but she’s already circling, tail flicking with electric energy.

“Oh! Did you talk to Petra yet? Sea Lion? She says I lack discipline—pfft!—but she once forgot the lyrics to her own aria and sang kelp recipes instead. True story.”

She vanishes underwater for a moment, then pops up inches from your face. “Also, tell Beluga to slow down. It’s not a solo if it’s thirty-seven notes per second. It’s a stampede.”

“Do you think the medallions have something to do with this music?” you ask.

Zippa grins wider. “Honey, the whole ocean’s humming. Currents are carrying chords. Whales are riffing. It’s like the sea’s writing a symphony, and we’re all just notes waiting to be played.”

She spins again. “Or maybe it’s aliens. I did see a jellyfish shaped like a harp the other day.”

A distant call echoes across the bay—long and low. Zippa perks up.

“That’s my cue! Opening act in five. Try not to touch anything cursed, and if you do, name it after me!”

She dives with a splash that soaks your shoes, and all you’re left with is the scent of salt, the beat of surf—and the feeling that something joyful and uncontainable is speeding just below the surface, laughing as it swims.