Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover's Soul Read Free Page A

mornings and leaving her there for four or five hours, at which time I would return with her afternoon bottle. Every lobsterman rowing into the dock those afternoons would see a wild-haired woman waving a pink plastic baby bottle at the sea and crying out, “Sessileeeee!”
    It soon became apparent that Cecily had learned to catch and eat her own fish, since it took her longer and longer to respond to my calls, and she often didn’t seem that interested in the bottle—just the cuddle that came with it. When she was down to just two bottles a day, I started leaving her out all night. I missed our cozy sessions in front of the TV, but I had to accept that our two worlds were drifting apart.
    “The mothers are weaning their pups,” the researcher reported. It was news I was both expecting and half hoping I would never hear. It meant it was time to wean Cecily from the bottle—and from me.
    On a beautiful June morning, I picked Cecily up at the harbor for the last time. Instead of giving her the expected bottle, I drove her to a private cove facing the wild colony and—as the researcher had instructed—painted a yellow stripe on her back so she could identify Cecily from the dozens of other seal pups in the area. When I waded into the water, Cecily trailed after me, reminding me with plaintive little whoops that I had forgotten her bottle. While playing with her for the last time in the shallow water of the cove, I felt what any foster parent must feel as they return a child they have grown to love to the natural parent. I caught myself feeling angry with the harsh choice that had been forced upon me. Why couldn’t I just go on loving and caring for Cecily for the next twenty or thirty years?
    Ultimately, though, it was Cecily who made the choice for me. Bored with my melancholic, halfhearted play, she decided to explore this new place I had brought her to and started swimming toward the open water. I desperately wanted to call her back, but I didn’t. Instead I watched as her little, black head glided out of the cove toward the wild colony and, I hoped, a new life.
    Nan Lincoln

Surrogate Mom and Pup
    Several years ago, on a cold and foggy morning in Monterey, a baby sea otter washed up on the shore of the Pacific Grove coastline, its mother nowhere in sight. The little otter had been discovered by a beachgoer who called in the field response team from the sea otter research and conservation program at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. After a thorough examination by a resident veterinarian, it was determined that the three-week-old pup was in shock and suffering from hypothermia. Even if it recovered, the veterinarian said that without a “mom” to teach it, its chances for survival in the wild were slim.
    The otter, who became known as Elwood, was warmed and given antibiotics. When he finally regained consciousness, he let out a bloodcurdling cry that continued for hours on end. He wasn’t interested in the aquarium-made formula, and while he managed to choke down a few morsels of clam, rock cod and squid, all he seemed to really want was his mom. As his healing progressed, Elwood was moved to an outdoor tank where he could swim. But even there the desperate pup spent most of his time searching the tank for his mother, crying in hope of some response.
    Jake, the other orphaned otter who shared Elwood’s tank, began to show signs of agitation from the cries, so Elwood was moved to a temporary nursery in the dive locker room on the third floor of the aquarium. Sleeping only thirty to forty minutes at a time, he continued to lament the loss of his mother. He refused contact with any human and was only quiet when he slept or ate.
    Then fate intervened. While tagging sea otters to track and research for the aquarium’s field research project, a group of biologists tried to catch a battered female carrying a small pup. The feisty mother wriggled free at the last moment, but left the pup. Upon closer examination, the