He is born of the sea - as corals release polyps to find their way. He is set adrift. His breath is as the rush of ocean waves - surging forward with daunting power and then relenting. But the sea does not keep him - does not sink his body to the cold, dark floor to feed the creatures of the deep (as it takes his mother’s).

Cold morning light does little to penetrate the heavy fog that has settled at the foot of the mountains. Visibility is low, and the air is filled with the hush of waves stretching and pulling across the sands. The gulls wait silently for the coming storm.

Amongst the rockweed lies a small black heap, none too different from the occasional bolder that marks the shoreline, especially in the penumbras half-light. It is a child, soaked in brine, with new eyes that blink blearily at the morning gray.

He is as black as cooled basalt save for the few pale hairs meddle at the dock of his tail. Soon enough, if nature or nurture allow, he will shed his baby fur to reveal the silver beneath.

The ocean had spared him, but not by dint of his strength (though it blossoms with each breath). But is it merciful to allow him to die for want of milk rather than fill his lungs with water?