Never Between a Seal and the Ocean

In 2004, my baby cousin (8 years my junior and approximately 12 years my senior in common sense) and I decided to conquer the South Island of New Zealand in a heroic vehicle best described as “a Japanese standard import with ambition.”

It was the kind of car that hummed bravely at sea level and wheezed theatrically on hills. I was teaching her how to drive stick, which meant that every incline between Christchurch and eternity became a live-action trust exercise.

“Clutch. Clutch! CLUTCH!” I’d yell as we rolled backward toward scenic oblivion.

“I AM CLUTCHING!” she’d shriek, as the transmission emitted a smell that suggested we were cooking it medium-rare. By the time we reached Fox Glacier, the gearbox had seen things.

It had regrets.

Toward the end of our trip, we crossed the island from Fox Glacier to Kaikōura --- a place famous for its dramatic offshore canyon, where sperm whales dive to feast on giant squid like it’s an all-you-can-eat calamari buffet in the abyss. As we drove, I delivered a TED Talk no one had requested.

“Did you know,” I said wisely, “that the sperm whale can solidify the oil in its nose to act like an anchor? It dives into the black chasms, snacks on giant squid, then liquefies the oil to float back up like a majestic, 40-ton lava lamp.”

She stared at me. “Are you making this up?”

“I would never,” I said, adjusting the radio like a marine biologist.

Kaikōura is also known for its fur seal colony, which seemed charming and National Geographic-adjacent. So naturally, we woke at 5 a.m., because nothing says “vacation” like predawn hypothermia. We drove our brave, little car out to a rocky point I’d visited before.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” she asked, eyeing the ocean as though a whale might parallel park beside us.

“Of course it’s safe!” I said. “Do you think I’d endanger my baby cousin?”

“…I mean.”

“When it comes to fur seals,” I continued, channeling my inner David Suzuki, “never---and I mean never---get between a seal and the ocean. That’s basically Seal Law.”

“Oh look!” she squealed. “There’s one in the water!”

“Nah,” I said confidently. “The best photos are this way. Through this grass.”

Before us lay an inviting animal path weaving through waist-high grass. The ocean breeze was gentle. The rocks glowed red. Waves pounded rhythmically against the shore like a soothing spa soundtrack titled Impending Doom.

I strutted ahead. Then I saw it. A blunt, black-tipped nose lay motionless across the path.

I glanced back. My cousin was admiring the view, blissfully unaware of the impending collapse of our familial trust.

I gestured dramatically. Come here! I found one!

She approached. I crouched slightly, camera ready, and then I whispered to the nose:

“Hello, sweetheart.”

One enormous, brown eye opened.

Time stopped.

The seal, clearly healing from what looked like a shark bite, had been resting. Recuperating. Meditating on forgiveness. And in its mind, I was VERY MUCH between it and the ocean.

With a roar that can only be described as “wet thunder,” it launched upright, teeth bared.

Everything disintegrated.

I turned to run, but my cousin (bless her survival instincts) was already in full Olympic flight. She blasted ahead of me like Ben Johnson in the 100 meter dash, arms pumping, eyes wild.

“OH SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!” she screamed into the dawn. As she sprinted past the line of seaside motorhomes, interior lights flicked on one by one.

“WTF, Mildred? What’s going on out there?”

“I don’t know, Harold! My GOD the ruckus!”

Curtains twitched. Slippers shuffled. Chaos reigned.

Behind us, the seal lumbered toward the rocks, profoundly offended. It paused, glaring back at us with the intensity of the the Lorax --- if the Lorax weighed 500 kilos and had incisors.

The message was clear:

I speak for the sea. And you are idiots.

By the time I reached the car, my cousin was vibrating with fury.

“You could have gotten us KILLED!”

“I’m sorry!” I panted. “I thought I wasn’t between him and the ocean!”

“Apparently,” she snapped, “he had a DIFFERENT OPINION.”

“Let’s go,” she steamed.

Suddenly, driving stick was no longer her greatest fear. She slammed the car into reverse with the conviction of a woman who had outrun nature itself.

The engine stalled. We sat in silence.

Then...

We both burst out laughing. The kind of hysterical, slightly unhinged laughter that comes from surviving your own stupidity on the far edge of the world.

As we drove away carefully, clutch fully engaged, the ocean glittered behind us. Somewhere out there, sperm whales were diving into black canyons, solidifying nose oil like underwater astronauts, battling giant squid in operatic darkness.

And on shore, one extremely grumpy seal was telling his friends about two absolute morons from 2004.

To this day, whenever I hear the phrase “never get between a seal and the ocean,” I feel personally attacked.

And my cousin?

She can now drive stick like a champion thanks to me.

Just… not through grass.