The Sea Lion

The shorter flamingo had decided that San Francisco was a considerable improvement over Death Valley, although she remained unwilling to admit this to her traveling companion.

The temperature was reasonable, there was water everywhere, and her neck had stopped developing new and unexpected curves. The fact that she could no longer hold her head quite as high as she once had was something she preferred not to discuss.

Their new home was a small waterfront patio overlooking the marina near Pier 39. The owners had placed them beside a collection of potted flowers and a wooden bench, where they could admire the boats and entertain the occasional tourist who wandered past.

The taller flamingo was delighted.

"Look at this! Ocean views, fresh seafood, excellent accommodations. I believe we've finally arrived somewhere civilized."

The shorter flamingo studied the crowded waterfront.

"There's a man over there eating something out of a paper bowl."

"Clam chowder."

"What's a clam?"

"A kind of seafood."

"What's seafood?"

The taller flamingo hesitated.

"Food from the sea, obviously."

The shorter one considered the explanation.

"That seems unnecessarily broad."

Their conversation was interrupted by an enormous barking sound from somewhere below the railing.

Then another.

And another.

The shorter flamingo turned toward the noise.

"What on earth is that?"

"Sea lions," replied the taller flamingo. "I mentioned them yesterday."

"You neglected to mention that they sound like broken machinery."

Below them, a collection of floating wooden docks was occupied by several dozen enormous brown animals. Some lay stretched out in the sunshine, while others shoved one another into the water or argued noisily over particularly desirable sleeping positions.

The shorter flamingo watched in fascination.

"They're enormous."

"Yes."

"And rather unpleasant."

"They're wild animals."

"That doesn't excuse bad manners."

One particularly large sea lion was resting at the end of a dock, apparently indifferent to the commotion surrounding him. His coat was graying around the muzzle, and a long scar crossed one shoulder. He had the weary expression of someone who had spent many years observing human behavior and found little reason to be impressed.

The taller flamingo leaned forward.

"Good morning!"

The sea lion opened one eye.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you intend to keep talking."

The shorter flamingo was immediately impressed.

The taller flamingo, who had never considered silence an especially desirable quality, continued cheerfully.

"We're visiting from Florida."

The sea lion looked them over.

"Long way from home."

"Quite an adventure, actually. We've been to Oregon, Yellowstone, Death Valley, and now San Francisco."

The sea lion raised his head slightly.

"Death Valley?"

"Yes."

"You're made of plastic."

"Naturally."

"And you went to Death Valley?"

The taller flamingo drew herself up.

"It was a geographical misunderstanding."

The sea lion stared at her for several seconds.

Then he began to laugh.

It was a deep, rolling sound that caused two younger sea lions to look up from their afternoon nap.

"Oh, that's good," he said. "That's very good."

The shorter flamingo leaned toward the railing.

"I told her it was a bad idea."

"Of course you did."

"I specifically objected to the name."

"Reasonable objection."

"She said it was marketing."

The sea lion laughed again.

The taller flamingo was beginning to feel that the conversation had taken an unfortunate turn.

"Perhaps we should introduce ourselves," she suggested.

"Why?" asked the sea lion.

"Because it's polite."

The sea lion considered this.

"Fine. They call me Walter."

"Walter?"

"That's what I said."

"An unusual name for a sea lion."

"An unusual name for a flamingo would be Harold, but I don't hear you complaining."

The shorter flamingo found this enormously entertaining.

Walter shifted his considerable weight and settled more comfortably on the dock.

"So," he said, "what brings two lawn ornaments to San Francisco?"

"We're migrating," explained the taller flamingo.

Walter looked at their thin metal legs.

"On those?"

"We've had transportation."

"I should hope so."

"We're trying to get back to Florida."

Walter closed his eyes for a moment.

"Then you're going the wrong direction."

The shorter flamingo straightened as much as her slightly melted neck allowed.

"Thank you!"

The taller flamingo frowned.

"Not necessarily. There are several possible routes."

"From California to Florida?" Walter asked.

"Certainly."

"Most of them head east."

"We've been heading east."

"You're on the Pacific Ocean."

The taller flamingo glanced toward the water.

"Well, yes."

"Florida's on the other side of the country."

"Geography can be complicated."

"Not that complicated."

The shorter flamingo was beginning to think Walter might be the most intelligent creature they had encountered since leaving Florida.

For the next hour, they talked.

Walter had lived around the waterfront for many years and considered himself something of an expert on tourists. He had watched people drop cameras into the bay, lose hats to the wind, and pay remarkable sums of money for food that could be obtained much more cheaply by simply catching it.

"Humans are strange," he observed. "They travel thousands of miles to look at things, then spend the whole time staring at little screens."

The shorter flamingo nodded sympathetically.

"At least they know where they're going."

Walter gave her a doubtful look.

"Not always."

He told them about a tourist who had once mistaken a harbor seal for a sea lion and insisted on correcting everyone who disagreed with him.

"Even after I barked at him," Walter said. "Some people are determined to be wrong."

The taller flamingo shifted uncomfortably.

The shorter one noticed.

"Sound familiar?"

"I have no idea what you're suggesting."

Walter laughed.

By late afternoon, the waterfront had grown crowded. Tourists leaned over the railings, cameras clicked, and children shouted excitedly whenever a sea lion slid into the water.

The flamingos attracted their own share of attention.

A little girl stopped beside them and pointed.

"Mommy, look! Pink birds!"

Her mother smiled.

"They're flamingos, sweetheart."

"Are they real?"

"Of course not. They're lawn decorations."

The shorter flamingo was offended.

"Of course we're real."

Walter called up from below.

"Don't take it personally. Half the tourists think I'm a walrus."

The little girl leaned closer.

"That one's crooked."

The shorter flamingo closed her eyes.

"Death Valley," she muttered.

Her mother took a photograph, and they moved on.

Walter watched them disappear into the crowd.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "People come here expecting everything to look exactly like the pictures. They're disappointed when it doesn't."

The shorter flamingo considered this.

"Do you ever leave?"

Walter stretched lazily.

"Occasionally."

"Where do you go?"

"Wherever the fish are."

"That sounds sensible."

"It is."

"Do you ever get lost?"

Walter looked up at her.

"Not often."

The taller flamingo brightened.

"Perhaps you could help us navigate."

Walter stared at her.

"To Florida?"

"Eventually."

"I'm a sea lion."

"Yes."

"I live in the Pacific Ocean."

"Naturally."

"And you want me to take you to Florida?"

The taller flamingo considered the practical difficulties.

"Perhaps not immediately."

Walter shook his head.

"I've met some foolish tourists in my time, but you two are something special."

The shorter flamingo sighed.

"She's something special. I'm just along for the ride."

Walter seemed to appreciate the distinction.

As evening approached, the crowds began to thin. The fishing boats returned to their slips, the restaurant lights came on, and the sea lions gradually settled into a noisy collection of sleeping bodies.

The taller flamingo was still considering their next destination.

"I've been reading about Hawaii."

The shorter flamingo turned sharply.

"No."

"Beautiful beaches."

"No."

"Palm trees."

"No."

"Warm tropical breezes."

"We cannot fly."

"Perhaps we could travel by ship."

Walter opened one eye.

"To Hawaii?"

"Yes."

"That's about two thousand miles of open ocean."

The taller flamingo nodded thoughtfully.

"Sounds peaceful."

Walter looked at the shorter flamingo.

"Is she always like this?"

"Unfortunately."

He considered the matter for a moment.

"Well, if you're determined to travel, I might know someone who could help."

The taller flamingo perked up.

"Really?"

"Maybe."

"Who?"

Walter glanced toward the far end of the marina.

"There's an old pelican who hangs around the fishing boats. Name's Clarence. Claims he's been everywhere from Alaska to Mexico."

The shorter flamingo looked suspicious.

"Is he reliable?"

Walter thought about it.

"Not particularly."

"Wonderful."

"But he knows boats. And he knows people who work on boats."

The taller flamingo was delighted.

"Excellent! We could use a professional navigator."

Walter looked at her for a long moment.

"That's not what I said."

"Close enough."

The shorter flamingo groaned.

Walter settled his head back onto the dock.

"One piece of advice," he said.

"Yes?" asked the taller flamingo.

"If Clarence tells you he's arranged transportation, ask where it's going before you climb aboard."

"Of course."

"And if he mentions Alaska, say no."

The shorter flamingo nodded vigorously.

"Absolutely."

The taller flamingo appeared thoughtful.

"What's wrong with Alaska?"

Walter closed his eyes.

"Good night."

The two flamingos stood quietly beside the railing as darkness settled over San Francisco Bay.

For the first time since leaving Oregon, the shorter flamingo felt that they might actually have a chance of reaching Florida.

Walter seemed sensible.

Clarence sounded experienced.

And surely, after everything they had endured, even her companion must have learned something about navigation.

Then the taller flamingo spoke.

"You know, Alaska does have a very interesting coastline."

The shorter flamingo stared at her.

"Don't."

"I'm merely observing."

"No."

"Apparently the scenery is magnificent."

"Absolutely not."

"And in the summer, the days are extremely long."

The shorter flamingo looked down toward Walter, who was already asleep.

"Walter?"

One eye opened.

"Yes?"

"Do you think you could eat a flamingo?"

Walter considered the question.

"Plastic gives me indigestion."

"That's unfortunate."

"Why?"

The shorter flamingo looked at her companion.

"Never mind."

Across the marina, a large brown pelican landed awkwardly on the railing of a fishing boat, nearly losing his balance before settling his enormous beak against his chest.

Clarence had arrived.

And judging by the way he was studying a fishing vessel preparing to depart for the north, the flamingos' next adventure was already taking shape.