The Seal Who Believed She Was a Dugong

On the shoreline of a long white sandy beach, where land and water playfully chased each other, a rather plump seal lay sprawled out on her back, belly up, sipping a drink the crabs had offered her. It was nearly sunset when a shadow glided over the shore. An eagle, with its grand wings, landed gently on the beach. This was a weary-winged eagle, unfamiliar to those parts, who, after a long flight, touched down with a soft rustle not far from the seal.

Slowly, seeing no other animals around, the eagle walked toward the seal to ask for some information.
“Hello, Seal,” the eagle said in a kind voice.
The seal didn’t respond right away. With a theatrical gesture, she lowered her oversized sunglasses, glanced around as if looking for someone, then fixed her gaze on the eagle. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes, of course!” the eagle replied, delighted to speak with someone after so long.
“Seal? I’m a dugong, feathered one, not a seal. Can’t you see my aquatic grace?” the seal retorted, adjusting her sunglasses with a flipper.

The eagle, a bit stunned by this response, was initially incredulous but, moments later, couldn’t hide a tender laugh filled with affection, having understood the seal quite well — and finding her rather likable.
“Oh, of course, a dugong… Forgive me, the sunset light confused me.”
“Pfft,” she replied, pushing her glasses lower with a flipper. “You, the eagle with legendary sight, can’t tell a dugong from a seal? Are you sure you’re not just a tired seagull?”

The eagle burst into laughter.
“This seal is quite a character!” it thought.
“Well, anyway… what’s your name, feathered one who thinks he’s an eagle?”
“They call me Shamàn,” the eagle answered.
“Oh, that’s rich! And who’s crazy enough to call you that?” the seal teased, poking fun at Shamàn. “Though, I suppose it’s not that surprising… the world’s getting full of strange animals these days. And for someone who can’t tell a seal from a dugong, I shouldn’t expect anything less than a name like that.”
“And you, elegant dugong, what’s your name?”
“They call me… well, I don’t have a name,” the seal said, noisily sipping her drink. “But you can call me the Queen of Seaweed, since I’m the most refined dugong on this beach.”
“Queen of Seaweed,” Shamàn repeated with an ironic smirk. “A name worthy of such an… imposing creature.”

And so began an unlikely friendship between sea and sky. Though they spoke different languages — one of splashes and bubbles, the other of wind and heights — they found a way to understand each other. That day, they laughed and joked until the sun plunged into the horizon, blending water, earth, air, and fire in a golden embrace.

In the days that followed, Shamàn and the Queen of Seaweed created a routine all their own. In the mornings, she insisted on teaching the eagle the art of “grazing” seaweed (“Don’t yank it, feathered one! You have to caress it first!”). Afternoons were reserved for Shamàn’s tales — stories of distant lands and unknown seas that the seal listened to with sparkling eyes, dreaming of journeys she’d never dared to imagine.

One evening, after a particularly vivid sunset, Shamàn noticed how the seal watched the other seals playing in the water. Her eyes betrayed a nostalgia her mouth denied. “So noisy, those seals,” she grumbled, raising her voice to drown out the laughter drifting from the shore. “We dugongs are creatures of class.” But her flipper tapped the sand, following the rhythm of their games.
“We dugongs,” she always began, her tone proud, “are refined vegetarians. Seaweed, only seaweed! Not like those vulgar seals gorging on fish.” At those words, her eyes crinkled for a moment before sparkling again. “Look over there, that rock in the middle of the sea — it’s our kingdom. No guests, especially noisy seals… filthy, deafening seals! If they don’t want to be squashed by our bellies, they’d better stay away.”

“How long have you lived here, Queen of Seaweed?” Shamàn asked one night in a hushed tone, almost in tune with the sea’s echo. The seal, perched on a shimmering patch of water under the moonlight, sighed deeply — so deeply that her retro-designed sunglasses slid slowly down her damp, soft fur. “Forever,” she replied in a faint voice, then paused, heavy with memories. “I remember… when I was little, a raging storm hit me: enormous waves, tall as mountains, swept me away and left me alone in this vast stretch of water. That’s when an old dugong appeared, like a silent angel. He fed me fresh seaweed and taught me the secrets of the currents. He told me that, despite being ‘different,’ I had an elegance all my own.” After a brief silence, the seal spoke with resolve, “When he left, I swore to myself I’d carry on his tradition. I’m a queen, after all.” Her words rang high, her gaze fixed on the infinite, but as she spoke, her voice carried a faint shadow of pain, almost imperceptible.

The silence that followed was broken only by the relentless rhythm of the sea gently lapping the shore. Seizing the moment, Shamàn drew closer, as if to gather every trace of that faded past.

One afternoon, while Shamàn rested on a rock, the seal suddenly dragged him into the cool water with a vibrant laugh: “Come on, feathered one, I’ll teach you to graze seaweed like a true dugong!” The eagle, struggling to stay afloat despite his clumsiness, ended up unleashing a shower of glittering splashes while the seal rocked with laughter. “You’re a disaster, Shamàn! But at least you’re trying,” she said, teasing him affectionately. In that whirl of splashes and laughter, Shamàn felt an unexpected warmth bloom in his chest: this seal, with her eccentricity and imperfect beauty, was becoming more than just a companion.

One day, as Shamàn slowly chewed fresh seaweed by the shore, the seal stopped abruptly. A silver fish leapt from the water, sparkling like a flash among the waves. For a moment, almost unconsciously, the seal’s mouth hung open, mesmerized by the vivid sight. Shamàn, watching closely, broke in with a casual tone: “Would you like to try one?”
“Me? Never!” Her reply was quick and firm, brimming with staunch denial. “Seaweed is… enough.” Yet that very night, Shamàn saw a glint of hidden curiosity in her eyes as she stared at the horizon where other seals dove to hunt — a primal dance that clashed with her apparent renunciation.

The seal, however, loved hearing Shamàn’s stories. “Tell me again about something you’ve seen from above,” she’d often ask.
Shamàn closed his eyes, letting memory carry him to that distant scene. “It was a dolphin,” he began, his voice calm and measured like water in a tranquil bay. “It leapt between the waves, free and unbound, with a grace that seemed a dance suspended in time. It never paused to doubt if it was right to be that way — it dove, played, and the sea welcomed it like an old friend. From above, I saw it as a silver flash piercing the water’s surface, fearless and unhesitant.” The seal nodded slowly, sipping her drink in the company of the sea breeze; her sunglasses, slipping gently down her nose, reflected the trembling light of the sea. For a moment, her eyes drifted into the vastness, watching a fin break the surface, her flippers tightening slightly around a small shell as if to hold that magical moment forever.

It took a few weeks before the seal, with a softer, almost frightened voice, said, “Sometimes I dream of swimming fast, diving deep. Chasing something shiny. I wake up with my heart pounding.”
“And how do you feel in those dreams?” Shamàn asked.
“Free,” she whispered. “But then I remember who I am.” Her voice stiffened again. “A Queen of Seaweed doesn’t chase fish.”

“This year I’ve gained a hundred pounds!” she exclaimed another day, lounging in the sun with a fresh drink in her flipper. “Soon I’ll be the most majestic dugong in the sea. Look at these rolls of fat, Shamàn — aren’t I splendid?” She turned sideways, showing off her profile with a pride that felt almost like a challenge.
The eagle nodded, a gleam in his eyes. “You know, from my wings I see many animals… but I’ve never met one so much like, yet so unlike, herself.”
The seal froze, a seaweed leaf halfway to her mouth, and for an instant, her sunglasses slipped, revealing a flicker of doubt. But then she laughed, loud and hearty, and returned to her drink. “You and your poetic eagle lines! Have a drink, come on — the crabs here work miracles.” But as she spoke, her flippers trembled, and Shamàn noticed.

Soon after, while swimming near the shore, a group of young seals passed by, playing and chasing each other. One of them cast a curious glance at the Queen of Seaweed, and for a moment, it seemed she might approach. The seal stiffened, but her eyes followed their graceful movements. “They’re too loud,” she muttered, though her tone was more sad than annoyed.

Every day, small signs: a motion too natural, too like the other seals; a restrained longing; an avoided question. Shamàn laughed and played along with the seal, sharing a mutual self-irony as if they both knew the truth — that she wasn’t a dugong but wouldn’t admit it, not to herself or to Shamàn.

As the days passed, the seal grew more at ease with Shamàn. Usually, she kept to herself: real dugongs, with their deep, slow calls, avoided her, thinking her a strange intruder; other seals watched her from afar, puzzled by her behavior. Talking to Shamàn was different, like a cool breeze tousling her thoughts. Between jests, she began to reflect on herself. Her once-certain words started sounding strange. What if…?

One evening, as the sky turned purple and the waves caressed the shore, the seal asked, “Shamàn, have you ever wondered who you really are?” The eagle tilted his head. “Sometimes,” he replied, gazing at her with keen eyes. “And you?”
The seal opened her mouth, but no words came. Her eyes widened, her drink slipped from her flippers and thudded onto the sand, spilling its sweet liquid among the grains. “What if I’m… a seal?” she murmured, almost to herself. Her flippers shook, the wind stilled abruptly, and the sea held its breath, as if listening too.

Shamàn stretched a wing toward her, but the seal flopped onto her side with an exaggerated sigh. “Kidding, feathered one! Of course I’m a seal. But don’t tell anyone — it’s a secret.”
She laughed, as if it were a game. But the moment the laughter escaped her lips, something shifted. Her eyes widened, realizing too late the weight of what she’d said. The secret she’d worn as a joke for so long now cloaked her like a dense, relentless shadow.

Her laughter caught in her throat. Her flippers trembled. Her body stiffened. Shamàn realized too late that the sand beneath her no longer shifted. “Queen of Seaweed?” he asked, his smile fading. But the seal didn’t answer.
Her glossy skin slowly hardened, turning to cold, heavy stone. Shamàn leapt forward, brushing her with a wing. “Queen of Seaweed!” he called again, in vain. In an instant, she fully petrified: a gleaming statue, sunglasses still perched on her nose, her face frozen in fear.

Shamàn cried her name desperately, but the seal remained silent, still. With a pang of grief clutching his heart, he understood that his friend had finally faced the fate she feared most. In a tumult of emotions, he thanked the stone seal, bid her a heart-wrenching farewell, and took flight, carried away by the wind of his sorrow.

In the days that followed, the coastal seals approached the shore, drawn to the motionless figure. They gathered around the statue, whispering among themselves, and soon the story spread: it told of a seal who, fearing to accept her identity, had convinced herself she was a dugong. She’d fed on crabs and seaweed until she grew to the size of a dugong. But when Shamàn believed her, the truth overwhelmed her. The tale of the seal became a legend, echoing across the world’s seas.

The statue withstood sun, rain, and storms. Seagulls perched atop it, crabs built burrows around it.
One night, during a fierce tempest, a lightning bolt tore through the sky and struck the statue, shattering it into a thousand pieces. The fragments scattered across the beach, gleaming under the rain, and in the days that followed, they became shelters for crabs and small creatures. Each piece seemed to carry an echo of her laughter, as if the seal, even broken, had found a way to remain, to be useful.

No physical memory remained of the stone seal who believed she was a dugong. A large log washed ashore took the statue’s place, and the seagulls soon forgot. But the seals didn’t. They kept telling the legend to their young, gathered on the sand as the sun set.

The legend of the seal who believed she was a dugong, living in fear of knowing herself, lived on among the waves — a warning to all who dread facing their own truth.
And even today, when seals gather on the beach, they slap their flippers against the sand, a sound like applause. It’s their way of remembering the seal who, with a heavy heart, learned the greatest lesson: to be herself.