Hand Mixing

On the sixth quiet day, the aquarium doors stood open because the locks had frozen in place. No ticket machines. Just the smell of salt and blue light reflecting on the floor. I volunteered with a small crew to keep the tanks alive.

“The pumps are down,” Nora said. “We will mix by hand.”

“How?” I asked.

She handed me a long pole with a paddle on the end. “Stir,” she said. “Count to fifty. Then listen.”

We stood at the edge of the big kelp tank. The water looked heavy, green and slow. I stirred and watched bubbles rise, bright and soft. My shoulders burned. My breath fell into a rhythm. Stir, lift, stir, sift. The kelp brushed the surface like hair.

Sloshing cold over our shoes, we carried buckets from the touch pool to the tide pool. The floor had a rubber and marine scent. “They look like flowers,” a youngster said, pointing to the anemones.

We put up a table in the lobby at midday. Nora wrote, “Trade work for tickets later.” “Help today.” They arrived with hand fans, towels, and gentle words. Jin, a surfer, brought a hand pump. He squatted, squeezed, tugged. The pump coughed softly and wetly in response. He said, “Hear that?” “The ocean enjoys lungs.”

We fed squid that had begun to defrost from the freezer. It smelled delicious and spicy. “Each two pieces,” Nora remarked. “No more.” The otters’ whiskers twitched as they swiftly pawed them away. One put her nose against the windowpane. “Hello,” I said. In the large, blue room, my voice sounded small.

“Will the power return?” Jin asked.

“Maybe,” Nora said. “We act like it will not.”

Evening slid in cool and silver. We lit tea candles in jars and placed them along the rail. The flames shook but held.

When we departed, we left nothing locked. As usual, the doors stood, reeking of hope and brine. My back hurt, my palms were numb, and my head was clear. We would stir again tomorrow. We would listen once more. Together, we would keep the ocean alive in a building.