Elizabeth Ahn
McLean, VA
2022, Junior, Creative Writing

The last I remember of the upper world was being in the gross, dry grip of a human’s hand. Then, that same hand tossed me onto the shore, as if I was worthless. After a few hours of rolling around in the sand—God, I must’ve looked like a fool—the ocean current dragged me in by the tail. That was it. From then on, I guess I’ve been a fish—only, those pretentious mackerels would swim away every time I floated near, never accepting me as one of their own. I could never quite understand how the other fish could steer their way through the water, while I could only ever float along with the push and pull of the waves.

In fact, I’ve been floating around this ocean for what seems like decades; maybe it has been that long—and maybe I’ll be around for the next century as well. I remember all the other fish, generations back, from when they were mere egg membranes. I remember the cherry shrimp that would dance in clusters on their favorite chilly days. Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen them in a while, ever since the water started getting noticeably warmer. What’s wrong with dancing in the warmth? The heat never bothered me.

I also remember the coral reefs, before they looked like clumps of wet chalk. Oh, those kaleidoscopic reefs! Some were hair-like, and others looked like neon lily pads. One of them looked like a sheet of lace, and we called it the Gorgonia Flabellum. The coral reefs liked me, I think, because they never stung me like they stung the other fish whenever I grazed on top of them. Fish. Ah, yes, the fish! I remember the diversity of fish—as if someone had dumped sprinkles into the ocean. These fish would then lay eggs like colorful pearls, and I would watch them hatch as I floated by. I remember cheering on the larvae as their heads began to poke out of the membrane. Then, of course, they would grow and grow and even lay eggs of their own.

Somehow, I’ve outlasted them all. I’d say I look pretty good for my age, though I used to wear a nifty name tag identifying me as “Coca Cola” before one of those Leatherbacks nipped it off. Coca Cola fish like me are everywhere! And they all wear the same red name tag, just like the one I used to have; who knew a name could be so common? I see hundreds like me every day, but with different name tags. “Dasani” and “Sprite” and “Snapple” and “Gatorade” and “Pepsi.” Pepsi! What a name.

Fish like me, the kind with name tags, all float around instead of swimming. I’ve never seen any of us laying eggs like the other fish—I wonder how we all got here, and how there are more of us every day. I guess I like floating—heck, I don’t get to choose. In fact, I can’t choose what I see, where I go, when to stop… that’s not my job. My job is to observe, and I’m good at it. Sometimes, I peek into the flaps of the Orbicella faveolata and look at the miniature sea stars, before the ocean current carries me elsewhere.

But these past few years, I’ve been detecting some changes. To be frank, I can’t recall the crisp, saline taste of the ocean anymore. I’ve recently been floating through a warm, acidic lagoon, where the North Atlantic cod have disappeared, and the butterfly crabs are sweating their outer shells away. What happened to the coho salmon? I miss looking at their metallic scales, and I find myself wondering when they’ll come back.

But what about me? Fish like me don’t seem to be going anywhere. One time, the current carried me up near the surface, and suddenly a fishing hook reeled me back into the dry world. I felt oddly comfortable out of water. But when the fisherman grabbed me by my crumpled torso, he immediately chucked me back into the ocean. I must really belong in the water, since everyone seems intent on putting me there! The man had been wearing something on his feet, something I see floating around the ocean all the time—I think they call them “flip-flops.” While sinking back down, I noticed that the sea level had risen since the last time I’d been above the water. Just then, a bottlenose dolphin rolled its eyes at me. Had the dolphins always been so thin? I’ve been overhearing their complaints about finding prey; apparently, it’s nearly impossible these days. I hear the calves are starving, and I’ve always wanted to help, but the jellyfish are gone, and so are so many of the small schools of fish that used to abound. I hope they can find some soon. Just last week, I could’ve sworn I saw moon jellyfish, but drifting closer, I discovered it was nothing of the sort. The amorphous organism floated around—almost like me—until it got caught in the throat of a sunfish.

Years back, I remember seeing a lot of those non-jellyfish, along with more of my kind than usual, bobbing in groups with the waves. A familiar scent from the upper land wafted lethargically around me. I was carried closer, only to find even more nametag fish that float. Millions of us! The bunches grew bigger and bigger and bigger, until all I could see was an endless island of… me. There were no signs of the other fish nearby; frankly, it smelled more like humans than fish. I revisited this patch not too long ago, only this time, it was even bigger. The sunlight from the surface could barely peak through between the dense clusters of fish crumpled together. Were they even alive?

* * *

Sometimes I wonder what it’s like up on the dry land. Are mass populations of humans vanishing, just like so many of the species I used to see in the ocean? Maybe the humans are similar to me, and will stick around. From the massive blue whale, to the microscopic plankton, just about every underwater creature complains about the heat. The heat. The heat. Still, it takes me by surprise when an entire population disappears. Will I ever disappear?

Share Gallery

Fish That Float