There’s something quietly warm and fuzzy about sea otters holding hands while they sleep. Not for romance. Not for display. For physics. The ocean drifts. Bodies drift. Without that small, deliberate contact, they would wake alone, scattered by tides they never agreed to. So they link themselves together in the dark, a living chain saying: when the world moves, we choose not to vanish from one another.
It’s touching because it’s unheroic. No speeches. No vows. Just an instinctive understanding that connection is not a feeling but a practice. Hold on, even when you’re tired. Especially when you’re tired. Especially when the current is doing what currents do.
There’s a lesson hiding in plain sight here. Most drifting in human lives doesn’t happen during storms. It happens during sleep. During routine. During the long stretches where nothing dramatic seems to be happening. That’s when relationships loosen. That’s when meaning slides a few inches at a time. The otter doesn’t wait for crisis. It reaches out before separation becomes a story.
Taken seriously, this becomes a small experiment you can actually run. Notice who you hold metaphorical hands with. Notice where you’ve assumed gravity will take care of connection for you. Then choose one simple tether. A message. A walk. A weekly check-in. Not to be profound, but to stay in the same patch of water.
The ocean isn’t hostile. It’s just indifferent. Holding hands is how creatures who understand that stay together anyway.
