Higgins Hole

Why all the celebrating, you ask? We’re thrilled because we’ve just saved our homes—indeed, our very lives! The fight for Higgins Hole was a great victory, probably the greatest in the history of the oceans.
            What? You haven’t heard the news? Jumping conch shells! Have I got a tale for you!
            But first allow me to introduce myself. I’m a Hippocampus erectus, more commonly known as a sea horse. My name is Petronius. I was named by the great Lutus himself, an honor bestowed in our aquatic realm only upon those whose service rises above what’s expected of a common fish.
            You might not know I was named just to look at me, for, as Lutus points out, true greatness lies beneath one’s scales. And yet you might suspect in passing that I swim a bit apart from the school. Doubtless you’ve noticed the elegant taper of my snout, which rises at the end in a noble cast. Many comment on my lovely translucent skin. The smooth facets of my body convey an air at once strong and refined. Fish of culture and taste have noted the tight coil of my tail, suggesting an easy grace at the dance.
            But enough about me . . . Welcome! Our aquatic paradise, Higgins Hole, is located just a few days’ swim off the Florida Keys. A beautiful reef encircles us, protecting us from storms, powerful ocean currents, and noisy ships. The reef pokes its rounded tops above the waves, which splash about them in a continuous, delightful whisper. Inside our reef the whitest sand lies beneath the bluest water, and no artist could equal the brightly colored tapestry of our coral. And there in the very center of the circle, as you can see with your own eyes, is the abyss, a depression in the seafloor so deep that no light has ever reached its bottom.
            Although the origins of our abyss are unknown, theories abound. Lutus has speculated during lighter moments that it might have been dug by an enormous clam, though he’s also expressed more serious possibilities. For example, he proposed to
the Academy that a flaming rock from the sky might have hit the sea and penetrated deep into the sea bottom. He later suggested an alternative theory that a volcano had once existed here, exploded with immense force, and left this seemingly bottomless crater. This caught on as the Big Bang theory and is now much in vogue among our fish-a-cists. Whatever the truth of this matter, our fathomless abyss has always been a source of pride. And until yesterday, only Angie the Anglerfish, our esteemed oracle, knew its hidden secrets.
            But look! Here comes Angie now. As word of her approach spreads, every sea creature stops its grazing to gather around the rim of the abyss. From here we can see everything and, better yet, everyone can see us. Don’t be nervous. Act cool and casual. Firm the belly, twist the tail slightly, and, yes, perfect!
            Angie completes her slow, stately ascent, her light shining ever more brightly from the splendid pod that extends from her shiny black forehead. Her large mouth, bristling with long yellow teeth, slopes back from her nose at a severe angle, stopping just below her ancient gills. It’s been said that no other fish can survive where Angie lives, and—
            Well, excuse me! A very large tuna just sent me spinning with a careless flip of her pectoral fin.
            “I would think,” says the tuna in the unmistakable warble of Miss Tootoo, “that a young sea horse such as yourself would have the sense to gather in the sea-horse section. Can’t you see that Angie is about to make an announcement?”
            “Indeed I can,” I reply indignantly. “But I believe that you are the one who is out of place, Miss Tootoo.”
            “My goodness!” she says, lowering her nose to stare at me with her large green eyes. “Is that you, noble Petronius?”
            “Indeed it is,” I sniff. “And where else would I be but here, in my designated place, ready to perform my duties?”
            “Well, of course, tiny Petronius, but surely you appreciate that a tuna of my stature must leave a bit of a wake.”
            “I barely noticed it,” I say drily (which is not easy to do in the sea).
            Miss Tootoo bats her eyes. “I’m often told that the smooth, delicate lines of my torso blend the waters behind me most gracefully.”
            “Your shape is much commented upon, Miss Tootoo,” I concede tactfully, pinching one of my fins savagely to keep myself from saying more.
            “Why, thank you, Petronius,” she says with a titter. “My, you know how to flatter a tuna! But of course, what would one expect from our poet laureate? But please do be careful where you hover. I daresay you can’t be but a billionth my size.”
            “If that, Miss Tootoo. But I must point out,” I inform this cannery’s dream, “with all due respect, that we are above the center of the abyss, and the center is reserved for—how do I say this?—named fish.” Out of the purest consideration, I refrain from pressing the point, which is that she is not named, and indeed her self-declared nom de fin of Miss
Tootoo is a scandal throughout Higgins Hole. Of course, no one would ever dream of taking her name away. As Lutus often says, “Better to be in the sea than in the skillet,” and while we often wonder what this means, it’s commonly understood that at times it’s wise to let well enough alone.
            With an upward thrust of her nose, Miss Tootoo takes her leave, her pectoral fins gently drumming the water by her side to avoid sending me cartwheeling into the coral.
            Meanwhile Angie has reached our depth and stopped in the luminous blue water. Her pod shines dully as she rests, adjusting to the reduced sea pressure. These trips are exhausting for her, but as everybody knows, duty is her life, and we are the happy bene-fish-iaries.
            We all wait expectantly around the circumference of the abyss, our great aquatic amphitheater, to hear what she has to tell us. The excitement shows in every mouth, fin, and tail.
            Now, you have to understand that Angie’s visits have always played an important role in our community. While her appearances are irregular, her declarations are usually the major topic of discussion for many tides afterward. Recent announcements have included:
            “A hurricane’s coming. Stay deep.” (Good call, Angie!)
            “There will be an earthquake tonight at five o’clock.” (Not a big deal, though some crabs were badly shaken.)
            “A fishing boat’s on the way. Don’t bite anything that doesn’t answer back!” (We lost a good mackerel that day.)
            “Just checking.” (What a sense of humor!)
            “Listen to Lutus.” (And we always do.)
            And, of course, it is Angie herself who announces which of our citizens is to be named, a task that falls to our dear Lutus, who always selects something just right.
            Speaking of named fish, here they come!
            There’s our general, Integritus, a magnificent sailfish over ten feet long. Injured in our recent struggle, he bears his wounds with quiet dignity. His sharp bill juts forward like a steely saber. His large blue eyes, so expressive of courage and honor, convey an indomitable martial spirit.
            Next to him is Apollo, an ancient sea turtle some believe to be more than three hundred years old, older even than Lutus. Apollo’s reputation for wisdom and patience extends far beyond our waters. As our fish of state, he is often called to distant waters to settle disputes and arrange alliances.
            Ah! And there’s Harry the Herring. A droopy, long-nosed fish with a voice that can be as loud as a tanker’s foghorn, dutiful Sheriff Harry shows the difference that even the tiniest of our citizens can make. Indeed, it was at Harry’s naming many tides ago that Lutus declared, “Harry is living testimony that what matters is not the size of the fish in the fight, but the size of the fight in the fish.”
            Agamemnon, Achilles, and Hector, three enormous hammerhead sharks, swim in wide, lazy circles around us. (Don’t worry, friends: they’re charming.) The “Wide-Eyed Three,” as we affectionately call them, have repeatedly risked tail and fin to protect us, and not even a mussel objected when Lutus conferred full citizenship upon them, proving that sharks can indeed lie down with clams.
            I won’t trouble you with my own accomplishments, nor with my duties as poet, witness, and historian, which, as Lutus kindly attests, immortalize us all.
            Others have joined us, but Lutus is about to speak. I promise to introduce them to you later—splendid fish, all of them.
            Do you see him? Look over there! He’s mounting the white Speaker’s Rock at the rim of the abyss. Yes, that’s him! Have you ever seen a more marvelous lobster? Have you ever gazed upon more immense, encrusted claws or more finely tapered legs? His shell is the most beautiful shade of cordovan, a blend of reds and browns mellowed with age. His splendid black eyes perch above a small mouth from which I’ve never heard an unkind or foolish word. The gray whiskers and feelers around his face show the burden of leadership in peace and war, crumpled and broken from constant worry, but nonetheless alive, energetic, and, yes, even playful—a lobster in touch with his inner crustacean. Where would we be without him? What horrors would have been visited upon us without his leadership, his courage, his unshakable will, and his complete lack of shellfishness? But wait . . . he speaks!
            “My fellow fish, mollusks, and annelids,” Lutus begins in his deep, sonorous voice. “Distinguished named ones.” (That’s me!) “Join me in welcoming our dear friend Angie, who has ascended from the depths of the abyss to make an announcement.”
            A thunderous round of bubbles erupts from millions of open mouths, and none is larger than Miss Tootoo’s, whose enormous belches topple several codfish onto their backs and create a bit of a skirmish in the fish-of-stature section.
            Angie bows her head modestly, her pod bobbing forward so that it droops below her protruding lower lip. (Her best look, in my opinion.)
            “What message do you have for us today, kind Angie?” Lutus asks, expressing the question tingling behind every set of gills.
            “The time has come for a naming ceremony,” Angie says simply, her tone and diction that of an aristocratic ladyfish. Amid another thunderous barrage of excited bubbles, Angie approaches Speaker’s Rock and confers quietly with Lutus. Throughout Higgins Hole every fish contemplates Angie’s news, jaws opening and closing as the importance of this shocking pronouncement sinks into the collective psyche. Another naming!
            “Prepare for a great feast,” Angie says finally, “and my most hearty congratulations.” As she sinks back into the inky depths, quiet murmurs grow steadily into a roar of animated speculation.
            Who will receive this greatest of honors? A name! Will it be the garfish who warned us of the first attack by Tacitus, the leader of the great white sharks? Will it be the courageous flying fish who swam tirelessly to warn the duke, the duchess, and the others that time was running out? The more I think about what’s happened and the part that everyone played, the more I realize that there are millions of deserving nominees. Soon every fish has a favorite.
            Lutus looks out over all the excitement, smiles knowingly, and with a wave of his claw, climbs down from Speaker’s Rock.
            “Who will it be?” I ask, joining him.
            “All in good time,” he replies warmly, patting the rounded bonnet of a starstruck young clam. The clam blushes from the great lobster’s attention and snaps her shell shut. When I look back over my shoulder, I see the silly clam open a crack to see if Lutus is still there.
            I swim beside Lutus as he makes his way to his apartments, greeting all as he passes but never, ever shaking hands. Word has it that he has quite a grip, unusual in our society of fishy handshakes.
            “Lutus!” I insist, breathless with excitement despite my regular daily exercise and magnificent physique. “You must tell me. It’s . . . for, ah, my poem. Who’s the lucky one?”
            Lutus turns and smiles at me, his feelers relaxed as they slowly poke at the water between us. “Will it be only one, good Petronius?”
            Only one? I’d never even considered the possibility of multiple namings. “There will be two, then?”
            “Remember this, Petronius. The smallest among us can perform the greatest deed. Unfortunately it’s in the nature of things that we see what is large and neglect what is small. That’s a mistake we must never make again.”
            Well said, Lutus, for this gem of wisdom lies at the heart of our story, a tale I’ll share with you now, starting at the beginning. . . .