The Dolphin and the Driftwood

The sun had barely risen when Delma, the young dolphin, leaped joyfully out of the turquoise sea. The ocean was her playground, her home, her everything. With each jump, she felt the rhythm of life flow through her. The salty breeze brushed against her smooth skin as she swam faster than the tide itself. She loved being in control, always choosing her direction, never tied to anything.

That morning, she noticed something odd floating in the distance. It wasn’t a fish or a boat — it was a piece of wood. Weathered, worn, yet still drifting slowly with the current. Curious, Delma swam closer and circled it a few times. “Who are you?” she finally asked, her voice bubbling through the water.

“I’m just Drift,” the wood replied softly, “a piece of something that once mattered. Now I go where the ocean sends me.” Delma blinked, puzzled. “You don’t swim? You don’t leap or dance?” Drift let out a gentle creak. “No, little one. I float. That’s all I’ve known for years.” Delma tilted her head, confused by such a quiet existence.

For the first time in her life, Delma slowed down. She floated beside Drift, trying to understand what it meant to be still. Drift shared stories of storms he had faced, islands he had passed, and ships he had once been part of. Delma listened, amazed. Though he didn’t move by choice, he had seen more of the world than she imagined. His stories were like maps drawn in the sky.

Days passed, and the two became unlikely friends. Delma would swim in circles while Drift floated calmly, always nearby. One day, a storm rolled in, wild and loud. The waves grew fierce, tossing even Delma off balance. She panicked, unsure where to go. Drift, though, stayed steady. “Hold onto me,” he said gently. “Let the sea take us where it must.”

Delma clung to him, frightened but trusting. The storm passed, and they both survived, carried far from where they began. In the calm after chaos, Delma realized something. Her speed had always been her strength, but Drift’s stillness had saved her. He was not weak — he was wise in ways she had never known.

“I thought freedom was choosing my path,” Delma said, “but sometimes it’s letting go.” Drift smiled, or at least she imagined he did. “And I thought being still meant being useless. But perhaps, in being still, I waited for you.” They looked at the horizon together — the swimmer and the floater, both changed by the other.

Delma offered to push Drift back home, but he declined. “Home isn’t a place anymore,” he said, “it’s peace.” And Delma understood. From then on, she carried his stories, telling others of the wise wood who taught her the strength in stillness. And Drift? He floated on, but now with purpose — no longer just a piece of the past, but a part of the present.

Their bond became legend among sea creatures. Whales sang songs about it, and turtles whispered it to their young. “Be like Delma,” they’d say, “brave and fast.” But also, “Remember Drift — calm, grounded, and patient.” It wasn’t speed or slowness that mattered. It was the balance between them.

Even now, when the sea is quiet, dolphins pause near floating driftwood. Maybe they’re searching for Drift. Maybe they’re just listening for the old stories. Or maybe, like Delma once did, they’re learning to slow down — if only for a moment — and feel what it’s like to let the ocean guide them.

Because sometimes, the ones who drift have the deepest roots. And sometimes, those who swim need a reason to stop. In the great, wide sea, freedom and stillness are not enemies. They are companions, teaching each other how to live.