Crypto jeams

I'll never forget the first time I truly saw a walrus. Not in a nature documentary with David Attenborough's soothing narration, but through the bleary lens of a research camera at an Arctic monitoring station, watching recorded footage at three in the morning because I couldn't sleep.
There he was let's call him Gerald attempting to join a group of other walruses on an ice floe. The thing about Gerald was that he was terrible at this. He tried climbing up one side, slid backward. Tried another angle, got halfway, then lost his grip and splashed unceremoniously back into the water. On his third attempt, he accidentally used another walrus as a stepping stool, which did not go over well.
I laughed so hard I snorted coffee out of my nose.
But here's what happened next that stopped me cold: Gerald finally made it up. And instead of the other walruses rejecting him for the chaos he'd caused, they just. shuffled over. Made room. One of them even let out what I swear was a reassuring grunt. Within minutes, Gerald was indistinguishable from the rest just another massive, whiskered body in the pile.
That's when I realized. walruses might understand something about belonging that we've forgotten.
The Democracy of the Dogpile
Walruses sleep in what can only be described as organized chaos. They heap onto each other without apparent regard for personal space, creating these massive, breathing mountains of blubber and tusks. A walrus on the bottom might be supporting a thousand pounds of neighbor. Another might be using someone's belly as a pillow. Flippers drape over backs. Heads rest on rumps.
And somehow, nobody complains.
There's no hierarchy in the sleeping pile. The biggest bull isn't automatically on top. The oldest female doesn't get the best spot. They arrange themselves through a kind of organic negotiation shifting, adjusting, accommodating until everyone fits. It's first come first served democracy with a healthy dose of "we're all in this together."
When's the last time humans managed that? We assign seats. We create VIP sections. We build literal and metaphorical walls to separate the comfortable from the uncomfortable, the important from the ordinary. Walruses just pile on and figure it out.
There's something deeply humbling about watching a species that weighs more than most cars practice more inclusive community building than we do.
The Terrible, Wonderful Teenage Years
Young walruses the teenagers, basically are disasters. Glorious, endearing disasters.
They practice their diving but surface in the wrong spot. They try to establish dominance with their tiny, still growing tusks and mostly just look adorable. They make terrible decisions, like attempting to haul out on ice that's clearly too small, or picking play fights with walruses twice their size. They have approximately zero chill.
And the adults? They tolerate it. More than tolerate they seem to expect it.
I watched one juvenile repeatedly belly flop onto an older male who was clearly trying to nap. The big guy would shift, resettle, close his eyes. The youngster would do it again. This happened maybe six times. Finally, the adult opened one eye, made a half hearted grumbling sound, then just. went back to sleep with the youngster sprawled across his back.
It reminded me of every exhausted parent who's ever said, Fine, you can watch one more episode, or every older sibling who's pretended to be annoyed but secretly loves being climbed on. The adults remember what it's like to be young, stupid, and figuring things out. They give grace because they once needed it too.
We could use more of this energy. Instead, we write think pieces about kids these days, we roll our eyes at young people making the same mistakes we made, we forget that everyone's teenager years were someone else's patience exercise.
The Broken Tusk Club
Not all walruses have perfect tusks. Some get broken in fights. Others grow in crooked or unevenly. Some walruses lose tusks entirely to injury or infection.
And you know what? They keep living. They adapt their techniques for climbing ice using flippers more, finding different angles. They adjust how they establish social standing. The tuskless ones figure out alternative ways to forage, to defend themselves, to navigate their world.
The rest of the group doesn't shun them. There's no Walrus Social Services removing them from the haul out. They're still part of the community, still valid members of the pile, still worthy of space and safety.
Compare this to how humans treat visible difference or disability. How often do we design spaces only for the "standard" body? How quickly do we other people whose bodies don't match our narrow definitions of normal? How much energy do we waste trying to fix or hide what we consider broken instead of just... adapting?
Walruses with broken tusks aren't inspiration porn. They're just walruses, living walrus lives, accommodated by a community that doesn't make accommodation feel like charity.
The Art of the Ugly Cry
When a walrus calf gets separated from its mother in rough seas or during a stampede, the sound it makes is devastating. It's not a dignified distress call. It's raw, desperate, keeningthe acoustic equivalent of a child's worst nightmare made real.
The mother's response is equally unfiltered. She doesn't maintain composure. She doesn't suppress her distress to appear strong. She calls back with the same desperate intensity, trumpeting her location, sometimes for hours, until they're reunited.
Other mothers join in sometimes, adding their voices to the search. The whole haul out seems to hold its breath until the pair finds each other again.
There's no stoicism, no keep calm and carry on, no performance of having it all together. Just pure, unvarnished emotion fear, relief, love expressed at full volume.
We've built entire cultures around emotional suppression. "Don't cry." "Stay strong." "Never let them see you sweat." We perform fine-ness even when we're falling apart. We apologize for our tears, for our worry, for our very human emotional responses to difficult situations.
Walruses suggest another way. feel it all, feel it loudly, let your community hear you, accept help when it's offered. Your ugly cry doesn't make you weak. It makes you real.
The Singles Who Choose the Group
Not every walrus pairs off. Not every female raises calves. Some bulls never establish the kind of dominance needed to attract mates. Some females, for whatever reason, don't reproduce.
And they still show up to the haul out. They still participate in the community. They help protect calves that aren't theirs. They contribute to the general noise and warmth and safety of numbers. Their lives have meaning beyond reproduction, beyond pairing, beyond the nuclear family structure.
In human society, we're still wrestling with the assumption that romantic partnership and parenthood are the primary markers of a successful life. We pity the perpetually single. We question the child free. We create hierarchies where coupled and parented people get more respect, more accommodation, more cultural validation.
Walruses don't do this. The bachelor bull sleeping on the edge of the pile is as much a part of the community as the mother with her calf. Contribution doesn't require reproduction. Value doesn't require romance.
Sometimes belonging is enough. Sometimes showing up, taking your space, and being part of the pile is a complete and worthy life.
Gerald's Lesson
Back to Gerald my awkward, persistent friend from that 3 AM video.
I've thought about him a lot over the years. About his repeated failures and his refusal to give up. About the community that absorbed his chaos without punishment. About the fact that an hour after his graceless arrival, you couldn't tell him apart from any other walrus in the pile.
We live in a world obsessed with perfect arrivals. The right education, the right job, the right relationship, the right life trajectory. We're supposed to climb onto our ice floes smoothly, without disruption, without asking for help, without using anyone else as a stepping stone (even accidentally).
And when we don't when we slip, when we fail, when we cause chaos we internalize it as personal failure. We assume we're not worthy of the pile.
Gerald taught me otherwise. Sometimes you're going to belly flop. Sometimes you're going to accidentally step on someone. Sometimes your arrival will be the opposite of graceful.
Come anyway. Try again. The pile has room.
That's not just walrus wisdom. That's the kind of truth that gets you through 3 AM moments when you can't sleep because you're replaying every awkward thing you've ever done. That's the kind of truth that says your messy, loud, imperfect existence still deserves space and warmth and community.
You don't have to be perfect to belong. You just have to show up and keep trying, like a three thousand pound mammal with ridiculous teeth and zero quit in him.
The pile will make room. It always does.#walrus @Walrus 🦭/acc $WAL

Imagina esto: Estás en la playa. Llevas horas nadando, estás agotado, y ahora debes subir de nuevo al muelle. Excepto que pesas 3.000 libras, el muelle es una superficie resbaladiza de hielo, y tus únicas herramientas son dos dientes exageradamente grandes y un par de aletas. Oh, y unos 200 de tus amigos te están viendo.
Esto es solo un martes para un foca.
Aunque de alguna manera, lo logran. Empujan, gruñen, a veces se lanzan de bruces de forma espectacular, y luego, una vez que están de pie, simplemente se quedan allí como si hubieran logrado algo magnífico. Porque lo han hecho.

Hay algo profundamente relacionable en ver cómo un morsa se arrastra hasta una plataforma de hielo. Ese gruñido, ese esfuerzo tambaleante, la forma en que colapsan después en un montón torpe, con las barbas temblando con lo que solo puede describirse como una satisfacción agotada, se siente profundamente, casi vergonzosamente humano.
No solemos pensar en las momias como espíritus afines. Después de todo, son criaturas extrañas, con sus caras con colmillos y su voluminoso cuerpo graso. Pero pasar un tiempo observando a estos habitantes del Ártico, descubrirás que comparten más contigo de lo que podrías imaginar.

Hay algo profundamente inquietante en mirar los ojos de un morsa por primera vez. No porque sean alienígenas o fríos, sino porque son sorprendentemente familiares. Detrás de esas profundas y líquidas cuencas hay una inteligencia que parece estar incómodamente cerca de la nuestra, una presencia que parece mirarte de vuelta con la misma curiosidad.
He estado pensando en las momias últimamente, probablemente porque recientemente supe que pueden vivir hasta 40 años en estado salvaje. Cuarenta años. Eso es suficiente tiempo para conocer un lugar íntimamente, para ver cómo cambian los patrones de hielo de estación en estación, para reconocer los mismos lugares donde subir al hielo que tu madre te mostró hace décadas. Es suficiente tiempo para acumular lo que podríamos llamar, si somos sinceros con nosotros mismos, sabiduría.

Hay un momento que ocurre cuando ves por primera vez a un morsa en persona. No en una foto, sino en la vida real. Tu cerebro da un pequeño tropiezo, como si estuviera intentando procesar lo que tus ojos le están diciendo y sigue regresando con un error. no se puede calcular.
Porque las momias son una gran cosa.
Son enormes y arrugados y tienen dientes que sobresalen de su rostro de una manera que sugiere que alguien perdió el manual de instrucciones a mitad de montaje. Huele a pescado, a perro mojado y a arrepentimiento. Hacen sonidos que van desde plomería enojada hasta un fantasma en un sintetizador. Y sin embargo, cuando realmente pasas tiempo observándolos, algo cambia. Comienzas a darte cuenta de que estas extrañas, gordas gigantes están viviendo sus mejores vidas, y francamente, podrían tener razón sobre algo que el resto de nosotros pasó por alto.

Conoces esa sensación cuando entras a una fiesta y de inmediato te das cuenta de que estás demasiado vestido, demasiado poco vestido o simplemente vestido mal. Eso es básicamente lo que parece un morsa todo el tiempo, excepto que la morsa no se preocupa en absoluto por ello.
Piensa en esto: estás arrastrado sobre un témpano de hielo en el Ártico. La temperatura está entre "¿por qué?" y absolutamente no. Tienes forma de una papa muy grande con un traje prestado. Tienes dos dientes enormes sobresaliendo de tu cara en ángulos incómodos. Tu bigote parece que lo has pegado con cola de cepillo de escoba a tu labio superior. Y estás rodeado por miles de otras personas con forma de papa que se parecen exactamente a ti.

Si alguna vez has sentido que no encajas del todo, déjame presentarte a tu animal totem.
El morsa es esencialmente lo que ocurre cuando la naturaleza tira dardos sobre un tablero de diseño. ¿Cuerpo masivo? Comprobado. ¿Dientes exageradamente grandes sobresaliendo de tu cara? Por supuesto. ¿Una bigotera que haría llorar de envidia a un caballero victoriano? Absolutamente. ¿La capacidad de ponerse rosa como si estuvieras permanentemente avergonzado? ¿Por qué no.
Y sin embargo, a pesar de lucir como un borrador que de alguna manera llegó a la versión final, los morsas están arrasando en uno de los entornos más implacables del planeta.