There's a walrus named Wally who became famous a few years back for showing up in places walruses absolutely should not be.
He appeared on beaches in Ireland. Clambered onto a fishing boat in Wales. Hauled his 800-pound body onto a small submarine in Cornwall, nearly sinking it. He even made it to Spain—thousands of miles from Arctic waters—where he commandeered a pontoon and refused to leave, napping in the Mediterranean sun like a confused, whiskered tourist.
Biologists said he was lost. Separated from his herd, probably disoriented, definitely alone.
But here's what struck me: Wally kept seeking out boats. Docks. Anywhere humans gathered. As if he was looking for something. As if solitude wasn't natural to him, even when his own kind were nowhere to be found.
As if loneliness was worse than being lost.
The Weight of Belonging
Walruses aren't meant to be alone, and they know it.
In the wild, they haul out in groups that can number in the thousands. They pile onto each other without ceremony or personal space—flipper on belly, tusk near face, breath mingling in the cold Arctic air. The sound is extraordinary: a cacophony of grunts, belches, snores, and what can only be described as gossip.
Young calves stay tucked against their mothers, learning the social rules. Adolescent males roughhouse at the edges, testing boundaries. Elder walruses claim the center spots, having earned their position through years of simply surviving. Everyone touches someone. Always.
Scientists call this "contact comfort." Psychologists recognize it as something deeper: the fundamental need for physical presence that transcends species.
A walrus alone is a walrus in crisis, even if it's well-fed and physically healthy. Because survival, for them, has never been a solo endeavor.
The Language of Grunts
Watch a walrus colony for any length of time and you'll realize they never shut up.
They vocalize constantly. Low rumbles that vibrate through the ground. High-pitched whistles that carry across water. Bell-like sounds that scientists still don't fully understand—produced somewhere in the throat using air sacs, creating music that seems impossibly delicate coming from such massive creatures.
Males "sing" during breeding season, elaborate compositions that can last 24 hours straight. They're not just showing off. They're storytelling. Advertising. Pleading. Promising. The songs contain distinct phrases that other walruses recognize, remember, judge.
But it's the everyday communication that gets me. The way a mother walrus murmurs to her calf. The warning bark when a polar bear ventures too close. The irritated snort when someone takes your favorite sleeping spot. The content sigh when you finally get comfortable.
They're talking to each other the way we do—not always saying profound things, not making grand pronouncements, just... maintaining connection. Checking in. Saying "I'm here" and hearing "I'm here too" and finding comfort in the exchange.
It's communication not as information transfer, but as relationship maintenance.
That's pretty much what most human conversation is, too, if we're honest about it.
The Teenagers Who Test Everything
Walrus calves stay with their mothers for up to five years, which is practically an eternity in the animal kingdom.
During this time, they do exactly what human teenagers do: push boundaries, make terrible decisions, ignore good advice, wander off when they shouldn't, then come running back when things go wrong.
Young walruses will dive too deep, stay under too long, approach predators they should avoid. They'll challenge larger walruses they have no business challenging. They'll venture away from the herd, seeking independence, only to panic when they realize how big and dangerous the ocean actually is.
And their mothers? Patient beyond belief. Calling them back. Letting them test limits. Protecting them from consequences when necessary, but also allowing them to learn from minor mistakes. Somehow knowing the difference between danger that builds character and danger that destroys.
There's a video of a young walrus attempting to haul out on an ice floe, failing repeatedly, getting increasingly frustrated. The mother watches from the water. She could help. She doesn't. She waits. On the seventh try, the youngster makes it, and you can almost see the pride—both the mother's and the calf's.
That's not instinct. That's wisdom. That's understanding that struggle is sometimes the point.
Every parent who's watched their kid fail at something, heart breaking, knowing they have to let it happen—you're in good company. Walruses have been doing this for millennia.
The Male Who Just Wants to Be Held
Here's something researchers discovered that surprised them: male walruses are tender with each other.
We expect aggression. Competition. The constant jockeying for dominance that we've projected onto nature because it mirrors our own toxic patterns. And yes, males do fight. They spar with their tusks, inflict wounds, establish hierarchies.
But they also rest together. Young males especially form close bonds—"bachelor groups" that persist for years. They travel together, feed together, haul out beside each other. In the water, they've been observed playing, which serves no obvious survival purpose except joy.
And they touch. Constantly. Deliberately. Not sexually, just... affectionately. Checking in with flippers. Pressing their heavily whiskered muzzles together. Lying in contact even when there's plenty of space to spread out.
Male walruses seem to understand something we're still struggling with: that strength and tenderness aren't opposites. That needing physical closeness doesn't diminish you. That the biggest, toughest male in the group still sleeps better when someone's nearby.
There's a lesson there that we're still failing to learn.
When Home Disappears
The climate crisis isn't abstract for walruses. It's their entire world literally melting.
Sea ice used to provide perfect resting platforms. Mothers could nurse calves safely between feeding dives. Herds could spread out, rest, recover. The ice was home—not permanent, but reliable enough. Cyclical. Something their bodies remembered across generations.
Now that ice is vanishing. Some areas have lost 80% of summer sea ice in the last few decades.
So walruses crowd onto beaches in unprecedented numbers. 30,000 animals on a single strip of shore in Alaska. 100,000 in Russia. The press of bodies becomes dangerous. Stampedes happen. Calves get crushed. The noise and stress are immense.
Some walruses, disoriented and exhausted, climb cliffs. Walruses. Three-quarter-ton marine mammals. Climbing.
They're not stupid. They're desperate. When the world you evolved for no longer exists, you try impossible things because impossible feels like the only option left.
I think about this a lot. How we're living through our own version—systems breaking down, certainties dissolving, having to adapt to changes happening faster than our generational wisdom can process. Making choices that might look absurd to outsiders but feel necessary when you're just trying to survive another day.
The walruses climbing cliffs aren't a metaphor. But they might as well be.
The Gift They Give
Despite everything, walruses still donate.
Not intentionally, of course. But their presence feeds ecosystems. When they forage along the seafloor, their massive disturbance creates clouds of nutrients that feed fish populations. When they haul out, their waste fertilizes coastal vegetation. When they die, their bodies sustain scavengers through brutal winters.
They take what they need—clams, mostly, thousands per day—but they give back in ways both measurable and mysterious. The ocean is richer for their presence. The Arctic ecosystem relies on them in ways scientists are still discovering.
There's no moral calculation in this. Walruses aren't trying to give back. They're just living, and their living creates abundance for others.
Maybe that's the point. Maybe the most meaningful contributions aren't the calculated ones. Maybe just living fully, authentically, taking up space without apology—maybe that's the gift.
What Wally Understood
Back to Wally, that wandering walrus who ended up in all the wrong places.
Wildlife experts eventually encouraged him to move along from harbors where he'd become a nuisance. They worried about his health, his safety, the danger he posed to small boats. There was talk of relocating him to a sanctuary.
But here's what I think Wally understood: connection matters more than correctness.
He was in the wrong waters, thousands of miles from proper walrus habitat. But he wasn't alone. There were boats, people, activity, presence. It wasn't his species, but it was company. And for a creature whose entire evolutionary history says "never be alone," strange company was better than no company.
Eventually, Wally did move on. Maybe he found his way back north. Maybe he found other walruses. Maybe he's still out there, that strange wanderer, looking for places to rest.
I hope he found his herd. But part of me admires his willingness to make do, to seek connection in unexpected places, to choose presence over perfection.
The Walrus in the Mirror
So what can a walrus teach us?
That we're not meant to do this alone. That asking for closeness isn't weakness. That the grunt and rumble of everyday communication—the "how are you" and "I'm here" and "I see you"—that's not small talk. That's survival.
That parenting is eternal patience mixed with the wisdom to let go. That being male doesn't mean being isolated. That when your world changes beyond recognition, trying impossible things isn't foolish—it's proof you're still fighting.
That your presence matters, even when you're not trying to matter. That taking up space is okay. That rest is communal, connection is physical, and tenderness is strength.
The walrus doesn't overthink any of this. It just lives—awkward and enormous and tender and persistent.
And every day, through sheer, stubborn existence, it proves that life is better when you're touching someone you trust, better when you're surrounded by the grunt and snore of your people, better when you know that if you fall, you'll fall into the warmth of bodies that will catch you.
Maybe we're not so different.
Maybe we're all just walruses, in our way—looking for safe places to rest, for people who'll let us be close, for the simple comfort of not being alone.
Maybe that's enough.
Maybe that's everything.#walrus @Walrus 🦭/acc $WAL
