The Ocean Just Gets Me, Chapter 6

The house settles into nighttime stillness around me. Each creak of the floorboards, each tick of the ancient heating system marks time passing as I position my microphone for the third time this week. The signal loops softly from my speakers, a gentle underscore to my movements, like a second heartbeat.

Two small, one large. Pause.

Mom and Dad head to bed. I wait, counting the minutes after their bedroom door closes, listening for the soft snores that signal the all-clear. The time in the corner of my computer screen reads 11:43 PM.

I adjust the microphone arm, angling it perfectly toward my mouth. The black foam windscreen looks like a small sea urchin in the dim light. It reminds me not to move the microphone too close.

“Two small. One large. Pause,” I say to test the levels, watching the audio visualizer pulse with my voice, with the ambient sounds of the house, with the signal that never stops.

My heart flutters against my ribs as I open the streaming software. The interface is becoming familiar now, no longer the intimidating maze of buttons and settings it was two streams ago. I load up the game, watching as the underwater world materializes on my screen, all blues and greens and shifting sand on the ocean floor.

The small preview window shows my room: the edge of my desk, the wall behind me with its faded poster of marine life, a corner of my unmade bed, the dimly glowing plastic stars on the ceiling. I’ve angled the camera carefully to show as little as possible. My face remains invisible, just as I want it. I turn off the camera toggle, making sure the webcam stays off during the stream. The thought of strangers seeing my face, seeing my expressions, makes my stomach twist into knots.

“Just your voice,” I whisper to myself. “That’s all they get.”

I check the stream title: “Deep Ocean Symbiosis & Rare Species.” My finger hovers over the “Go Live” button, trembling slightly as doubt creeps in, cold and familiar. What if no one shows up this time? What if they realized last time that I’m not worth listening to?

The signal loops again. Two small, one large. Pause. I match my breathing to it, finding calm in its predictability.

I click the button.

The red “LIVE” indicator appears, and I wait, watching the viewer count. One viewer joins, then another. My throat tightens as familiar usernames pop up in the chat.

“Hey everyone,” I say, my voice wavering slightly. “Welcome back to… um, the stream.” I clear my throat. “Good to see you again, CoralKeeper. And DeepBlue, hi.”

The chat box fills with greetings:

CoralKeeper: Here for my nightly ocean facts!

DeepBlue: glad to catch you live again

OceanMind: finally made it to a live stream! loved your VODs

I read each message, a small smile forming as I recognize the names from my previous streams. These are people who came back. People who want to hear what I have to say. The thought is both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Tonight we’re going to explore symbiotic relationships in reef ecosystems,” I say, navigating my character through the virtual water. The digital avatar swims with perfect form, something I’ve never managed in real life despite years of lessons Mom insisted on. “I thought we could start with one of my favorites: the relationship between clownfish and sea anemones.”

I guide my character toward a brightly colored anemone, waving gently in the artificial current. A small orange and white clownfish darts among them, pixels perfectly capturing its jerky, playful movements.

“So, um, these two species have a mutualistic relationship,” I continue, my voice growing steadier as I fall into the familiar rhythm of explanation. “The anemone protects the clownfish from predators with its stinging tentacles, and the clownfish brings food to the anemone and scares away butterfly fish that would eat the anemone’s tentacles.”

The chat scrolls with questions and comments. I read a few aloud, answering them one by one, feeling a quiet thrill each time someone asks for more details about something I’ve mentioned.

“Yes, DeepBlue, clownfish actually develop immunity to their host anemone’s venom over time,” I explain. “They do this by covering themselves with a thin layer of mucus that prevents the anemone’s stinging cells from firing. It’s a gradual process—they start by touching just their ventral fins to the tentacles, then slowly expose more of their bodies until they’re fully immune.”

As I navigate through the digital reef, my hands grow steadier. The trembling that started the stream has faded, replaced by the calm that always comes when I’m talking about the ocean. My fingers brush against the small squid keychain that Sam gave me. I’ve kept it on my desk since that day, a small talisman of sorts. The plastic is smooth under my fingertips.

“OceanMind asks if symbiotic relationships can change over time,” I say, reading from the chat. “That’s a great question. They absolutely can. Evolution is constant, and these relationships develop over thousands or millions of years.”

I swim my character deeper into the reef, pointing out other examples: the goby fish that share burrows with blind shrimp, the cleaner wrasse that remove parasites from larger fish, the hermit crabs that place anemones on their shells for protection.

With each explanation, my voice grows more confident, my words flowing more naturally. I’m not just reciting facts anymore; I’m sharing something I love, something I understand on a level deeper than language.

“The ocean is full of these partnerships,” I say, forgetting to monitor my tone, letting my excitement color my words. “Nothing survives alone out there. Everything is connected, everything depends on something else.”

The chat box continues to fill, and I notice the viewer count has climbed past fifteen. Instead of panicking, I feel a strange warmth spreading through my chest. These people are here for this. For me. For what I know.

“Cleaning stations are particularly fascinating,” I continue, guiding my character toward a virtual outcropping where several fish have gathered. “Larger predatory fish will actually visit these spots and allow smaller fish to clean them without eating them. It’s like a temporary truce that benefits both species.”

I read another question from the chat, my finger absently stroking the squid keychain for reassurance.

“Yes, sadly, climate change is disrupting many of these relationships,” I answer. “Coral bleaching separates corals from their symbiotic algae, and that affects every creature that depends on the reef.”

As the stream continues, I find myself speaking more freely, less concerned with how I sound or whether I’m saying too much. The rehearsed answers I prepared have been abandoned, replaced by genuine responses that flow more naturally than I thought possible.

For these moments, in this digital space, with these unseen listeners, I am not out of place. I am exactly where I’m supposed to be, saying exactly what I’m meant to say. The feeling is so unfamiliar that I almost don’t recognize it.

It feels, I realize with a start, like belonging.

The viewer count continues to tick upward each new number sending a small jolt through my system like tiny electrical pulses. I’ve never had this many people listening to me at once. My voice grows steadier as I explain how anglerfish use bioluminescent lures to attract prey in the absolute darkness of the deep ocean, my hands moving in small, precise gestures that no one can see but that help me find the right words.

“The bacteria in their lures produce light through a chemical reaction,” I explain, navigating my character deeper into the virtual waters where the game designers have created a darker environment to simulate deeper ocean zones. “It’s one of the most efficient light sources in nature. Almost one hundred percent of the energy goes into producing light rather than heat.”

The chat scrolls with questions and excited reactions. Someone named DeepSeaExplorer asks about other bioluminescent creatures, and I feel my chest expand with a familiar warmth as I dive into examples: the vampire squid that produces glowing mucus when threatened, the flashlight fish with light organs beneath their eyes, the countless jellyfish species that glow like living, undersea constellations.

“There are entire ecosystems in the deep sea that don’t rely on sunlight at all,” I say, my voice rising slightly with excitement. “They build their food chains around chemosynthesis instead of photosynthesis, using chemical energy from hydrothermal vents. The adaptations these creatures have developed are incredible—from pressure-resistant proteins to special hemoglobin that can function in low-oxygen environments.”

Thirty-three viewers now. Thirty-four. The number shouldn’t matter, but each new addition feels like validation, like proof that I’m not just talking to myself in the dark.

The chat continues to fill with questions, each one more specific than the last. These aren’t just casual viewers—these are people who care about the same things I do, who want to understand the hidden mechanisms of underwater life.

Then CoralKeeper’s message appears, standing out among the others like a sudden flash of color in murky water:

CoralKeeper: Hey, what was that weird sound in in the background? That pattern that keeps repeating? It sounds kind of artificial.

My fingers freeze on the keyboard. The rhythmic tapping I’ve been doing with my left hand stops mid-motion. The signal. They heard the signal.

I suddenly realize I’ve left it playing in the background. I must have forgotten to turn it off before starting, too caught up in my excitement to notice.

“Oh,” I say, my voice suddenly thinner. “You can hear that?”

The chat erupts with curiosity:

DeepBlue: I hear it too! Thought it was part of your game

OceanMind: Yeah what is that pattern? Two short one long?

DeepSeaExplorer: Sounds like some kind of code

My cursor hovers over the game window, then drifts toward the folder where I keep the audio files. This is private, I think. This is mine. But something inside me pushes me onward. They might know something I don’t.

I take a deep breath, the air catching slightly in my throat.

“It’s… it’s something I heard,” I say finally, my voice quieter now. “At the beach, a few weeks ago.”

I minimize the game window, feeling exposed without its visual shield. My desktop appears, cluttered with folders meticulously organized by subject and date. I navigate to the one labeled “Signal_Recordings” and open it.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what it is,” I continue, selecting the cleanest recording. “It has this pattern that repeats. Listen.”

I play the cropped clip, the familiar rhythm filling my headphones and transmitting through the stream. Two small pulses, one large pulse. Pause. Repeat. The waveform visualizer on my screen dances with the sound, peaks and valleys forming a pattern I’ve memorized like my own heartbeat.

“I want to record it,” I explain, the words coming faster now. “But the quality on my phone wouldn’t be good enough. That’s why I needed a microphone. I want to go back to the beach to try to get a better recording.”

The chat explodes, messages flooding in so quickly I can barely read them:

DeepSeaExplorer: Whoa that’s definitely artificial

CoralKeeper: Sounds like some kind of sonar maybe?

OceanMind: What beach is this? I want to hear it!

TideWatcher: Could be underwater volcanic activity

DeepBlue: Has to be whale songs filtered through something

Neptunian: Military communications? Submarines use patterns like that

I blink at the screen, surprised by the immediate flood of theories. They’re taking this seriously. They don’t think I’m making it up or imagining things.

“You guys have some great ideas,” I say, unable to keep the hint of wonder from my voice. “I hadn’t thought about volcanic activity.”

I reach for my journal, the pages already filled with sketches, timestamps of recordings, and notes about weather conditions and tide levels. I flip to a fresh page and begin jotting down their suggestions.

“TideWatcher suggests volcanic activity,” I murmur as I write. “DeepBlue thinks whale songs… Neptunian mentioned military communications…”

My pen moves quickly across the paper, capturing each idea. My handwriting is messy, but it’s only for my eyes…

For the first time, I’m not alone with this mystery. For the first time, other people are hearing what I hear, seeing patterns where I see them.

“The pattern never changes,” I explain, playing the clip again. “It’s always the same rhythm, the same frequency. I’ve found recordings of it from different times, different tides, different weather conditions, different beaches. It’s constant.”

More theories flood in. Someone suggests a buried communication cable with a periodic signal leak. Another mentions a secret research facility. Someone else suggests an art installation designed to be heard underwater.

I write everything down, my chest tight with a strange mixture of excitement and anxiety. This feels like crossing a boundary, like letting strangers into a room I’ve kept locked.

As the theories continue to come in, my fingers hover over the keyboard. I type: “I’m autistic, and I’ve been obsessed with this sound since I first heard it.”

I stare at the words, my heart racing. My finger hovers over the delete key. Then presses it. The words disappear, unsent.

I answer another question about the signal’s frequency instead, explaining how I’ve tried to analyze it using free audio software.

A few minutes later, I try again. “I’m autistic, so patterns like this really catch my attention.”

Delete. Gone.

The chat continues, oblivious to my internal struggle. They’re excited, engaged, offering genuinely interesting perspectives. No one is laughing. No one is dismissing me.

I type again: “Sometimes my autism makes me hyperfocus on things like this signal.”

Delete.

“Being autistic helps me notice patterns that…”

Delete.

“I’m aut…”

Delete.

My breathing quickens each time, my chest tightening as if the air in my room has grown thinner. I want to tell them. I want them to know who they’re really talking to. But what if it changes how they see me? What if the words they use to describe me shift from “knowledgeable” and “interesting” to “obsessive” and “weird”?

“I should get back to the game,” I say instead, maximizing the window again. The underwater world reappears, but the conversation stays focused on the signal.

I answer their questions about where I found the recordings, where I first heard it, what software I’ve used to edit the sounds I’ve found. With each response, I feel myself walking closer to an edge I can’t quite see—the line between keeping myself safely hidden and allowing myself to be known.

“I’ll be going back to the beach to record more samples,” I tell them, guiding my character back toward the reef. “Maybe with better equipment I can figure out where exactly it’s coming from.”

DeepBlue: You should livestream from the beach!

CoralKeeper: Yes please! Beach stream!

OceanMind: I’d definitely watch that

The suggestion hits me like a sudden current, unexpected and powerful. A beach stream. Going live from the place where I heard the signal first. The thought is both terrifying and thrilling.

“Maybe,” I say, though the word feels too big for my mouth. “I’d need to figure out how to waterproof the equipment first.”

The discussion in chat turns to ways to waterproof my streaming microphone and how to stream with my mobile phone.

“Okay, I’ll search for DIY waterproof microphone setup,” I say into the mic, swapping the streaming window from the game to my browser window. I scroll through search results. The viewer count hovers at forty-four—a number that still doesn’t seem real. The chat scrolls with suggestions faster than I can read them, each message a small vote of confidence I’m not used to receiving. “I need something that can capture clear audio near or in water without getting damaged. Something I can bring to the beach.”

I checked the clock in the corner of my monitor. It was well after midnight.

I didn’t expect anyone to be watching at 1 AM, but here they are—my small collection of night owls and insomniacs, offering advice and encouragement as if we’ve known each other for years instead of days.

“Hydrophones are specifically designed for underwater recording,” I explain, clicking through to a website with professional equipment. My eyes widen at the price tags. “But these are way out of my budget. I was sort of hoping to use my streaming microphone.”

The chat fills with alternatives:

DeepBlue: Try a regular mic in a waterproof case?

OceanMind: You can DIY with a condenser mic + plastic bag + silica packets

CoralKeeper: My friend uses weather-sealed equipment for storm chasing, similar concept

I nod, clicking back to search for DIY options. “These are good suggestions. I’m thinking I need something that’s splash-proof rather than fully submersible. The signal is audible from the shore, so I just need to protect against spray and light rain.”

I navigate to a video tutorial someone linked in the chat, watching as a man demonstrates how to create a windscreen that also provides water resistance. My fingers tap restlessly against the desk as I take mental notes, occasionally reaching for my journal to take notes.

“The foam windscreen that came with this mic might help a little,” I say, tapping the black foam covering. “But I’d need something more substantial for actual beach conditions.”

A first-time chatter chimed in:

WavePatterns: Have you considered a lavalier mic with a waterproof housing? More portable.

“That’s actually a really good idea,” I say, immediately searching for examples. “A lavalier would be easier to position close to the water surface without risking my phone…”

As I scroll through options, my mind races ahead, imagining myself at the beach with proper equipment, finally capturing a clear recording of the signal. Maybe with better audio quality, I could analyze the frequency patterns more precisely. Maybe I could triangulate the source by recording from different locations along the shoreline.

“If I can get clean recordings from multiple points,” I explain to the viewers, “I might be able to determine where the signal is coming from. Basic sound localization techniques.”

The excitement builds in my chest, a warm, expanding feeling that pushes against the usual weight of doubt. For once, I’m not questioning whether this is worth pursuing. For once, I’m not wondering if I’m wasting my time on something no one else cares about.

Because they’re here. They’re watching. They care.

“This looks promising,” I say, clicking on a waterproof lavalier microphone kit with a long cable and portable recorder. The specifications list impressive sensitivity ranges and wind noise reduction. “This could work for recording at the beach without worrying about equipment damage.”

I add it to my cart, then continue browsing for additional waterproofing materials—silica gel packets, waterproof cases, sealable bags designed for electronics. Each item is another piece of the puzzle, another step toward understanding the signal that’s become the center of my world.

After twenty minutes of research, my cart contains everything I need: the waterproof lavalier microphone, a carrying case with foam inserts, additional windscreens, and a portable recorder with extended battery life.

Then I see the total, and my stomach drops.

I stare at the number, my enthusiasm deflating like a punctured balloon. There’s no way I can afford it all. I don’t have a job.

“That’s… more than I expected,” I say softly, my voice losing its earlier animation.

The chat responds with sympathy and alternatives:

DeepBlue: Maybe start with just the mic and DIY the rest?

OceanMind: Could you borrow equipment from someone?

CoralKeeper: Start a donation pool? I’d chip in!

I shake my head slightly. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t feel right asking for donations. This is my project.”

My cursor hovers over the checkout button as I consider my options. I could wait, save up somehow. I could try to find cheaper alternatives. I could give up on the idea entirely.

Then I remember: Dad’s credit card.

The information is still saved in my browser from when I ordered textbooks for my marine biology classes. Back when Dad was proud of me for studying something “practical,” before I stopped going to lectures.

My finger taps anxiously against the mouse as I consider it. Using his card without asking would be wrong. I know this. But the need to understand the signal feels more urgent than ethics right now, more important than rules.

“I might have a way to get this,” I say vaguely to the stream, not specifying what I’m considering. I swap the shared window back to the game and click the “Check Out” button.

The shipping information page loads, and I see Dad’s card details still saved in the system. The familiar numbers are partially obscured with asterisks, but I know they’re right. I remember how he gave me permission to order my textbooks, standing over my shoulder as I entered his information, telling me to save it for future school purchases.

This isn’t a school purchase. This isn’t authorized.

But it is research, I tell myself. It’s important. It matters.

My finger hovers over the “Place Order” button, trembling slightly with indecision. The signal seems to pulse louder in my headphones, as if encouraging me. Two small, one large. Pause. The pattern that’s become the rhythm of my days and nights.

“I’ll be placing the order soon,” I tell the stream, my voice steadier than I feel. “Then we can plan the beach recording session.”

The chat fills with excited messages, questions about when I’ll go, offers to help analyze the recordings afterward. Their enthusiasm feeds mine, pushing me closer to the edge of decision.

Dad would say no if I asked. I know this with absolute certainty. He would call it a waste of money, another example of my “obsessive behavior,” another reason to worry about my future.

But he doesn’t understand. This isn’t just curiosity or obsession—it’s something deeper, something I can’t explain but know is important.

I take a deep breath and click “Place Order.”

The confirmation page appears, the order number staring back at me like an accusation. I’ve done it. I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross.

“Order placed,” I say to the stream, my voice strangely calm despite the guilt already pooling in my stomach. “Delivery estimate is three to five business days.”

The chat celebrates, oblivious to my ethical transgression, excited only about the possibilities ahead. I try to focus on their reactions rather than the knowledge that Dad will eventually see the charge, that there will be consequences I’m not prepared to face.

“I’ll need to test the equipment when it arrives,” I continue, pushing through the growing discomfort. “Make sure everything works before attempting a beach recording.”

As I discuss potential recording dates and locations with the chat, a notification sounds on my phone. An order confirmation email.

It’s done. There’s no going back now.

The mixture of anticipation and dread sits heavily in my chest, neither feeling canceling out the other. I’ve taken a step toward understanding the signal, but away from my parents’ trust. I’ve moved closer to this online community that seems to understand my curiosity, but further from the people who share my home.

As the stream continues, I find myself touching Sam’s squid keychain again, running my fingers over its smooth surface. Would he understand why I did this? Would he think it was worth it?

I don’t know. But in three to five business days, I’ll be closer to understanding the signal. And right now, that feels like the only thing that matters.