A coastal city has deputized octopuses to manage underwater intersections, and the early verdict is tidy. Tentacle coordination is excellent. Turn signals are less so, especially at the eelgrass roundabout during tide changes, where half the mullet commit and the other half hover like they forgot a grocery list.
Each officer holds a low perch at canal crossings, one arm lifted to pause a school while two guide a slow turtle and a row of hermit crabs. Signals include a lift of the third arm, a left side ripple for merging, and a polite puff of ink for caution. Nearby cuttlefish mirror the gestures with casual bioluminescence, which does not help.
Evidence lines the channel like neat tide notes. Sand shows diagonal commas where suction cups practiced yielding. A glass float at the corner throws soft glints that count like blinks. A ribbon of ink hangs like a bookmark, thins to nothing, and the eelgrass leans in agreement before standing up straight.
The city is testing luminous sleeves for clearer blinking and small shells that click once for right and twice for left. The sleeves are algae lined and glow at conversation brightness, then dim politely when the moon climbs. On certain mornings a cool seam marks the centerline where bubbles turn from round to crisp, and everyone pretends to understand.
Commute times have improved. Schools travel like tidy ribbons, crabs queue in alphabetical shells, and the turtle arrives when the turtle arrives. Rocks keep a spiral of scuffs that reads like attendance, while a patient current purrs along the curb.
Locals say the stops feel fair and that everyone gets waved through eventually. At closing, an officer coils the sleeves, pats the glass float, and settles on the square block with a satisfied curl. One last puff of ink lingers like a soft comma, and the channel carries it gently downstream.
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