Along the windswept coast of Portgordon, where the North Sea crashes against worn stone harbours and sea mist clings to rooftops like memory, there is a story passed down in whispers. It is older than any written record, yet it lingers, told by fishers over ale, by grandmothers with salt in their veins, and by children daring one another to walk the tide line at dusk. It is the tale of the White Dolphin of Portgordon.

In the early 19th century, Portgordon was a bustling fishing village. Boats lined the harbour like ribs of a great sea-beast, and the air was thick with the smell of salt, smoke, and fish. Among the villagers was a girl named Elspeth Ross, daughter of a widowed net-mender. She was known for her bright voice, which carried like birdsong over the waves, and her curious nature, which kept her lingering on the beach long after sunset.
Elspeth’s father, Ian Ross, had once been a renowned sailor, but after her mother was lost to a sudden squall, he hung up his sails and turned to quieter work. He warned Elspeth of the sea’s hunger, how it gave and took without mercy. But Elspeth loved the ocean. It sang to her, and sometimes, she sang back.

One late summer morning, a pod of dolphins entered the bay—an uncommon, though not unheard-of sight. But among them was one unlike the rest: pale as snow, its body shimmering with a soft, ethereal glow. The villagers gathered along the harbour wall, pointing and murmuring. Some crossed themselves. Others whispered omens.
Elspeth, perched atop a rock with her feet in the water, stared into its eyes. The dolphin breached close to her, as if greeting her directly. She gasped—the creature’s eyes were not black and glassy like the others, but a deep blue, almost human.
That night, she dreamed of the dolphin. In the dream, it spoke—not in words, but in feelings. Sadness. Loneliness. A yearning for something lost. When she awoke, the feeling lingered like a bruise.

Each day that the dolphin remained, Elspeth went to the shore. She hummed tunes from her childhood, and the dolphin responded—circling, leaping, even spinning in rhythm. Soon, the villagers began to talk.
“That beast’s not natural,” muttered Old Maggie Sinclair. “White as a ghost. That’s no dolphin. That’s a spirit.”
Some claimed it was the soul of a drowned sailor, condemned to swim the coast until absolution. Others said it was a selkie, trapped in the wrong form. But all agreed: such a creature brought change.

One stormy evening, Elspeth’s father forbade her from going to the water. “That thing’s cursed,” he snapped. “It’s bewitched you.”
“It’s alone,” she whispered. “Like us.”
He struck the table, and for the first time in years, he wept.
That night, the storm hit with a fury Portgordon hadn’t seen in decades. Boats were smashed against the harbour wall. Nets vanished. By morning, debris littered the village, and the sea lay calm, as if smug with satisfaction.
The white dolphin was gone.

Elspeth stood at the shoreline for hours, calling softly, her voice thin against the wind. Days passed. She fell into a strange quiet. Her laughter dulled. Her songs ceased.
Then, nearly a fortnight later, the dolphin returned.
It was bruised—its skin marked with gashes, its dorsal fin torn. But it swam to her, slowly, carefully. And she wept.
The village changed its tune. Some now called the dolphin a guardian, claiming it had drawn the storm’s fury away from the homes and onto the harbor instead. Stories grew. Couples sought the dolphin’s blessing for fertility. Fishermen left offerings on the tide line. Children swore they saw it glow at night.
But Elspeth alone knew the truth, though even she could not explain it.
As the years passed, she grew into a young woman. The dolphin would vanish for months, even a year at a time, but always returned to her. When she married a sailor named Alasdair MacDuff, the dolphin circled their boat as they said their vows. And when her father died, it came to the cove, resting near the rocks, unmoving, as though mourning with her.
Eventually, she bore a son. She named him Cailean, and from his earliest days, he was drawn to the sea like a needle to lodestone. He spoke little, but when the dolphin came, he would sit at the water’s edge for hours, whispering to it.
Then, one year, the dolphin failed to return. Elspeth waited through spring, through summer. The bay felt quieter, the air heavier.
One night, Cailean vanished.

Panic swept the village. Boats were launched. Fires lit. Hours passed.
And just before dawn, Cailean walked out of the sea, hand in hand with a white dolphin.
The villagers gasped.
“He was beneath the water,” Elspeth told them later, her voice trembling. “But he breathed. He laughed. He said he was home.”
From that day, the bond deepened. Cailean swam daily with the dolphin, often vanishing for hours. He brought back coral trinkets, smooth stones shaped like runes, and once, a necklace of braided kelp that glowed faintly in moonlight.
Elspeth grew old. Her hair turned silver. But her eyes never lost their brightness. When she passed away in her sleep, Cailean and the dolphin swam far out to sea. Some say they dove beneath the waves and never returned.
Others say they live still, beneath the Firth, guarding the coast.

To this day, sightings of a white dolphin in Portgordon stir old memories. Some dismiss it as myth. But on still nights, if you stand where Elspeth once sang, you may hear a tune carried on the wind.
And if you see a shimmer beneath the moonlit surf, do not fear. It is only the White Dolphin of Portgordon—watching, remembering, and waiting for those who carry the sea in their hearts.

• Original tales adapted by Nick Kimber