The Central California coast was covered in dense fog that clung to the world like a wet T-shirt. Morro Bay was gray and cold.

The bay lies directly between Los Angeles and San Francisco. You’re looking at about 2,300 acres of Pacific tidal flats, marshes, and beaches, one of the few national estuaries in the US.

It was midday when the Marine Mammal Center’s phone rang. A concerned caller was reporting weird sounds coming from Morro Bay. Crying sounds. Almost like a baby crying. A high-pitched squealing noise.

The center manages about 600 miles of coastline, including Morro Bay. The workers knew what the sound likely was.

The bay is home to about 70 sea otter adults. Which might not sound like many otters, because it isn’t. But it’s a huge population, considering.

Considering, primarily, that sea otters were nearly wiped out by hunters from the 1700s to the 1900s. Otter pelts were worth a pretty penny. Americans loved wearing the pelts for high-end hats and cloaks.

After only a short time in history, the global population of sea otters went from around 500,000 to somewhere above 1,000. By the 20th century otters were little more than a historical afterthought.

One of the great victories of our modern age, aside from sliced bread and heated toilet seats, is the restoration of the global sea otter population. Today, there are roughly 150,000 sea otters.

The Mammal Center sent a four-person team into the bay along with the harbor patrol. The boat trolled through the water, but found nothing at first. Then rescuers heard the faint crying. Infant-like cries.

Shyla Zink works at the Center in Morro Bay. She said this was serious. Baby otters need their moms.

“That pup is really relying on everything it learns from the mother to be able to survive in the ocean,” said Shyla.

The team spent hours on the water until they found the a furry creature, floating in the water.

It was a two-week-old otter pup. So furry. So cute. Like a floating Teddy bear. You could have just eaten him all up.

They named him Caterpillar. Caterpillar’s mom was nowhere to be found, and Caterpillar was all tuckered out from crying.

So workers placed Caterpillar into a safe container, then recorded his screams. Probably with a phone. Then workers held a Bluetooth speaker over the edge of the gunwales, replaying Caterpillar’s recorded cries as the boat trolled the shoreline.

“Our intern had kept hitting play every once a minute,” Shyla said. “I think we all went home and it was still playing over and over in our brains.”

Finally, a little head popped out of the water.

It was Caterpillar’s mom, all right. Had to be. Because she was following the boat.

Otters don’t follow boats. Otters are not stupid. Otters rank among the smartest creatures in the animal kingdom, rating slightly below apes, rodents, and Congressmen.

The rescuers kept playing the sound; the otter kept following.

So workers placed Caterpillar into the water. The mother otter frantically swam toward him with the unmistakable body language of maternal panic.

Rescuers watched as the mother otter tore through the water toward her baby, beating her little limbs against the current.

They watched as the mother wrapped her arms around her pup, then pressed her face against his, furiously taking him in, one breath at a time.

They watched as the mother ran her tiny hands through her baby’s hair, then squeezed him tightly, in an almost universally mom-like way.

And if the rescuers hadn’t known better, the mother otter almost seemed to be weeping with joy.

“I definitely cried a bit,” said Shyla.

Well, that makes three of us.