1: Fish
Some insist it was the way the moonlight hit the water, but my grandfather swore the legends that mythical beings haunt the deep waters of the ocean are closer to the truth.
I thought his ramblings only those of an old man, mind falling to dementia, to the telling signs of aging as logic passed from his mind. But so insistent was he, so certain, that I listened to his story, and let him have his spotlight, for the course of an entertaining, if pitiable, hour.
Sailors see all sorts of things, things rarely discussed by daylight, only spoken of to other sailors. On our ship, he claimed, the captain didn’t like us roaming at night. In my first month, I was warned not to look over the railing into the waters by the moonlight- too many men had fallen to the “sea madness.” I ignored their warnings until I understood why they were given. I think most young men were like me- skeptics, until it happened to them.
I passed it off as madness, and when the offer came for a job fishing the dark waters off the Maine coast, I took it. I told my former sailor grandfather, and disappointment etched hard lines into his features. The words that followed would haunt me years later: I won’t bother you with the tall tales that bored you. But you’ll need to know these knots…
Advice was practical, useful stuff, none of his fanciful tales. I left two weeks later confident that nothing at sea held any real threat beyond my own stupidity, poor navigation, and things beyond my control. How right I was on that first point!
The day came to step off the dock and disappear into the sea. I hugged my mother, sent farewell kisses through the air to my girlfriend in her crimson beret and coat, clutched their letters close to my heart, and prepared for a good adventure. Experience, hard work, and entertainment lie ahead, and, at the end of it all, profit. I was so certain. So cocky. So like the young men who didn’t heed the warnings of their elders.
For two weeks, the moon found me already asleep by her rise, or else occupied with work and then in bed shortly after its completion. It wasn’t until my seventeenth day at sea that I found myself at the hull, leaning over the railing, appreciating the dancing moonlight that kissed the waves as they capped. I traced the pattern of cresting waves, glistening in the clear night sky, closer to the ship.
A flicker of ebony against the white- did I see that? Must be a fish. Closer I peered, in the direction of the motion. It flashed closer still. My brow wrinkled as I looked for it. All sorts of creatures filled the seas- sharks, octopi, fish, jellyfish, plankton- but my mind drew me back to that day of tall tales with my grandfather. How silly of me- and surely, it was this reminiscence of superstition that caused what I saw next- nonetheless-
She flipped out of the water and back in, so swiftly I scarcely believed I saw her. Narrow dark body, black scales, white underside, black on top- like a shark, and like a woman, with hair like seaweed-
Surely- surely a trick of the light, my own exhaustion, the moon hitting the waves weird-
A splash drew my eyes rightward, and there she was again. Playing in the waves, trailing thin, too-long fingers across the caps. Her large white eyes flickered to me and then she dove under.
I rushed back to my bunk, slept it off, convinced myself I saw nothing. In the small hours of the morn, I slept in a doze in which the haunting high call of a woman singing repeatedly woke me, or else filled my dreams.
For the next week, I slept early. I avoided a repeat- until I had to know.
For the next three months, I saw her at intervals.
Sometimes there were others. The colors changed, lengths, shapes- but the shark was always my favorite. Her haunting call, I found, repeated around two each morning, and if I rushed out fast enough I would catch a glimpse. The more frequently I saw her, the more she beckoned, the louder she sang. Some madness would take me at times and I would find myself undressing, preparing to jump in to the freezing waters; then the captain would come ‘round and walk me back to bed. She would duck under the waves before his arrival.
Sometimes, the swarm came. Black shapes, flitting beneath the white-capped waves in a hurried dance, moving along their way. Fish, some of the men said- but if you looked closely enough, you would see the glowing eyes, the long hands. Some nights, you could even hear their quiet song.
My mother and girlfriend were thrilled when I returned.
My grandfather knew the look in my eyes.
He replaced the captain as my silent sentinel, finding me on the docks for the rest of his life and walking me home when that song called me back to the waters, back to her- and he would walk me back to life, until his ended.
The coroner could not rule time of death when mine came shortly thereafter, only the cause- drowning. The ship captain knew:
2 a.m.
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