2022-04-05 - Dead Fish Tell No Tales

The Tenna II is not large as fishing boats go. It might be more appropriate to label her a refurnished fishing boat -- her trawl has been removed, and most of her deck is occupied by deck chairs bolted to the planks. She has a small bar, and a fully functioning kitchen on board. She has a couple of berths for seasick tourists. She is a charter boat, the kind that you go on a one day fishing cruise around the bay on. Some might consider the tall, blond Captain Chris Long to be a bonus. Others might laugh at the fish-skull and crossbones flag that she flies, proudly announcing that Dead Fish Tell No Tales.

You can bring your own gear and tack if you have it. Or you can rent from Captain Long -- he's got everything from a very child and amateur proof six foot beginner's rod to a fourteen foot Shimano rig that will shiver like the tiny hairs on your lover's skin if a fish as much as looks at the bait. Safety vests are required on board. A warm sweater is recommended because while summer is definitely in the making, it can get pretty damn cold out there on the blue wild yonder.

Tourists come to Seattle all the time to go fishing in Puget Sound. Some of them decide that it's too bloody crowded and head south, around the peninsula that is Olympia State Park, and end up in Gray Harbor, along with the yachters on their way to Olympia proper. Locals say that a trip around the bay on the Tenna II is as good a way as any to get to know the town and its people.

Okay, Chris Long says that. He makes his living renting out his boat, gotta draw in patrons.

Here he is, though -- a tall and muscular blond in an offwhite raglan sweater and a captain's cap with the boat name embroidered in front. All smiles and good cheer as he welcomes some fifteen people on board one by one, asking each what brings them out here today, and what kind of fish they're hoping to catch.

What does bring his customers out here? To some, the fishing, no doubt. To at least one paranormal investigator? A suspicious flyer giving off unpleasant and foreboding mental images that bear some kind of investigation. To a couple? Well, the ladies over there at least clearly think that Long is worth paying for the trip for -- eye candy is eye candy.

A tall, older man with a silver crew cut and wild eyes lingers by the pier; the kind of shifty and ragged looking fellow you'd expect to live in a tent under the boardwalk. He smells like it, too -- a strange, meaty kind of smell, like something that was left to sit too long in the sun. "You'll see for yourself," he tells the people boarding, agitated. "You'll see the girl fish! They'll come for you and don't you come tell me after that I don't done told you so! Nobody ever believes me, you're crazy, old man, they tells me, THERE ARE MERMAIDS IN THE OCEAN!"

It's possible that the couple might have wanted to try to talk the old homeless guy down -- but clearly, the local fishermen are used to the guy. Captain Chris Long shouts from the deck of his boat, "PISS OFF, DENNY! STOP SCARING MY CUSTOMERS!" -- and sure enough, the old coot scampers off, leaving a wake of swear words that might embarrass any rookie deckhand.

It's another normal, sunny spring day in Gray Harbor, full of ominous portent, crazy people, and hopefully, some nice, fat salmon. Who knows? Maybe the sonar will even find a pod of whales. This scene has played out before, so many times, season after season.

That wake of swear words doesn't seem to stop Gabby, who pauses in her movement towards the boat to talk to Denny, reaching out a hand for his, regardless of his smell. "Don't you worry. I'm gonna get a good look at those mermaids and tell 'em what's what, yeah? I'm not scared. Don't you worry." That last part is repeated with a pat on his hand and a little wink. The red head turns to continue towards the Tenna II. She isn't dressed in any particular way, in jeans and a t-shirt with a long coat to keep out the chill. There's a hat to top it off, because she seems to know full well that it's going to get cold out there. Can't fight mermaids if you're head is cold.

Stepping on board, it's Gabby's turn for Captain Long's question, her head tilting just a little. "Just wanted to see what I see," she replies with a blithe sort of smile before continuing past him and towards a small gathering of men towards the side of the boat. "Gentlemen," she murmurs to the group. "Is this your first time here? I hazard to guess it might not be." The only reason that she can tell that one is a ghost is the fact that he's standing in a bench, with parts of it sticking through him. That makes it pretty easy." Of course, that doesn't mean other people, who can't see the group of men, aren't giving her the stink eye, as she basically talks to dead air.

It's no surprise that Mikaere has his own fishing gear, up to and including a waterproof brimmed hat and jacket over his woollen sweater, and that he brings it on board with casual ease, answering Chris Long's questions with what passes for enthusiasm in the generally easy Kiwi. What's he here for? Got to see what kind of fishing this place has got for him, aye? Nothing like a day on the water (especially when your own wave-catching device is, alas, drydocked for repairs).

He casts a glance back towards the shore to consider Denny, his expression showing no particular response unless you look closely: the faintest narrowing of his eyes, the faintest, faintest of tiny little nods. Mermaids-- or anything else-- may not be the sole reason he's come aboard, but they're also not a reason not to be here.

The seat he's claimed aboard the Tenna II is not far from Gabby's collection of men, and though the tittering women a few seats away are mocking her into-thin-air conversation, Mikaere's gaze merely slides over them all. If he's noticed the man-in-a-bench, this too gets no particular remark.

"Good day for it. Weather ought to hold, I think."

Why is Itzhak on this boat? Loitering around in work boots, tight jeans, and an ancient woolen peacoat, he looks like a slab of rough trade carved off a city bigger and crueller than this one. No fishing gear for him or anything at all. No acknowledgement of the men Gabby is talking to, though he's eyeing her. Not with judgement, but he's very curious.

He breezes by the giggling women to Gabby. "Who ya talking to?" he says to her quietly, beneath the wind and the slap of waves.

He gives Mikaere a sidelong glance, too, and should the man look his way, an upnod.

Mermaids. Yes. Mermaids indeed. Espresso Yourself's barista watches Denny explain (at top volume) and then retreat cursing (also at top volume). What about sirens? I need to ask you about those one time.

Still, the Captain asks a question of all boarding and the reply is, "Not looking to catch anything myself, more to see what comes up. I've always been fascinated by the wildlife in the waters around the state."

That's Ariadne's answer and she's sticking to it. Layered beneath her windbreaker (because it's always wiser to dress to remove layers than to not have enough) and with an Avalanche hockey team baseball cap keeping most of her braided-back hair in check, she meanders up and onto the boat deck proper. The patrons of today's sail are scanned and a few faces recognized. She's likely not incredibly subtle or well-hidden as she drifts over to the two gentlemen and the newest redhead she's aware of in Grey Harbor.

"We'll see if the weather holds. The marine layer took a long time to burn off." And greetings, the rest of her expression says as she grins good-naturedly at all present. An upnod for Itzhak from where she's paused by Mikaere and a curious look for Gabby. Itzhak's already asked the question: who are you talking to?

Finch, much like Itzhak, has no business being here. She isn't new to town by any stretch of the imagination, and she has no interest in fishing. She does, however, have a notebook in hand and a polaroid camera. The diminutive woman is in work boots and denim overalls over a tee, covered up by a dark hoodie and an olive drab canvas jacket. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail.

Denny is a known commodity and she slips the guy a ten dollar bill as she passes. "Go get something warm to drink, Den." When Captain Long asks his question of her, the police chief's daughter shoots him a look, but then raises the camera in one hand. "Seabird survey. Just don't sink us, okay?" Well, that's not very encouraging.

She strides past the man onto the deck and a grin erupts on her face when she spots Itzhak. She practically skips over to the lanky mechanic and slings an arm around his waist for a half hug. "Hey Itzy. Well you being here just made my day better." She looks to where Gabby is talking to...no one? But she doesn't even seem phased. She's a local. Mikaere and Ariadne also get a brief look and nod.

Some people go to sea to fish. Some people go to sea to hold a fishing rod while they get drunk. The alcohol on display in the little bar of Tenna II is nothing to write a gleeful post about on your connoisseur's blog, but it'll get the job done. What's better is, it's paid for -- the ticket price covers that most dangerous and hangover inducing brand of them all, ad libitum. Presumably, enough patrons go on these trips to actually fish that Captain Chris Long doesn't lose money on boozing up the ones who just want to get drunk in peace.

A series of small bumps vibrate through the hull as the little fishing cruise boat's engines are fired up. She drifts away from the berth patiently, leaving that blank mirror like trail flanked by white seafoam as she half-turns to point towards the great blue yonder. The noise of the engine is clearly audible on deck but not to a point where it hinders conversation. And as one might expect, the cruise begins with a little pep talk by its blond captain.

"Welcome aboard!", Captain Long announces. "Today, we'll be heading out past Rennie Island and across the bay to Point Chehalis and the Westport Jetty, and from there, out on the ocean proper where we hope to spot whales. I can almost guarantee you fine folk that we'll spot porpoises, but if luck favours us, orcas and humpbacks are out there waiting for your cameras too!"

A couple of passengers are here for the captain, and let there be no doubt about it; those are the jeans and denim shirt-with-rhinestone-flowers blondes that crowd him with adoring eyes. The rest are men in flannel shirts and proper wind breakers because they at least realise that it's April and the wind out there is going to have plenty bite. A few of them sport a small smirk because on some level, there is a strange gratification in watching those adoring blondes and realising just how cold their pert little backsides are going to be in fairly short time.

Finch gets an extra wink from the captain (and an extra glare from the blondes) because de la Vega is a name with impact in this town, and Captain Chris Long knows perfectly well which side his bread is buttered on. Does he ever run a quiet crate or two somewhere for certain people in town? Maybe. Does he want his cargo hold inspected? Nope.

"IDIOTS!" is the last yell from the pier as the cutter goes past the wave breaker. Mermaid Denny has Opinions. "IT'S SPRING! THEY'RE HUNGRY!"

One of the men blink owlishly at Gabby. "I think this is my second trip. It could be my first. I can't--I can't remember. I don't think- I don't-" Gabby offers him a sympathetic smile and bobs her head in understanding, tongue clicking. "I get it, it's that sea air. It'll get ya every time. Just kick ya feet feet up and enjoy the ride. I'm sure you'll have a great time, fellas. All of you." Her jaw clicks for a second as she counts them, sighing to herself. It's a good handful. "These bitches really are hungry," she mutters to herself, and half to Itzhael as she practically turns right into him and then looks up up up towards his face. "The latest mermaid snacks, I'm guessing. They don't know it though. Probably for the best," she whispers with a wince of sympathy in her face.

"Eaten by mermaid is not a death I've had to explain to a ghost before. Not tryin to start now. You shine super bright, did you know that?" The others are briefly noticed, their various shines taken in. "Lots of shinies here today. That's probably good. I don't think they eat those."

Last Opinion heard.

Ariadne glances over her shoulder, brows knitted. That the man really has his dander up today, specifically about it being springtime in regards to these mermaids?

"I've already dealt with sirens and I was shiny too when it happened," she tells the rest of the little local coterie of Grey Harborites. A glance all around at the familiar faces. Her voice is kept privately conversational. "How... Look, Ravn too sounded pretty serious about the mermaids, how...real are these things? I hate flashing my new-to-town badge like that, but...?" A shrug and a wince. Trust Denny and his warnings to deflate some of her marine biologist enthusiasm about this particular outing. Not even Captain Long's peppiest-of-the-pep-talks seems to have dented the barista's pragmatism.

Itzhak waves at Denny in a vaguely reassuring way. "Gonna be okay, bud!" For reals, Denny. Itzhak is on the case. Then Finch is hugging him and he squeezes her back with a long dang arm, enormous hand wrapped around her shoulder. "Hi, Fincheleh." A smooch to the head for Finch. "Hey, Ariadne." Barista upnod!

He looks at where Gabby is looking, then way down at her. Ghosts? He hitches his eyebrows. "Yeah, I know. So do you. And that guy, he does too," that's Mikaere, "can hear you both loud and clear."

"It did, but it all looks reasonably promising," insists Mikaere in answer to Ariadne, apparently by way of greeting as much as anything else, though he'll allow, "Not that I'm incredibly familiar with local conditions, and how changeable it can be." There's half a question in there, but not, ultimately, one that's important enough to ask outright: weather will do what it does. It always has. He's got another nod for Itzhak, and for Finch.

The tall Kiwi balances his rod between his knees and adjusts his hat, just to make sure it doesn't blow off now that they're underway. "So," he continues. "Mermaids, huh? I mean-- yes, I've heard the stories. Mermaids and ghosts-- fine." This is fine.

I mean, it is fine, or at least fine enough: there's sun on his shoulders, the wind in his close-cropped hair, and so far, everything looks good. "We'll just be alert, yeah? Alert, but not alarmed. Mikaere," is a definite after-thought. "Mikaere Hastings."

Finch can't help but grin way up at Itzhak before finally letting the man go. She cocks her head to one side as she listens to everyone discuss things. "Depends on the mermaids I guess. There are...well there's lots of different ones over There. Some of them are good and such, but the ones Denny is afraid of are Gray Harbor-level assholes." She points her Polaroid camera at some seabirds following the boat and snaps a shot, whipping the square print out of the slot as it ejects, and giving it a shake as she hums part of Hey Ya! by Outcast. You know the part.

"If they come on board, they'll regret it," she says in a slightly ominous tone, with a feral gleam in her dark eyes. Itzhak knows what that means. Utah Raptors aren't great swimmers, but if they wound up in the Dream or on the Other Side, no doubt Clever Girl will be called on deck. She had a delightful time eating evil Christmas elves in the park. Mermaids will likely be a delicious buffet of seafood for the familiar.

"Isn't it awful cold out here?" says one rhinestone-denim shirt lady with a hint of plaintiveness; odds are that Captain Long will not be stripping that raglan sweater of his if the breeze picks up. She knows what she's here for, after all.

"The sun will come out, Denise," says her companion. She knows what she's here for too, and she's read the weather forecast. Clouds are going to clear and it's going to be a bright sunny day. Even on the ocean, there's always one side of the deck that's sheltered by the, well, boat.

Denise mutters under her breath. And shoots a furtive glance down the deck because while Captain Chris Long may be a gorgeous specimen of sun-tanned blonde, there are several other pieces of eye candy on board. New Yorker or Kiwi? Denise looks twice and then says, "Dibs on the tall one. I saw him first, Sheryl."

We'll leave the rhinestone ladies to haggle out their quite complex arrangements and mating hierarchy. Turn your focus instead to the men down aft in their flannel shirts; each has brought a rod of his own though rods can be rented on board, certainly. Lumber mill workers, perhaps; or possibly dock workers from the old harbour. Might even be some of them in construction or working in the forestry industry. Faces that look familiar in the fashion of weather bitten, tanned, salt of the earth workers; they're here for the beer, for the banter, and for taking home a couple of good fish. If they see whales? Nice, but, whales are for tourists.

Now look at the captain; he does not care why anyone is on board. The ladies in the rhinestone denim shirts? He'll flirt with them if it means they come back later in the season and maybe bring a few friends. Girl's day out at sea? Fine by Chris Long; it's all in a day's work. He's hosted everything from ladies' lunches to hen parties where he was the stripper. The flannel shirt guys? His main income off-season -- and he knows better than to disturb their drinking and fishing with something as irrelevant as actual whale spotting; this is when sonar is useful not for finding pods but for avoiding them.

Which leaves that last mixed group. He knows the Chief's daughter -- who doesn't -- and he's seen that gangly mechanic around town, even had some work done at the Steelhead Service Center a few times. Got a paint job from that skateboard kid there, once.

The others? He doesn't recognise them, but he doesn't need to. There's a certain group of people in Gray Harbor who inevitably spell trouble; Rosencrantz and de la Vega, and anyone who's kind of hanging back with them, -- trouble.

Not on Chris Long's boat, though. Chris Long doesn't shine but he's born and raised in this town and he knows the ocean has its secrets. He also knows that Mermaid Denny is not quite as much as a nut job as people tend to assume. It's a gut feeling. They say the man's a paranoid schizophreniac and that's probably true. His mermaids are no doubt harbour seals -- maybe porpoises seen from afar. Chris Long does not believe in the supernatural -- except that he's sailor enough to know that the sea has many secrets.

His father owned the first Tenna. It's a family business. He remembers what his old man used to say: Always expect to lose one in spring, and always play it loud.

One of those is out of his hands -- whoever's going to get drunk enough to fall overboard, or have a heart attack mid-fishing, or like that guy last year, pull out a Glock and blow his own brain out at sea, it's going to happen, and he's just going to wait and see. The other? That's just how it is. Play it loud.

As it happens, Tenna II has one hell of a loudspeaker system. And once the cutter clears the inner bay,

I'm rolling thunder, pouring rain
I'm coming on like a hurricane
My lightning's flashing across the sky
You're only young, but you're gonna die

Nothing says 'I know the game we're playing here' like hard rock and riffing guitars.

Finch opens her notebook, leaning on a rail, and jots down some info on the seabirds she snapped a photo of. At least she’s actually doing what she said she was.

Gabby tilts past Itzhak towards where he points to Mikaere and offers the Kiwi and big grin and a bigger wave. "Hiya. It really should be fine. For you. Anyway." Her body straightens back up and her head tilts back again to regard Itz. "For you, too. Definitely for me because I'm a girl. But none of those guys shine, or shined in life." Her thumb hooks towards the ghosts. "We probably aren't part of their nutrition plan."

Her thumbs hook into the front loops of her jeans as she regards the men. "Don't worry. If you do end up getting caught up, I'll protect you. I bet these ladies'll put up a good fight, too." Her chin bobs towards Ariadne and Finch. "I'm more worried about the non-shiny dudes on board, though." She rocks on her heels in place, looking almost gleeful. "I've always wanted to meet a mermaid. Not that I want anyone to get eaten, obviously. I was kind of hoping they would be nicer. But hey. You get what you get, and you don't get upset."

Itzhak offers Mikaere a handshake, Gabby one too. "Rosencrantz. Itzhak. How ya doing. Where is it you're from?" To Mikaere. To Gabby, he says, "Nobody's getting eaten today if I can help it. You guys new in town?"

Nobody needs to ask where he comes from, probably, Itzhak could only be more offensively American if he was Texan. That New York accent could scratch glass.

He may have been not so subtly checking out Captain Studly and for that matter, Mikaere. Should Long look his way, he doesn't smile, merely hikes one eyebrow at him, like, forget those cougars, I'm the wild thing you want. You know it and I know it.

But he does smile, nay, grin fit to split when Long cues up AC/DC. "I fucking love this album."

Mikaere's grip, as he accepts Itzhak's hand and shakes it, is on the easy end of firm: not weak, but relaxed in its weight. "All the way from N Z," he explains, he who has probably seen enough American cinema to easily place the other man's accent. "Good to meet you. I'd," and this time, it gets aimed around the little group: all the little shinies in a row, "Much prefer if we can avoid the eating bit, too. Protect the rest of 'em, best we can."

Gabby, in particular, gets a thoughtful glance-- and Ariadne and Finch, both of whom he recognises, get a warmer one.

"Particularly ominous song, though, isn't it? 'You're only young, but you're gonna die'. He'd better not be sending us a message, that captain of ours, and the soothsayer on the dock."

Barista up-nod returned in Itzhak's direction along with a quick grin despite herself; no, she hasn't forgotten her promise to young Hunter to jazz him all the hell up with hot chocolate. Finch has her giving the young woman a curious look, especially with the plotting sparkle through the young woman's eyes. Foreboding much? Ariadne almost asks, but then, Finch is busily tagging the local wildlife with her camera and it seems rude to interrupt.

She returns her attention to the conversation at hand. Somehow, she can still tell what's being said over the sudden blare of music. A blink still in silent censure; the glower towards the speakers and the cockpit of the boat. Loud music. Mermaids. The Captain is in on this. It makes her stomach do a jumbly flip even as she looks back at the others again.

"No kidding, about the song choice," she agrees with Mikaere. "I'm not going to say no to some AC/DC, but this is almost...taunting circumstance. I can fight, sure, but not...like...not much with my own Glimmer. I'm still learning." A wince and glance in Gabby's direction. "But give me a crowbar and I can swing for the stands? Bop heads if they try to crawl over the edge of the boat? Hook ankles and try dragging people back. I don't think they'll go after me. I hope."

North Bay opens up in front of the cutter; the morning fog is lifting and the day may end up glorious after all. Maybe not quite glorious for the gentlemen on board to strip raglans and shirts but a girl can dream, and Denise and Sheryl certainly do.

The bay is shallow compared to the Pacific beyond, sheltered in the protective embrace of Ocean Shores and Westport, between which flows the tide, in and out. These are tranquil, pleasant communities out there -- the kind that has tall gates, regular security folks doing a round, and no one looking questionable. Do people go missing from Ocean Shores regularly? Maybe. Or maybe the Veil's influence does not reach quite that far, and that's why the pleasant summer town out there is out there.

It's a fantastic piece of music to blare at full volume, though.

I won't take no prisoners, won't spare no lives
Nobody's puttin' up a fight
I got my bell, I'm gonna take you to hell

Captain Chris Long minds his steering wheel. His bartender -- whose name is Tuck or Todd, he can't recall, one seasonal employee or another -- pours margharitas for Sheryl and Denise. The rhinestone-shirt ladies make little secret of their studying all the men present; the captain is a looker, but so are Itzhak and Mikaere, and a little window shopping never hurt anyone's marriage.

At least they're not shooting jealous looks Ariadne, Finch, and Gabby's way. Denise is shooting the occasional odd look Gabby's way, but that seems to be more a case of wondering who the hell she's having half her conversation with.

The mill workers open up a second round of beers and watch their lines as the nylon wires tear through the water.And then, finally -- the call comes. From Jeff Upton, mill worker. "Whales!"

Captain Chris Long reaches for his binocs; heavy and weather proof. He scans the horizon, and then picks up the radio speaker. "Ted, we got something starboard."

"Loud and clear on the sonar," returns Ted on the radio, from the steering house. "Pod of harbour seals. Coast Guard says we have humpbacks straight west from the light house, about two clicks out."

"Fuck humpbacks," Chris murmurs and adjusts the course towards the bay opening all the same. He knows none of this lot came here for humpbacks. The harbour seals did not come here for humpbacks.

He looks back at the little group of people around the police chief's daughter. Most of them, unfamiliar. But her, and the mechanic from Steelhead Service Centre. Always. He looks at them. And then he picks up the microphone just as the chorus reaches the last hell's bells.

"Ladies and gents, if you look to the starboard side as we come up on Ocean Shores, you'll see black figures in the water. Those are harbour seals, a species common to these waters. They are often believed to be the origin of the mermaid legend."

He looks straight the little group. Even Sheryl and Denise turn to look at them (though in at least Denise's case it's because she secretly suspects that the captain is checking out one or other of those people and really, that is not fair).

Finch's head snaps up at the Captain's announcement, and she frowns. The word "legend" has a whole different meaning in Gray Harbor. She moves to the starboard side of the boat, snapping shots with her camera and tucking the prints into a coat pocket. If they are all indistinct and indiscernible later, she'll know those aren't harbor seals. She sweeps her Glimmer senses outward and down, into the water, to see if she can sense anything.

Gabby takes the handshakes with a hearty one of her own, arm moving a little too much. She clearly doesn't know how to give a proper handshake but B+ for effort, too much effort. "Gabby. I'm not from anywhere. I wander a lot."

The song comes on and her eyes drift towards the the ghosts for a second, then to Mikaere at his comment. "You mean the one guy who doesn't shine but always manages to come back unscathed and able to bring out more folks for the chompin?" Her teeth chomp twice. "Could be that he isn't even aware of it, consciously. Which sucks even more, right? Can't even really punch him in the face for it if that's the case."

A finger points to Ariadne, head bobbing. "See? Crowbars are where it's at. You don't need powers to protect, just spice. You're a redhead like me. We're born with spice in our veins," she grins. There's a pause before she blinks. "Do mermaids have ankles? What do you call that bit right here?" she gestures to the ankle part of the fin. "Anklefin?"

At the captain's call, Gabby pauses and straightens turning her attention up towards him for a moment, just staring thoughtfully. "He's staring at us real creepy-like, you guys." Which means she offers a grin and a big wave in his direction before peeking in the same directions as Finch. Just in that direction, not actually getting close to the edge of the boat.

"Looks like..." Trouble, is the easy conclusion to this, but Mikaere's not spelling it out just yet: his attention has been turned away from his companions, this motley crew of shiny (not-so-?) happy people who have so nicely clustered off to one side of the deck. The tall Kiwi puts down his fishing rod, ignoring the continued ogling of Sheryl and Denise, and looks out to sea.

"I'd say that's definitely a message we got this time, don't you think? My guess is: those aren't seals he's just warned us about. Imagine it's not much of a guess, really, given he's basically spelled it out for us." Two big hands grasp on to the edge of the boat, allowing him to lean forward, heedless of the fact that it puts him closer to the water, and the dark shapes inevitably coming in to range.

Determinedly: "No one's going to die today. Ominous warnings or no ominous warnings. We all watching?"

"I'd certainly like to think I kick ass when I want to," Ariadne agrees good-naturedly with Gabby. "And...anklefins would either be like...the tail stock or tail fluke, if you want to compare them to orcas?" The lilt signifies a verbal shrug. Maybe it works? Still, the wording of the Captain's announcement about harbor seals -- harbor seals -- has the barista snapping her attention in the direction of the boat's cockpit. The fact that Captain Chris is, in fact, giving them A Look has her huffing a sigh and clenching her hands briefly in the pockets of her windbreaker.

"Harbor seals don't travel in groups like sea lions do," she mutters to the collective even as both Finch and Mikaere move to their positions along the bow. "Yeah, we're watching as best we can."

Because damnit, this might get ugly. The barista tries to think as fast as possible about how to get the Mundanes away from the bow. Sudden...fainting episode! No, that's only going to work on the gents, not the rhinestone clique over there. What about...suddenly shouting about orcas but you can only see them from this part right here?! Maybe, but only if they aren't locals. What about...using that coiled-up bowline to loop around the men's boots while they aren't looking and maybe if they go overboard, they can get hauled in?

She squints at the bowline. That has potential.

Long is looking Itzhak's way? Excellent. Itzhak just happens to be leaning against the side, making sure Captain Studmuffin has a great view of his ass. Wait, he still has his peacoat on. Real casual he slides it off. There, prime ass-viewing for the taking. Why exactly is he here again?

Everything is quiet for a moment or three.

Up near the bow, the group of lumbermill workers exchange looks; are you here to look at seals? Nope? Me either. Use that damned sonar to spot a good school of lingcod. It's not the season for salmon, alas, but they'll also settle for flounder.

Sheryl and Denise glance down the line. Denise wonders what's interesting about seals. Sheryl's gaze dwells on Itzhak. Nice view. Ahead one point over the other lookers as long as he keeps standing like that.

Captain Long's gaze sweeps across the New Yorker as well. He raises an eyebrow slightly; not disinterested, nice view, but -- well, but. Because out there, the shapes in the water are approaching at high speeds and as the marine biologist pointed out, seals do not live in pods. They often swim and hunt together but not quite so organised.

There are five distinct figures, approaching the boat at high speed, faster than seals should be able to swim (and harbour seals are not at all slow swimmers, as it happens). One leaps up in the air on the splash of a strong tail fin --

"Fuck that," says one flannel shirt. "If there's cod here, those seals are going to chase them off."

"Think it'll jump again?" Another rummages for his phone, to take a picture.

"Bloody things probably get caught in the lines," a third grumbles.

-- and is clearly a harbour seal as far as those men are concerned. To other, shinier eyes, she is woman from the midriff and up, but hardly the Starbucks mermaid. Her hind half is that of a large shark -- powerful, streamlined, built for speed and power. She is black -- not African-American black but the oily black of a marine creature.

Her upper half is black too. Her form is vaguely human -- a barrel-shaped torso (no visible mammaries and definitely no sea shell bras), with slender arms and a powerful neck upon which sits a bald, human-ish head. Her eyes are large and round, and resemble those of a shark; flat, lifeless, built for the depths.

Why does she jump? To see how many people are on board, maybe. To see who they are. To see which ones are best suited for the hunt.

Chris Long does not know. He sees a seal jump out of the water in a spray of droplets and then splash back into the waves. He knows that this is a bad omen. On this water, on this boat, when the seals jump it means that somebody is going to die. The only way is to frighten the seals away, and the only thing that will is loud music.

And that, indeed, is why Tenna II has an amp system that would put a night club to shame. He hits the button. Next. AC/DC's greatest hits, coming right up.

Back in black
I hit the sack
I've been too long, I'm glad to be back

Well crap. Those are definitely not the friendly-looking sort of merfolk. Finch reaches the rail and extends her senses down into the water, searching for plant life. Kelp would be super helpful right now. If she finds any, she will call on it to animate, and weave it into a net barrier between the boat the the mermaids, to try and keep them away from the hull and the deck.

"Ok," says Mikaere, more to himself than to anyone else. He's squinting out to sea, watching closely (so closely) as those not-seals get closer and closer. "No, those are not seals," is very much stating the obvious, but again? More to himself than anyone else. Both hands grip the railing, and he adds, this time aiming for his voice to carry at least a little further, "I can try and warn them off. I'm not sure if it works on--" 'non-human creatures' may be what he means, perhaps.

"Yeah, we try and-- whatever we can. Keep 'em away, aye?"

He closes his eyes, and though it's probably not clear to anyone else, reaches out with this thoughts, aiming the best emotional gut-punch of a GO AWAY that he can in the direction of the definitely-not-seals. They're... like animals, right?

"Those men are probably going to be the first in the line of attack," Gabby says with a little frown as she watches. "Not exactly what I expected for my first mermaid. But she is pretty cool looking."

She glances towards Mikaere as he attempts the emotional gut-punch. "It's worth a shot. If it doesn't work, maybe see if you can get the men away from the edge of boat, instead? That way we can focus of the sharkmaids. Because they're way more sharkmaids than mermaids, come on." Gabby bobs her head knowingly.

Her eyes peek into the water again, watching the speed and trying to time things out just right. "They move so smoothly. It's be a shame if something disturbed that." With that she attempts to put all of her might into a telekinetic water spout to knock into one.

Not a seal. Can confirm. Ariadne wastes a second or two staring at the empty space once occupied by the breaching mermaid-not-seal while the others get into motion and action.

She's able to shake the frozen moment -- scientific freak-out later -- and looks back at the cluster of men at the boat. The barista's eyes flick then to the heavy, still-dampened rope. Welp. Time to think outside the box.

MOVE. -- like you mean business, rope! Knock some feet out! Tangle to the deck!

Strands of kelp spread through Finch's awareness as it sinks towards the bottom of the shallow waters. North Bay's waters are treacherous insofar that it is in constant motion; the sun heats the shallows which prompts cold water from the ocean beyond to surge in, creating a constant, raging undertow that shifts and moves sand -- and nutrients. North Bay is abundant with life, in the way of shallow, sandy bays anywhere. No wonder that selkies, sirens and other incarnations of merfolk make their homes here.

Grow this way. Weave that way. Reach for the sun. Openings large enough for cod and salmon to slip through, bar the way for larger things. The kelp responds; and why not? For a moment Finch is the kelp, growing, reaching, braiding itself on the current -- or the kelp is Finch, standing on the deck of Tenna II and needing those black shapes to say out there. Grow. Trap. Entangle. Grow up into light, spread your fronds in the warm water full of tiny floating cousins. The kelp has no objections; if something large is to get trapped in its net, decompositing bodies asre made of nutrients.

Mikaere's mind wanders as well, but to the aquilinear, dark shapes in the water. A touch of human intelligence brushing against -- sleek, dark, hungry. No, there's nothing sexual in this as far as the sirens are concerned. Hunt, kill, eat. Dark shark eyes in the face of a predator leaping out of the water makes a headcount: Up front, prey. Midship, meat that shines, avoid. Aft, meat that does not shine but can procreate. Do not kill the breeders.

Hungry minds reel; No, no, we must feed, the spawn must be fed. Mikaere's urging the aquatic hunters to falter gives them pause for a heartbeat -- but then there is the urge, the instinct, the need to feed -- small fry, the little ones. It feels oddly like the kind of pang of a heartstring that a human might experience, looking into the soft brown eyes under long lashes of a beautiful Jersey cow; and then remembering that without butchering, there is no steak, sorry.

A siren opens her mouth -- so many rows of tiny, small, triangular teeth! -- and a single note emerges.

Silence wraps itself around the men at the prow as if the sound was literally cut off mid-conversation. Billy Ray Murdock, lumber mill worker, shuts his mouth between 'fuckin' big' and whatever he was going to say. Seal, probably.

Then rope snatches at Billy Ray's leg like a cobra out of a basket, winding its way around his ankle and then curling up the leg of Thomas O'Brady, mill worker, and snaking around the knee of John de Souza, you guessed it, mill worker, before moving on to the next men. Without much in terms of direction and experience, the rope sees a simple mind picture and it obeys: Spaghetti those legs.

The men cry out as their legs tangle. They flail for support from one another and from the railing, and the rope winds its way in and out between the railing and any other obstacle on deck. Pasta operaio della segheria in progress.

Sheryl and Denise squeal and start to make their way towards the pile; rhinestone-shirt cougars though they may be, they are not assholes -- something is happening up there and people look like they need help. "What the hell?" Sheryl says, as rope literally rears up, peeks about, and dives back in.

What the hell indeed, thinks Captain Long. Something like this always happens.

And then he amends, this is not actually true. Most times, when the seals jump like this, it's one or two people on board who start to act weird. It's not the entire front deck group. And that -- kelp fronds? He reaches for the radio again. "Ray, what's our depth?"

"Don't look at me, skipper," comes the answer from the helmsman. "We're in the passage off Goose Island, we're clear of the sand banks."

"Steady as she goes," murmurs Chris Long and watches as the outlines of the seaview Ocean Shores community grow clearer on the horizon. Beyond West Point, the open sea. It's always on the open sea that they jump to their deaths or pull out a gun and blow their own brains out or start fighting or --

-- God, he hates this job.

Sleek, powerful shapes circle, trying to find their ways around the kelp. They understand -- a breeder up there on the deck is trying to shelter her males from the hunt.

It is regrettable. She will have to do with one or two males less. The pack leader flexes her tail fin and leaps from the crest of a wave in a spray of crystalline sea water. Her mouth is open; a single note bursts forth.

See me, meat. I am hunter. I am come to free you from your burdens. I am freedom. I am peace.

And the water itself rises up to slam into her like an extremely localised tsunami. She reels, hurting, screaming, as muscle tears and strains at the impact.

"Well," says Mikaere in answer to Gabby. "I can try. That's a lot of minds to try and deal with."

For now, however, there's that attempt to communicate, and its aftermath. "Mggrrd," he says, unintelligibly. He lifts one big hand off of the boat so that he can rub at his temples, and glance back at their little group. "They need to feed their babies," is an unhappy admission, and when he looks back out to sea? It's not without sympathy-- or a genuine wince as as the water rises up to smack so hard into the leader of that pack. The Kiwi watches with unblinking eyes, and a frown.

This time, when he reaches out for the mermaids, it's to try and push at them a feeling of absolute fear. Surely there is other prey. Easier prey.

"Can you tell them we promise to bring them some sides of beef or something?" Finch asks Mikaere, as her hands continue weaving in front of her, maintaining that kelp net, thanking the growing and reaching strands for their help. The diminutive brunette looks to Itzhak, pretty sure he just water slapped the hell out of that creature, and gives him a nod of approval. She can keep them from approaching under the water, if he can keep them from leaping on board.

"Yeah, like, we can bring them food. But we are not food. There's plenty of actual food down there with them, too." Does Gabby feel bad for the baby mermaids? Maybe. But still.

It's the notes that Gabby has to be on the lookout for. A mouth opening to sing. That, or one of them looking to lunge. If at any point one of them look like they are going to sing or lunge, more water is used to violent pursued them that this is a bad idea.

And suddenly, animated rope chaos.

Perhaps not expecting this level of enthusiasm from the inanimate object, Ariadne stands in her spot with hands gripping moderately-hard at the middling zipper-line of her windbreaker. Her brows lifted, she watches the rope consider Sheryl before getting back to work.

Stop...moving?

Maybe the rope's enthusiasm will come down from Level 11 now that the gents are re-enacting Multi-Car Pile-Up, Edition Mill Worker. Slightly out of the loop with her necessary blinkered focus on the mess she's deliberately caused, she glances around at the others, catching something about mermaid-lings (siren-lets?) and food.

"Yeah, nobody's on the menu today. If they want something good, we can bring a couple of flank steaks. No soylent green today."

Turning around, she then shouts up towards the Captain with an imperative point back towards Grey Harbor, "We need to get back to town! Someone's got a broken ankle!" Does somebody in that manly impromptu puppy-pile? She doesn't know. She might feel bad if it weren't for the sirens.

Fear ripples through the waves, sinking like tiny plankton from the surface, into the depths where sleek, black bodies await (as do a great deal of other bodies, and that little school of baby cod is definitely about to find somewhere else to hang out, yikes).

Fear of the net; bodies writhing, trying to move, trapped. Gasping for air, from lungs that cannot reach the surface. Gasping for air because a body trapped in a net cannot move, and gills only work when the body keeps moving; shark, trapped in the net because a shark cannot stop swimming, a shark dies when it cannot swim -- shark, swimming even in her sleep because she cannot breathe if she does not move. Tail fin trashing, the net winds its way around the body; dolphin caught in the deep, unable to reach the surface and breathe gulps of salty sea air. Trapped. Trapped in the tuna net, the deep sea trawl, trapped, trapped, dying.

Several black bodies with human-esque fronts circle, but the pattern changes; now they are wary, worried. Has the hunter become prey?

Maybe the hunter has; nets of kelp weave and grow beneath the surface, sunlight reflecting in the water reveals flashes of green and yellow. Masks narrow enough to trap a shark tail, to hold down a siren body. Are they sharks who breathe through gills? Or are they mammals who need to surface for air? Both can be trapped and drowned by the net, whether the net is made from kelp or nylon.

The fear that Mikaere weaves is real; the fear of Finch's net is real.

And here's Gabby, finna smack a fish girl. The leader jumps, perhaps to keep track of what's going down on the deck of Tenna II -- and a spout of cold, lifeless sea water slams into her, knocking her sideways.

Into the net.

trapped, trapped, the net weaves around a tail, trapped, flail, trash about, call for the sisters, trapped, call for help, forget the prey, trapped

She screams. This is not a note of alluring song to hypnotise prey. It is a wild, sharp note as if to shatter ice; and around her, every dark head in the water changes direction, towards her.

"No can do, ma'am." Captain Long's reply to Ariadne is firm. "Accidents happen at sea when people aren't careful. Can't take the boat back just because one customer twists his ankle." He reaches for the radio again. "Ray, are we clear?"

"Aye aye," comes the response from inside the steering house. "Course locked, in, we're clear of the Bay in ten."

"Get the first aid kit and get up on deck," Chris Long tells his employee. "One of the guys up front injured his leg. Tell them to stop playing with the fucking bowline, too, or I'll bill them for a new one."

Then he looks back at the concerned little lady in front of him (hasn't he seen her somewhere before? Coffee shop, maybe?). "People paid good money for this trip. If we get a serious injury we'll radio for the Coast Guard and they'll send a helicopter, don't worry. This trip is entirely safe. You'll see, somebody just got started early on the beer and twisted a foot, no biggie."

And yet there is something longing in the man's face as he dismisses Ariadne's concerns. Somebody is going to die today, and if he turns Tenna II around, not only does he have to refund today's tickets -- he'll be carrying the ill omen to the next lot. It's one thing to sail out here knowing that every so often, when the seals dance, men die. It's another thing to sell safari tickets knowing that next time, that specific next time, somebody is going to die.

As the seal-who-is-not-a-seal screams, Mikaere cannot help but wince, his Māori heritage at odds with his desire to protect everyone on this boat-- who, after all, did not come here to do harm (except, perhaps, to the fish, but surely they will be eaten, and that's just part of the circle of life... except, then, is that not exactly the same as what the mermaids are doing? His dilemma is real). Kaitiakitanga-- guardianship of the land, sea and sky-- is a core tenet of his culture. So is balance. You kill to eat. Can the mermaids be blamed for wanting to do likewise?

"I'll try," he tells the women: Finch, Gabby and Ariadne, all agreeing something along the same lines. "I don't know if I can communicate anything that complex to them, but I will try." His face has gone a little pale beneath its natural hue, but he straightens his shoulders, now, and leans in to his power: this time, to try and express that abstract concept.

The fear can stop, if only they wait for different food.

Finch feels the net grabbing hold of the leader, and she weaves her hands to bend the kelp this way and that, to push her free of the net on the ocean side of it, rather than the boat side. It's a gentle extraction, she doesn't want to hurt the Veil creature, but she also wants it to know, this is no longer something she can do, attacking this boat. "Try harder!" she yells back to Mikaere, before giving Captain Long a glare. Somebody might end up with a broken ankle himself when and if they get to safety, just to see how he would like it if they couldn't get him immediate help.

Gabby winces when she accidentally smacks the leader into the net. That wasn't exactly what she meant to do and that cry was a little rough to hear. Granted, she'd feel worse if they weren't try to eat the men on the boat. So, there's that. "Hey! Don't blame these guys. They weren't messing with anything. It just happened. That's what you get when you take a haunted boat out to sea. The amount of people who die on this thing, what do you expect?"

With that, her attention turns to the steering mechanism of the boat. Which starts to move on it's own. Away, away from the 'seals'. If the good captain tries to fight it, let's see whose stronger. The Power or the man.

"Haunted ship ass," Gabby mutters with a head shake.

Maybe to those untouched by Glimmer, the siren's outcry sounds like a barking seal -- something mundane, goofy, bork-bork-bork.

The real -- real? -- version makes Ariadne's heart flip in her chest and her stomach twist. It's a sound she doesn't want to hear again. She also doesn't miss the flicker through Captain Long's face. It makes her own scrunch into frustration before, bringing edges and a sharp frown and a brief flash of teeth. "You looking for a lawsuit? Seriously?! Negligence as the captain of this boat?! Turn it around! Come on!" she shouts over the thrumming of the motor and the chaos caused by the 'seals', gesturing with arms spread out wide.

"You know what? No. You know what's really going to cook your bacon?" The barista leans in a little, squinting, now pointing a finger at the man's chest. "I work public retail. You know what fucks you over? A BAD YELP REVIEW. Multiple reviews! TURN THIS BOAT AROUND!"

The meat is salty. The meat is cured. The meat is man-meat, not human meat but meat preserved by and for humans. It falls in the water for the small fry to feed upon, while the boat sails away because why waste strength on the hunt when there is food here? No predator spends energy unnecessarily; even when they chase each other in play, the hunters are gaining something, they are gaining skill and muscle tone.

Some of the minds in the waves below are swayed; why go to this effort if there is going to be a suitable sacrifice made? Others think, how will the small fry learn to hunt if we feed them dead meat? They will become scavengers, death-eaters, bottom feeders.

Maybe better to feed on dead meat than die in the nets. The great yellow-fin tuna follow the dolphins at sea, and when the dolphins hunt shoals of lanternfish, the tuna swoop in to help and eat their share. And men in boats hunt the tuna, and the dolphins, the first hunters, die in the nets -- not because men want their meat. Just because they are there, and they are not tuna.

Fear the nets of man. Man is the only predator that kills for no reason at all.

The leader of the sirens manages to free herself; her great shark's tail splashes and cuts through the waves as she dives, free, free, current-against-gills, breathing.

The shiny ones let her go.

The radio crackles. "Captain, something's wrong with the rudder. She's not responding."

Chris Long looks away from the irate redhead in front of him. "What the fuck are you saying? Talk to me, Ray."

The sailor's voice over the radio, from inside the steering house, speaks volumes. "She's not responding. We're turning to starboard, back towards Goose Island. If we keep this heading it's going to be a hell of a close pass to Damon Point. We may beach her, captain."

"Fuck," Chris Long hisses between his teeth. He's already imagining the talk with the insurance agent. Tenna II is not built to be beached. It's going to be a pain getting her seaborne again, not to mention the material damage to hull and equipment. And of course the Yelp! reviews from the people on this whale cruise.

Speaking of whom.

He turns his attention back to Ariadne. "No can do," the captain repeats through gritted teeth. "The rudder is on the fritz. I swear, this bay is cursed. You want to help out, lady? Grab a hold of something and hold on."

He flicks the button on the radio, switching from direct communication with Ray to the ship's powerful speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. Due to a mechanical error, we are about to hit Damon Point. As you can see if you look to starboard -- that's on your right if you're looking the way we're sailing -- Damon Point is a shallow sand reef. You will feel a bump as we run aground. Please hold on to the railing for support. You are not, I repeat, you are not in danger. There is little to no current. We will simply be stuck in shallow water. Do not try to wade ashore. The Coast Guard will have a rescue vessel here imminently. I say again, we are not in danger. Your tickets will be refunded while we wait."

Give the man credit, at least, for having a good, firm speaking voice. Sheryl and Denise look up in horror -- we're sinking! Oh God! We're sinking! -- and then calm back down as they actually look. Damon Point is indeed a narrow, flat barrier of sand. No rocks, nothing but coarse grass and sand. A single tree further down the coast. It reaches out to block access to the Pacific beyond, but it is easy to see that running into it will be not a crash and a tear but a gentle slide coming to a helpless halt when Tenna II's keel buries itself in sand.

And all Chris Long wanted today was watch that mechanic's ass.

Mikaere can't argue the cruelty of man; nor can he blame the sirens for feeding their young. It leaves him at an impasse, no longer actively trying to push his will onto the collective-- but not willing, either, to give up on anyone on board: male, female, other. He stares out at the water, watching them with an expression that speaks to indecision and uncertainty.

What's much more certain is the enthusiastic work of the three women; to suggest that he's impressed would be sexist, and that's not the intention. Rather: they're amazing, and what more can he really add to it?

Chris Long's announcement flattens his expression, though, which darts from captain to sirens and then back again. Shallow water-- is that a good thing? A safe thing?

It's not the most immediate concern, though: Mikaere holds on.

"So much for a bit of fishing," he mutters, beneath his breath.

Finch turns her attention from net weaving to the ship's hull, preparing to fix it as damage is done, to keep it from being too much for poor Captain Long. "Captain," she addresses him, as her Spirit sense seeps down into the frame of the ship, in an effort to restore the keel to what it was when brand new. "You know me, who I am, who my family is. The Celaenos, not the de la Vegas," she says, with a knowing expression. If he's local, he knows about the Harpy curse on the ornithology family. "You know I know more than a little about curses. I think I may know how to stave this one off for you. If you're willing to try on your future trips."

She weaves her Glimmer into that special ability it has to repair, restore, fix, mend, return something to it's best self. She keeps her feelers on it, so she can fix things in the seconds they are damaged by the shoal. "Bring a couple of sides of beef, whole ones, raw ones, with you on the trip, and when you see that big pack of harbor seals, you toss them overboard to them. Can you do that?"

"Gladly!" Ariadne fires back at the Captain, trying not to look too pleased with this turn of events. Poor Captain Long might be thinking it's sincerely bad luck to have his rudder stuck and the boat grounded, but the barista has a suspicion that one of her fellow Grey Harborites has caused this particular reaction in the vessel's mechanics.

She ends up over by Mikaere's half of things on the boat, gripping the silver railing hemming low along the edge of the boat. "I mean, it could be worse," she says loudly enough for the rest of the Shiniest crew to hear. They all know precisely what she means by worse.

Worse than bad Yelp reviews, yes.

"Oh no. How. Unexpected. The ship isn't responding to anything you say." Gabby says all that in the flattest of flat tones. "It's almost like someone got tired of you not listening." Mutter mutter. The redhead turns towards the ghost men and gives them a little wink before she returns towards the edge of the boat near Ariadne. "It could have been worse. It could have been better, too, but I don't actually know how to drive a boat. So." That's the best they got.

She holds tight to the railing like instructed. "Feel kinda bad for fucking up his ship. Didn't mean to do that. But he didn't have his listening ears on today."

"Look, lady," says Denise and elbows in next to Finch. "Unless your name's Addington,"

"It's fine," Captain Long cuts her off before looking at Finch. "I'm listening. In a moment, when we're safely aground and Ray's radio'd the Coast Guard." At least he said he'd listen; it's more than most non-shiny people manage before reality reasserts itself on them with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to a knee.

Maybe he will remember about the sides of beef. It would be not be such a strange thing for a cruise cutter to carry; there are sharks in these waters too, and shark watching is absolutely, definitely also a tourist thing. Dogfish, leopard sharks and sixgills are common; it is not unheard of, spotting salmon shark and even the famous great white. Throwing bloody meat in the water to attract them would not be such a strange thing for a captain of a tourist vessel to do.

Makes you wonder if Long's never thought of it. Makes you wonder if he has, and then has forgotten. Sledgehammer, meet knee.

The bump reverbates through the hull. A thud and then a slow sliiiiide, a grating sound -- and then Tenna II shudders and comes to a halt.

Up in front somebody says, "Hope the hull's good."

A minute passes.

Then Ray's voice on the radio reassures his captain (and everyone else), "We're fine, skipper. Not as much as a leak. Just plain stuck. Calling the Coast Guard now."

Excellent hull plating and maintenance? Finch's unseen fortifications of rudder and hull? Pure, awesome luck? The gentle slope of Damon Point? Anyone's guess.

Chris Long looks at his deck and at his passengers. This is going to go down just great in Gray Harbor's maritime community; he'll be the laughing stock of the summer. But being the butt of jokes from fishermen and lobster fighters is still better than losing your ship and your livelihood. He knows what no one else seems to have grokked; it's not over yet.

The kelp net floats on the current, slowly drifting towards the open gap between Damon Point and West Point, and the Pacific beyond. Black figures move through the water around it. The seals are not gone, and until they are, no man is safe.

"Let's get off this tub," says O'Ryan from the lumber mill. He's a part time hobby fisherman though he prefers crabbing and crayfish trapping. "Once we're on the sand, I want a beer."

"Stay on board," says Chris Long. "Don't try to wade in. The undertow is treacherous, and these are shark waters."

Seal waters too. He's not going to tell them that. They're going to do it, and at least one of them aren't going to make it to shore, but at least he'll have a handful of witnesses that he told them to stay put.

"It may still be worse," says Mikaere in reply to Ariadne, waiting until after the thud of contact to actually speak: they may have come to a stop now, but that doesn't mean he's inclined to remove his hands from the railing. "We're not back on shore yet. It's not over until we are. All of us." He glances over his shoulder, back at their boat's captain, back at everyone else, too. "I'm not sure he can have his listening ears on, not the way he should. Damn stupid town to do this kind of thing in."

There's no malice in that. He gets it: a man's got to eat, just like a siren does.

"Maybe he'll remember the beef, though. That'd be better. They've got to eat."

In the short term, however, larger problems remain. Mikaere pulls away from the edge of the boat, meandering towards the lumber mill workers. "Hey man," he says. "Stay put. You ever seen a man pulled apart by a shark? I have, and it's not pretty."

Maybe his fellow glimmerers will notice how reluctant he seems to do this; maybe they'll see the slightly pinched expression that falls into place as he draws up his powers again, pushing them out onto O'Ryan. Tired. Lazy. A little afraid. Just a little.

It'd be safer to stay here. The beer's right here, right?

Finch steels herself for the moment they run aground, then she's moving to watch the men carefully. To the other Shiny folks, she whispers, "If any of them start to look charmed, point them out to me." It's not going to be fun for any of them, but temporary deafness from temporarily detached incus bones in the middle ear might keep them alive. She then looks back to the Captain.

"I'll send you a text every day to remind you if I have to," she threatens. She gives, of all things, the sky a glance at that, as if warning the Veil Powers That Be that she is not giving ground on this one.

What a sensation, feeling the grind of the boat translate up her legs and practically into her teeth. It's uncomfortable. Ariadne holds on tightly and can't help the sound to leave her mouth (she ends up sounding a little bit like a certain radio host from The Fifth Element at his most annoyed).

She's also not the first to leave the railing she's clung to. Mikaere moves and she breaks away from watching him to nod at Finch. Aye-aye, photographer chick, let her know if someone appears to be getting too antsy. She risks a glance over the railing towards the deeper waters. Those shapes haven't vanished. Frustration makes her stomach twist; there's no sides of beef to hand out now.

"Just hang out, no need for soggy socks." Her voice carries over to the group just as herself. What a headache. What a nightmare.

Gabby releases the railing when the boat finally comes to a stop. Does she look just a little bit guilty? Maybe. But it's gone pretty fast, especially when she hears from above that there doesn't seem to be any actual damage. Alright, guilt gone!

"Why are the people here so stupid, sometimes? It's like they literally want to be eaten."

The others seem to have the men in hand, so Gabby moves back to keep an eye on the mermaids to make sure none of them try to sing. If they do, they get hit with another water spout.

"Don't see bigguns here often," O'Ryan tells Mikaere. "Somebody got a video of a great white last year in the bay but usually? It's dogfish. They don't attack people." All well and good but the Kiwi made another important point: The beer is here. Might as well pass a couple of cold ones around and take a few throws with the fishing rod while waiting for rescue. The water may be shallow but it's still wading in from neck deep water in April. And maybe the undertow is as bad as the captain says.

Have another beer, yes. Throw the line out, wait. This Kiwi makes sense. And if O'Ryan's eyes glaze over a little no one pays attention; his fellow flannel shirts seem to reach similar conclusions. Maybe O'Ryan's the one who usually serves as ringleader.

Chris Long is not entirely certain what's going on; how come that you never are, when people like de la Vega or Rosencrantz or that whole lot turn up? Always leaves you feeling like somehow, something went down, and somehow, you missed the point. Bloke with the New Zealand accent seems to have convinced the mill workers to stay on board for now; this, at least, is a Good Thing(tm). And here's the Bird Girl, looking from him and to them and back as if she will make them stay on board if necessary. He can't tell why, but the look on Finch de la Vega's face sends a chill down his spine.

The rhinestone-shirt ladies seem to take their cues from the redhead by the railing. The captain is not about to complain. "I'm not wading to shore," Denise declares. "My shoes would be ruined. I'm sitting right here, that's what. I paid for this trip, I'm not ruining my clothing because the boat breaks and hits an island!"

"Point," her companion corrects. "Damon Point is not an island. It's just outside Ocean Shores. I went here on a picnic once."

"Whatever," says Denise. And stays put.

And out there, on the waves, Chris Long sees a harbour seal leap -- and others see a shark-tailed, flat-chested, black-skinned, black-eyed fish-woman. Lips part to reveal rows of trianguar teeth as she sucks her breath in to --

Splash. Water spout to the face.

This prey is well protected. Maybe it's just not worth it. The year is young and soon, the migrations will begin; from the sea they come, to go to the glittering artificial island in the bay in their boats. Easier prey. Prey not protected by these shiny ones.

The first huntress leaps one last time and raises her hand; does it mean something?

Maybe it does. The harbour seals leap, silently. Then they swim away, towards the sea. The hunt today would come at too high a price. There will be another day. Soon, soon the migrations begin.

Mikaere's exhale is just subtle, really. It could be simply the normal kind, the kind everyone makes as they breathe-- it's not, though. It's the release of breath that comes with relief, as O'Ryan buys his story, and his fellows follow suit. They won't see the troubled expression the Kiwi wears when he turns back away; the one that says 'I played games with a man's thoughts again, and I swore I wasn't going to do that anymore' (or... maybe it doesn't quite say that much, but, look: the sentiment is there).

On the other hand? No one died today.

You have to count your wins where you can.

Finch lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding as the "harbor seals" make their way off once more. She slumps a bit against the railing, because she just expended a hell of a lot of Glimmer to keep these idiots from being merfish food. At least she didn't have to break any ear bones. She'd have had to spend days tracking the idiots down to repair them at the slow rate such healing went now. "Thanks everyone," she murmurs to the shiny folks. She doesn't say what for, they know. They all know. They fought back against Them today.

Water spout says what? Sppppt!

"Learn your lesson!" Gabby yells, looking, of course, like a crazy person yelling off the side of the boat. Oops, that was too loud. She glances over her shoulder at people staring and offers an awkward laugh, brushing the back of her neck with a hand. "Sorry, there was a little seal and fish fight. I got too invested. I'll keep it down." Right. Good cover.

With that, she goes back to leaning against the side, keeping an eye on the water. Just in case.

The only ghosts on this ship will be the ones that were already here when the day started.

By the looks of things, the occupants of the boat are staying on the boat. Ariadne leans against the railing, arms outstretched and head hung between them for a long set of moments. She's in time to look up and see the huntress both breach and get water-swatted. Swatered. It sends a chill down her spine as she straightens at the railing and carefully swallows. So that's what had been singing over the hydrophones in that Dream.

Good god.

"No, thank you," the barista murmurs back to Finch, knowing the young woman as well as the others did some serious weight-lifting today. She tries a smile and mostly gets there, glancing over at Gabby. Good cover indeed. A last glance at Mikaere with his troubled frown and then out at the waters again. Hmm. Scuba diving is less and less enticing as the weeks go by around here.

Damnit, Grey Harbor.