2022-05-21 - I'm On A Boat!

Look, the weather today? It was just too perfect to spend indoors: sun, just enough of a breeze to make sailing fun and not either too intense or too boring, warmth enough in the air to make it pleasant even in the breeze. Wā Kāinga (say it with me: wuh kay-ing-guh) left the marina early this morning, when the fog still hung low; now, come mid-afternoon, she's anchored out by Protection Island so that her passengers-cum-crew can take a break and enjoy the sunshine.

"Here," says Mikaere, handing Jules a beer. There are sandwiches, too, but the light beer is still a must. He's got sunglasses on to protect his eyes from the glare, but he's probably pretty visible given the clear conditions: tall and dark, his pale blue shirt blindingly bright. "Reckon we can hang here safely for a while, take a break. You enjoying it so far?"

A sailboat may not be fast, but it can feel it, when the wind is rushing through your hair and the spray lifting around you. It's exhilarating, and Mikaere is unquestionably more alive for it. This, maybe more than anything else, is his milieu.

Protection Island. Damon Point. Same deal, different sides. That's the Vagabond coming around the point because it's a beautiful early summer day, and other people had the same idea -- nip out past Ocean Shores, maybe, find a nice place out of too much wind, have lunch on the deck.

Ravn squints at the sight of the other boat -- he knows that one from the marina. "That's Mikaere's boat over there," he calls to Ariadne -- well, calls and calls, says loud enough to be heard over the wind. "Want to pull up and harass him? Fancy meeting you out here, that sort of thing?"

Great minds think alike, after all, and he's got white wine enough on board for one more.

Jules may not know much about sailing, but she does know this: even if it's a beautiful, sunny day, it tends to get chilly out on the water. Anchored now, with the wind less of a factor, she's comfortable enough to shed her red zip-up fleece for a time and enjoy the sun. She's got on a white knit tank-top, plain but for the lace work at the bottom hem and jean shorts. This means that for once, her arms are on display -- with no heavy bandage. The claw marks are healing nicely, but still pink with new skin; she'll carry those scars on her inner arm for life.

"Absolutely," she happily replies, reaching for the beer now that she's divested herself of extra clothing and stuffed the fleece into the tote bag she's brought with her, which boldly proclaims, DESTROY THE PATRIARCHY, NOT THE PLANET. Jules doesn't do purses, but fiery canvas tote bags are a-ok. She's grinning up at Mikaere; his happiness is infectious. "I needed this."

"Uh, are does a hobby horse have a wooden butt?"

Ariadne glances over her shoulder from where she's been half-slung along the near-prow of the sailboat. Perhaps Kitty Pryde stayed on the docks today and thus allowed the barista the chance to be considered as pseudo-figurehead for the Vagabond.

"Rhetorical question, let's go harass Mikaere. Lovingly. With offers of food and wine. Jules and I happened to have a discussion about him not so long ago." Look at the playfully-coy grin on her face. She reaches up to comb loose auburn-and-celestially-dyed hair behind her ear; clips only hold so strongly against the wind off the waters. "And now I'm curious."

Heaven help us all, Ariadne is curious.

Her windbreaker is the bright-coral seen before and in jeans and sneaker-boots. Ravn does not wear coral-pink; ergo, the redhead is the brightest spot on the sailboat. A lift of hand is greeting nonetheless -- hello, hello.

"You and me both," says Mikaere, leaning in to claim a kiss in exchange for the beer; fair's fair, right? That's probably visible to the Vagabond: tall Mikaere, shorter Jules, and a kiss that is not x-rated but still certainly more than merely friendly.

It means he registers the approach of the other sailboat only afterwards, and with a narrowing gaze that turns a little lopsided, a little self-conscious, as, squinting over the rim of his sunglasses, he identifies the incoming vessel. "We've got company," he tells Jules, turning properly so that he can lift his beer can in acknowledgement: hello out there. Hello Vagabond.

"Oh my." Ravn glances at Ariadne and laughs. "Looks like the man has company. Might be we should just quietly sail on, give him some space to impress whatever lady he's taken out to sea."

Not like he'd ever take a lady out on the boat to impress her. Nope. Absolutely not. Not like Ariadne is a lady. Something.

It's safe to say that Jules is not paying attention to other boaters out enjoying the water, at least not when she's trading kisses for beer. Not until it's pointed out to her, at which point she turns to have a look for herself. She's still standing comfortably close, and there's no point in edging away now, even if she were so inclined. So she just takes that first sip of her beer and waits to see just who's turned up -- she doesn't know Ravn's boat well enough to identify it by sight, at least not until they're close enough to make out the facial features of those on board.

"Is that Ariadne?" she hazards. "I predict she squeals. One, two, three..."

Ravn will hear the pleased chortle and the opinion to follow: "Ohhhhhhhh just a fly-by. We don't need to drag heels." In this, the redhead agrees with not lingering while also indulging her own intrigues. "Mmm, gurl, git some." This half to herself. Maybe Ravn can catch it over the slosh of waves against the sailboat's hull as they close distance. Another wave...

...and really, Jules might as well be psychic (at least about loud outbursts of greeting): "YARRRRRG! PREPARE TO BE BOARDED!"

Because Ariadne's not a lady, pfft.

And then cue the squeal. "Oh, Jules, hiiiiiiiiiiiii!" At least she hasn't fallen off the prow of the boat.

Mikaere is not a blusher (or if he is, those darker cheeks help to hide it, so it's fine), which does not at all mean he doesn't make a face as it becomes clearer who is aboard the Vagabond, and what their purposes are. "Ah," he says, which is pitched more for Jules than Ariadne or Ravn.

Well. This is fine too.

"We'll fight back!" Is rather louder, intended to cross the distance between the two boats. "We have beer! And sandwiches! And we're not afraid to use them!"

Okay, so fine. Fine, he's been caught out with Jules. Fine. It's not the biggest secret in the world, right? Fine.

Ravn's lips form a little 'o'. Oh. Oh.

Well, hardly the first time he's the last man on the planet to get a clue.

He shifts the steering pin and lets the boat drift up alongside -- and cuts the mainsail so that indeed, they don't just speed past. Vagabond is the smaller boat, and made for maneuvering in the Finnish archipelago; steering her in to come up along is no great feat of seamanship.

Jules can't help but break into laughter. She's fine. Or resigned. Or is just too happy being out on the water to really give a shit.

"Fancy seeing you out here," she calls back. Now she lifts her beer as a salute.

Her skin's not quite dark enough to hide how her cheeks redden. Just a little bit.

Cue audible chortling from Ariadne, barista-at-the-prow. "We've got wine, yer warned!!!" flies back to Mikaere in turn.

As the Vagabond pulls up alongside the other boat, the barista tucks her heels up alongside her thighs. As such, she's perched comfortably in her spot now and grinning, frankly, like a fiend. "Indeed, and fancy seeing you," she replies loudly to Jules as the water around them starts to settle. "We thought we'd catch some of the breeze too. It's a nice day for it."

There we go -- a nice, safe category of conversation. Maybe there's enough distance that Ariadne's amusement can be kept to her eyes alone. Her smile is utterly polite for the moment.

Mikaere does not seem, at least, as if he'd rather run away now. It's not as if his... liaison(??) with Jules is the biggest of secrets, for all that his expression is, even so, just a little bemused. Ariadne's grin probably isn't helping that: give the man a moment, surely, and maybe he'll come right again.

At the very least he'll shrug, acknowledging Ravn with a lift of his shoulders and an amused enough smile. "Don't sink us," he calls, the words mostly aimed at Ariadne. "We don't have wine, but I'm sure beer can still explode, right? Nice to see you both."

The last time he saw Ariadne, things were fraught. At least Ravn is a less emotional association.

The Vagabond glides in and comes to a halt next to the New Zealander's larger boat. A quick mooring rope tossed over, and they'll stay more or less in the same place, too. "We've got wine," Ravn calls back. "As for sinking, well -- I make no promises for the crazy pirate queen I'm ferrying around but if we do sink? It's a very short swim to Damon Point at least."

Cold, though. At least the local harbour seals don't bother -- because the local harbour seals aren't really seals, but none of the people present are their chosen prey.

"Shake it up, bombs away," Jules agrees. "We'll fight back. I am not in the mood for swimming today, thank you very much." Cue a wry look at Ravn. "I plan on staying dry, and I ain't got a wetsuit." She punctuates this point with a second sip of her just-opened beer. "I've never been sailing before," Jules declares, "so don't wreck it for me now."

She leaves the mooring for Mikaere to handle; his boat and all.

Ariadne's laughter chimes from the front of the boat. Now that the two boats share a mooring line, she rotates about to sit with her legs dangling over the side of the bow. Thank god for the railing she can lean on.

"Nah, let's not decorate the boats with frothy alcohol. They've already been sent off with a bottle of champagne cracked on the hulls, I'm sure." Probably not, but the imagery is amusing by the barista's grin. "I am out to plunder Damon Point though, it's true, along with my trusty first mate here. I've heard there's buried treasure out there if you can get past the seals."

Because those seals really aren't seals and maybe she can get away with making mild fun of them. Maybe.

Mikaere's on hand to deal with the mooring rope, and to offer Ravn a grin in reply, too: they're tethered, then. Caught. So be it.

"I vote we leave the seals alone," he says, coming back to the conversation with as much interest as he comes back to his beer, earlier awkwardness abandoned in lieu of conversation and easy company. "I feel bad for them. They need to eat, same as we do. Think there's really much worth plundering out here, though?" His chin indicates Damon Point, and the rest of the outcropping. "I'll grant you it's a better bet than, uh, Rennie Island? Is that what it's called?"

"Hunters go out on Rennie for sea birds -- I'm guessing ducks and geese?" Ravn shrugs; he's no hunter. "Place used to be used as a dump for waste from the paper mill though, so I'd wear a damn solid pair of boots."

He glances in at the Point. "There might be some very nice -- patches of hawthorn -- in case we decide to start making our own moonshine -- okay, no, honestly, nothing worth taking in there. Maybe seabird eggs but, I can't much say I care to disturb any colonies."

A glance towards Ocean Shores, the gated, well-to-do by-the-beach community. "Not sure any nests last long here anyhow. I mean, there's got to be a lot of people walking dogs here, and probably letting them run free."

Jules admittedly knows very little about this particular geography and its treasures, be it fauna or something shinier. She's out of her usual stomping grounds. "If you're gonna plunder anything, plunder Ocean Shores," she opines, moving to sit on the prow similar to how Ariadne is just across the way. No bare feet on deck right now; she's wearing sturdy hiking sandals, the kind that velcro on to stay secure and have a good sole for traction. "Aim for one of the big houses where they've got more money than God."

A fingergun for Mikaere. "I'll agree with leaving them alone, at least." And won't she. The marine biologist remembers too well the last time she'd crossed paths with the 'seals'. Feeding them is another thing entirely, but that's far too dark of a conversation for a day like this; Ariadne leaves it be because Rennie Island and Ocean Shores are far better topics.

"I guess people could go hunting for geese that glow in the dark, though why we'd want geese with radioactive waste superpowers inflicted on the world is beyond me. Mean motherfuckers. Ocean Shores is a better target though, Jules is correct. There's enough money out there to make a lot of folks happy." The glance she throws in Ravn's direction is entirely cheeky. "If you ever get bored..." singsongs the barista. "Kidding." A beat. "...I mean, like, ninety-nine percent kidding."

Save for that one percent devil-on-her-shoulder. "Are you guys mooring here for the day then or are you heading out father towards the ocean?" Ariadne returns her attention to the other boat's occupants.

Mikaere casts a glance over his shoulder at the town of Ocean Shores, as if to appraise its readiness for attack by sea. Alas, there are no cannons aboard Wā Kāinga; an attack by sea is probably not is not forthcoming.

"We haven't made any decisions past lunch," he adds, turning his attention back to more immediate matters (and questions), and setting himself into a comfortable position within easy reach of Jules, beer in hand. "Though, even a light beer means I need to be a little more cautious, you know? Unless we stay out here for the night and head home in the morning. What about you?"

"We'll head back before night due to various people with four feet each who need their dinner." Ravn chuckles. "I did bring a bottle of wine but I don't intend to get drunk, no. Even in waters as calm as these, it'd suck to run aground on some sand bar because I wasn't paying attention. I'll gladly share a glass because if I drink half a bottle, I won't be a safe pilot."

He glances out at Ocean Shores. "There really is something about that place that says 'put on your pirate hat', isn't there? Some day I want to drive Dita out there and just watch the show."

“As in, watch her go on the prowl and see what loot she surfaces with?” Jules hazards the guess while arranging her legs out in front of her instead of slung over the side Ariadne-style. “I don’t know her well, but I suspect she could make a killing if she put her mind to it. That or throw a killer party.”

She takes a sip from her beer, and then, well. They’ve been caught anyways, and there isn’t really anything to hide, so Jules scoots her butt back until she can lean against Mikaere and use him as a backrest. She just assumes he’ll oblige. “Speaking of parties, I hear you both plan on going to that masked ball.”

Four feet? Must be Samwise the sighthound putting a limit on today's attempted piracy. Ariadne shrugs good-naturedly in agreement to the information Ravn shares. "As long as I either come with or there's video, Dita definitely needs to be let loose upon that place," she agrees with a laugh.

Jules manages to make the barista glance in amusement over at Ravn. Oops? Or maybe it's no surprise the social redhead got to chitchatting with their friend. "Goodness me, you've heard correctly." Dangling her feet, the sound of Ariadne's sneakers very lightly bumping heels off the hull here and there can be heard. "You might be able to spot us. I mean, I'll be totally mysterious. Impossible to pick out. My hair's going to blend in perfectly." With her crooked grin, the young woman makes total mockery of the idea of blending in to be anonymous. It's just not happening with the hair. "I believe we've got costumes mostly pinned down too. Which means, of course, I have to ask if we'll see you two there as well?"

"Both," suggests Mikaere, with an easy smile. "Killer party, and the next day, there's a few things missing." He doesn't know Dita much-- if at all-- better than Jules, but it's an easy thread to follow: an easy suggestion to put in to the mix. "That place could almost definitely stand to lose a few bits and pieces. Few millions, even. Obscene, really."

Jules scoots back, and sure, the Kiwi is obliging enough: such a difficult life, having warm brunettes make themselves comfortable against a person. Woe, etc. "I was convinced," he tells Ariadne, "that it's every girl's dream to be invited to a party like that-- so yes, we'll be there. Apparently my secret self is... what was it, Jules? Māori underground freedom fighter. In a penguin suit, naturally."

"I'm pretty certain my secret self is the Invisible Man," Ravn murmurs, amused. "But I'll go -- and I will let Ariadne have a party with costuming because I have no idea what to wear, or where to get it. If she leaves it up to me, I'll just wear a Zorro mask, nod politely a few times, and escape."

He glances back towards Ocean Shoes. "Would it really surprise anyone if Dita already has the first five millionaires out there eating out of her hand? That said -- I doubt everybody there is an asshole. Just, maybe like the idle rich anywhere, nine out of ten."

“Right, because you’d be too obvious if you went in traditional dress or guerrilla camouflage, and you have to blend in if you’re going to take down the man from the inside,” Jules fills in oh so seriously, tipping her head back enough to look back at Mikaere. “I don’t know about every girl’s dream, though. Do you even know me? I’m only going because of my bad life choices, remember?” She caps off her teasing with a grin before addressing the pair on the other boat.

“So camouflage for you, Invisible Man,” Jules judges. “Although hiding behind Ariadne and letting her garner all the attention probably serves the same purpose. What’s your secret self, Ari?”

"I'm definitely asking Dita the next time I talk with her." Since Ravn's supposition is worth haring after if only to either see A: the admission that yes, the first five millionaires are perched and awaiting Dita's every beck and whim or B: watch the idea blossom behind the fashionista's eyes because Ariadne does consider herself an unofficial enabler.

She still can't help continue grinning across the short distance of water at the other two Gray Harborites. "If the tux is blue, I might have to gently tease you about how you're too tall to be a Fairy Blue," she notes to Mikaere in particular. "And if I told you, Jules, it wouldn't be a secret, right?" Dimples show now. "But hey, you asked. No Zorro mask for Ravn, even if he would be dashing in one. I can't decide if it's Self-Rescuing Swan Princess or Harpy Queen of the Sea for me, but either way, it's a lot of feathers and a short sword." Surprise, Ravn, who knows where she managed to get that prop. "Either way, you'll see my hair, so you'll know it's me. Ravn will be of a complimentary bent of costume, so feathers. Somehow. I'm still ironing out the fine details. What about you?" An eyebrow at Jules, since Mikaere's in his penguin suit opposing The Man.

"Maybe there's someone worth cultivating in there, then," muses Mikaere, who is-- let's be honest-- slightly more interested in the wealthy denizens of the wealthy town than in dresses and costumes. "Or a few, even."

Not that he can't lean in to press a kiss to Jules' hair, mind you, and to add, "Yes, we're making up for your misspent youth; I remember. No the tux is not blue-- this is not the 1980s and my parents' wedding, thank you very much. Nice, normal black tux, just like all the other nice normal black tuxes, because I'm not especially creative, and this is what the rental place had."

He sips at his beer, then sets the can down upon the deck alongside him, adding, "I'm sure you'll look great, Ariadne. And Ravn, in whatever feathered finery you get."

"I'm sure I'll somehow manage to blend in with the wall paper. I consider it an art form." Ravn makes a face -- teasingly, though, because if he really hated the idea enough to want out, it's not like Ariadne could (or would) make him.

He hitches a shoulder slightly. "Not everyone in Gray Harbor with money is an ass. Just, well, most of them."

“Tell half the people there one thing, tell the other half the other, and be both,” Jules advises Ariadne. “Who says you have to pick?” As for her own costume— “TBD. Slash it’s a secret. Slash I’m secretly panicking because I have no idea. You’ll just have to find out.” She hoists her beer in a toast across the way.

And then she twists again to look back at Mikaere again, because apparently she’s more interested in costumes than wealth she can never attain. “Did you hear that? They have matching costumes. Do we need to do that now?” Oh Lord, first there’s a casual kiss, then there’s talk of matching—this threatens to become disgustingly cute.

"Aw, thank you kindly, Mikaere. You and Jules will look equally wonderful, I'm very certain," the barista returns with an honest smile. "Nothing wrong with a black tux at all. Sweet, simple, svelte. Boom."

Another glance down the boat at Ravn and the smile quirks into something more cheeky and fond. "I think I can figure out a halfway point there, emberem, where you're sporting feathers and yet can still blend in. I bet I can." It's half a promise anyways. "And I'll be both just to screw with people. Thank you, Jules, good point," she then laughs, hazel eyes twinkling at the other woman. "I'm good for finding out too. You could have matching costumes, it's true." Sorry, Mikaere, it's a redheaded enabler sitting on the boat prow across the way. "We can all match then and hang out and avoid the 'most of them' Ravn's mentioning."

Since a few of them aren't assholes, after all.

Mikaere's comment is mild: "Not everyone with money anywhere is an ass, that's certainly true."

Jules' glance back at him earns a pause, though, and an expression that is the tiniest bit 'well, shit' and perhaps a tiny bit mutinous, too, though that fades promptly enough. "Uh," he says. "Well, if you want to. Tell me to wear something, and I'll do my best to oblige."

No fair, Ariadne: this is all your fault, and don't think Mikaere is going to entirely forget it, for all that he's now managing a (slightly rueful) smile. "Whether we match or not, I'm sure it'll be a great night. Is there a nice balcony somewhere we can escape to? With luck, it'll even be a nice night."

"I'm sure there is a nice balcony under the stars, and I'll fight you for it." Ravn laughs softly. "Honestly, it'll be fun. No one is going to make us the big stars of the show. There'll be plenty people fighting for the spotlight that avoiding it will be a piece of cake. And a substantial number of that lot --" he nods towards Ocean Shores "-- will be turning up to see and get seen, and show these country rubes what culture looks like."

Beat. "At which point I hope Dita drops laxatives in the champagne. Or I might."

“Kidding, kidding,” Jules quickly proclaims. No mutiny required; just another tease. “As tempting as it is to think up something truly horrendous, I wouldn’t do that to you. Hell, I wouldn’t do that to myself. Also, far be it from me to discourage your dreams of freedom-fighting.”

“I don’t know about balconies,” she says next. “I would’ve scoped it out with Della when making her take me to Sitka, but—“ There’s something about that sentence that Jules doesn’t want to finish. Her expression clouds, and she sticks to a shrug. Easier to latch onto a lighter subject. “Just tell me before you roofie the champagne, okay?”

"Maybe there's even more than one balcony and we can watch the chaos start to spread like a roomful of snapping mouse traps while we sip our champagne and laugh like the Fates," Ariadne muses in light humor for the group as a whole. She can't help the chiming laughter as is. Poor Mikaere -- she caught that look from the man earlier and is equally pleased to see peace being made. "We'll definitely warn before the champagne gets a few eye drops thrown in for good measure."

She lifts a finger off of her bicep, where her hand's been resting in her lean on the prow's railing. "What I want to know is whether or not they're going to go all modern with the music or we're going to hear some baroque for the hell of it, given it's a masquerade kind of deal. I mean, you can waltz to some of the more popular songs, it just takes some imagination, you know? Oh, and a tango." Cue more chuckling. "I cannot wait to see what goes down if they play a song possible to tango to. It'll be great. I can't tango to save my life, but anyone want to take me up on a bet that there will be a rose in teeth somewhere on the floor? Cup of coffee, on me -- that's what I wager." It's a wager for anyone to pick up with how the barista offers it up.

Jules' reassurance makes Mikaere grin, though there's no small amount of relief there: there's putting on a suit (and looking good doing it) and then there's putting on a costume, and the two are remarkably different, even when there's a similarity in the attire involved.

"Laxatives in the champagne; I like your thinking. Mind you, my ma tells a story about a chocolate laxative cake from her university days, fed to the boys' dorm the day before everyone went home for the summer, and I never could decide if it was a 'remembering fondly the hijinx of youth' kind of story or a 'don't do this, we were stupid children' kind. A bit of both, maybe?"

His beer gets reclaimed, though before he takes a sip he has to note, "I hope someone takes you up on that wager. Not me-- the best I can do is a stumbling waltz, I'm afraid."

"Memo to me, buy a rose." Ravn pretends to write on an invisible note pad. "I think we've established that I will make pigs fly to get a cup of proper coffee at the shop. Sticking a rose in my teeth will be easier."

There's always one, indeed. Maybe two.

“Oh, there’s fancy person dancing at this? I was under the impression that dancing with another person just involves standing in place and swaying.”

Mikaere might be able to feel how Jules is not quite so easy and relaxed now, given how she’s leaning against him. A slight tension in her frame. Her tone’s light enough though, especially when adding, “Or the X-rated version of the stand-in-place and sway.”

Ravn gets a fond smirk. "Alright, alright, you can have your cup of coffee, I'm not even going to keep that wager alive if you're going to buy a rose."

She then looks back across the way at the other two. "And hopefully, there's no need for laxatives because your ma's right. Eye drops are no joke. I've seen what happens. College." It only needs the one-word explanation to back up Mikaere's shared tale of university olden days. "I bet there's going to be the standard music though. If there's any classical music, I'll be surprised. It's a casino, they'll be catering to the average listener's habits and I doubt a ton of us there turn on the classical radio station when we get home from work. It'll be more good ol' bump and grind."

The barista even hums a tune to herself; I don't see nothin' wrong...with a little bump and grind~

Mikaere's free hand, the one not holding on to his beer, sneaks around Jules, not quite holding her tight but certainly adding an additional element of physical contact. "I'm pretty sure you're right," he agrees, confirming Ariadne's words with a sharp nod of his own. "This whole thing... it'll mostly just be a big party. Some people will be ridiculously over-dressed, and some people will be much more comfortable, and in the end, the point of it is to have a good time, raise some money for a good cause."

Beat, and then a little lower, aimed for Jules' ear but possibly a little too loud to be only caught by her, "And the X-rated version of that? Fine by me."

Ravn rummages in a coat pocket for a cigarette; outdoors has some advantages. He lights it with his battered old coat-of-arms zippo. "If it's like any other of these affairs, there'll be two gatherings. One for the people who fancy themselves a tad above the rest -- they're the ones writing big cheques, and there'll probably be ball room dancing and some fancy speeches. And there'll be a larger ball room for the rest of us -- and a couple of fancy dances at first, and then they break out the modern music because most of Gray Harbor that bought tickets aren't actually ball room dancers, and they're there to have fun."

Well that has Jules snatching a sidelong look at while a little bit of a sly smile slides into place. “Noted,” she replies, pitched equally quiet. Louder, more comfortably, she agrees with the prevailing opinion: “It’ll be fun. Especially if you live up to that dare, Ravn, and prance around with a rose between your teeth.”

Ravn fidgeting out a cigarette has the barista glancing down the boat. She has no comment there; allergic to cigarette smoke, she's glad she's farther up the boat and out of the way of the wind blowing anything her way. A tight throat and lungs isn't worth it.

However. However. Her glance back at the two on the other boat is firstly eyes followed by a turn of head. Watch her smile to herself. "I mean, you never know. They might play 'Truffle Butter' since it's such an upscale affair and then a rose in the teeth is still appropriate regardless. Maybe they'll censor it for the delicate ears," she muses before outright cackling.

"I definitely want to see the rose," Mikaere agrees, idly tracing his fingertips over Jules' hip.

Maybe that means he misses Ariadne's smile, and if not, he's too content to comment on it: so be it. "The speeches are always worth missing," he opines. "And the fancy dancing... eh. I hope, if they do dare to censor such a high class piece of music, the audience will step in to de-censor it in turn. That's the way these things work, right? Can't let censorship stand."

"As long as no one makes me have to give a speech," Ravn murmurs. "I miss de Santos. He was always good at the whole giving a pep talk thing -- and the Revisionist kind of turned him into our local Mr Rogers and he couldn't open his mouth without everybody wanting to make up and get along. There's a reason he got the job of representing HOPE and not me."

Jules can’t help but laugh too, mirth making her break into a wide grin to go with Ariadne’s cackles. And with that, the last of her self-conscious awkwardness about fancy people things dissipates.

“I mean, it’s basically part of your job description to rally the troops against censorship, Freedom Fighter Man,” she tells Mikaere. Jules has recovered enough — or aware enough of how there’s been subtle efforts to ease her towards that recovery — to actually twist with every intention of kissing him right then and there. The other two have already seen that action anyway; this is just the close-up.

Also Jules has had a beer.

That Jules joins in doesn't aid Ariadne in ceasing the cackling. It goes on for a few seconds more before she sighs.

"I'm down with Mikaere being the anti-censor leader. Snake hips, buddy, snake hips." And the barista has not been drinking, good lord.

Ravn gets another glance down the boat, which might spare Mikaere and Jules half of an audience should their lips actually connect in passing. "I don't think anyone's going to make you speech either, so you'll be safe. Now, if you're going to pull the rose stunt, you're probably going to draw attention, but it'll be good attention. Maybe flirtatious attention. I dunno, I can't read people's minds, I can only think loudly at them."

"Freedom Fighter Man, eh," says Mikaere, a little smugly. "And anti-censor leader. Snake hips it is."

Also kissing. Sure-- he's not shy. It's not as dramatic as it could be, given there's an audience, and a conversation, and that would just be rude, but that doesn't mean lips don't lock.

When he draws back again, it's to very briefly nudge his nose against hers, a somewhat abbreviated representation of the traditional Māori hongi greeting, and then to turn his attention idly back to the other boat's crew. "If you pull the rose stunt, there's no doubt people are going to watch," he confirms. "But good attention, yeah. I'd bet on it."

"I'll probably get cold feet." Ravn hitches a shoulder; might as well be realistic about it. "And flirtatious attention is the last damned thing I want. Not because I'm worried Ariadne's going to think I'm grazing in more than one field. But because my dead fiancee has shown up more than once to try to scratch somebody's eyes out, and I really think that's a downer ending to a party, taking someone to the ER while trying to explain who that blond woman was."

Now, Jules most likely doesn’t have the faintest clue about either the tradition or its meaning, but the intimacy of that kind of nose-nudge (even when it’s quick) can’t help but make her smile. Then she’s paying attention to the others too like someone who can hold a conversation. “Is that a risk?” Jules asks, smile replaced by a more wide-eyed look of concern. It’s the first she”s heard tell of certain dead and possessive fiancées.

"Cold feet is fine and nobody's worried about grazing in another field."

Ariadne's smile has disappeared but for some mild quirks at the corner. She gives Ravn another glance down the boat. This isn't her story to tell. She'll still remind him in her lightly-spoken way that the rose isn't an obligation in the least, given his preference for being 'just one of the guys' rather than up-front and center.

Mikaere opens his mouth, ready to launch into something, but let's be honest: Ravn's ex-fiancee is kind of a mood dampener.

"I mean, okay, yes. That's fair. We'd better avoid that, though... by the sounds of it, there'll be a decent number of us there to step in if anything were to happen, which is not... reason to want it to, or anything. So you're off the hook, unless you decide you want to be on it, in which case... I tip my glass to you."

Or his beer. Whichever.

"It's happened. She seems to have decided to not try to fuck with Ariadne, probably on threat of Rosencrantz ripping her apart a second time. But it'll be a while before I feel comfortable with the idea of some random woman flirting in my direction." Ravn makes a face. "I don't like to talk about it, sorry. It's happened. It's ended in the ER a few times."

He shoots a grateful nod to Mikaere. "It'll be fine. There's plenty people who want to hog the attention, by all means let them have it. And make sure to snake hips that dance floor so hard that you make Rosencrantz swallow his cigar. If you can do that, I'm buying the next bottle of champagne for you two."

“Oh.” Jules keeps any follow-up questions to herself, respecting Ravn’s privacy in the matter. She’s curious, certainly, shooting a look at Ariadne, but in the end discretion wins out.

Also snake hips. “A good bottle of champagne,” she tells Ravn before informing Mikaere, “You hear that? It’s on.” Her competitive streak just activated.

"Hell, it's on and if Ravn won't buy the bottle of champagne, I will." This is far too amusing to the barista across the way, who's just shy of cackling yet again. "Forget a cup of coffee. Who's got the best snake hips, per audience vote -- and you know I'm going to get a panels of judges, you know I will -- will be the winner of this bottle."

Now Ariadne can't help but laugh, putting a hand briefly over her mouth as it overtakes her. "God, Itzhak choking on a cigar. I'm sorry, it's the visual. He apparently deep-throated a fucking cookie, so this is just -- " She breaks into a ridiculous high pitch of giggling now and lets her face drop onto her folded arms.

Mikaere might demur, but Jules' competitive streak is not to be ignored; that's when he starts to laugh, helped on in no small part by Ariadne's embrace of the challenge.

"Fine, fine," he says, his free hand lifted from Jules' hip to gesticulate for emphasis. "We'll give this a good damn go, ay? See what comes up."

Beat. He's grinning, by now. "Swallowing a cigar, mind; that's a bit of challenge. But-- it's worth a go. I'm not sure I'd have the balls to deep-throat a cookie, so."

Yeah, not even a little bit.

"Of course he deep throated a cookie, the cookie was shaped like a dick. Don't give Rosencrantz an opportunity to shock like that, and then expect him to not act on it." Ravn grins slightly. His friend is definitely the flamboyant one in that constellation.

Then he chuckles and looks at Mikaere before murmuring, "I didn't even eat one the normal way. I'm a wuss."

“One of Una’s dick cookies? I mean geoduck cookies, whatever. Where am I when all the good stuff happens?” Jules laments. Except really, that line of questioning has a clear answer, at least in the case of the afternoon in question. Jules presses her lips together like she’s biting back a bigger smile, though it’s really not long before she gives up and grind outright.

“Wait, who said anything about we?” She fires back to Mikaere. “I’m nominating myself as one of the judges. I promise to remain unbiased. So those snake hips better be good.”

Ariadne emerges from her chortle-fest long enough to wipe under a lash-line and comment, "I savored the hell out of my dick cookie in no terrible hurry, I'm just sayin'."

But then Jules goes and all but yanks a proverbial rug out to spotlight Mikaere and she starts laughing again, this time able to keep a hand over her mouth rather than lose the integrity of her neck bones. "But who's going to win the bottle of champagne if it's just Mikaere out there? He's got no one to compete against!" She won't nominate Ravn, not even in tease, because he'll be an amazing judge anyhow.

Dick cookies. Okay, geoduck cookies. This is new to Mikaere, and the look on his face? It's pure comedy. For that matter? "Una, your housemate Una, made dick cookies?" Don't answer that. It's not as if he's met Una, and has no real opinion on her.

Much more important is addressing the rest of it. "Oh, I see how it is. I have to do all the work, but you're absolutely going to drink my champagne if I-- when I-- win. Especially if there's no one to compete against... Winner by default is fine, but it's also not much fun. You'd better come up with some more contestants for me, just no one who is going to steal my champagne from me, ay?"

"Well, if Rosencrantz goes, you'll have at least one competitor. And I have a feeling we can easily convince a few others to give it a shot -- no one says it's a gents only competition." Ravn grins slightly and draws on his cigarette. "I'll find a good bottle from my usual wine pusher. He knows I'm a snob so it'll be decent -- and I'll ask for something not dry because honestly, dry champagne may be all kinds of fancy but it still turns your mouth inside out and makes your tongue grow fur."

“You have a wine man? That’s fancy. I was just thinking, look away from the Korbel on the bottom shelf. Not even get-in-the-glass-case at the grocery store good, just raise your sights to eye level good.” And that is how much Jules knows about bubbles.

“I was going to suggest cookie deep throat man, too. I don’t know him, but that doesn’t stop me from volunteering him.” She twists to grin at Mikaere again. “Geoduck cookies,” she corrects, because these things are important.

"I would probably pay to see Itzhak in a snake hips contest because he'd give it his all and it'd be amazing. Just saying." A lift of hand off of her own bicep again from Ariadne while she grins like a fiend. A glance down the boat at Ravn and she then nods across the way towards the others. "Itzhak is the cookie deep throat man, Itzhak Rosencrantz. A good guy if you manage to corral him for more than a minute, he's always up to his elbows in something. Good things, insofar as I can tell."

Since Ariadne doesn't know about the other uses of the garage he runs. "But might I recommend something other than Korbel, yes. I'd trust Ravn on this one. It'll be worth it," the barista laughs. "Hell, I might even join. I dunno. I'd see what the ratio of participants to judges is."

"Geoduck cookies," agrees Mikaere, who probably still can't imagine these monstrosities properly, but-- fine. There were cookies; there were cookies being deep throated; a good time was possibly not had by all, but, you know, fine.

"Oooh, so I have some real competition, then. I'd better get practicing. Especially if it involves champagne-- sparkling wine, probably? unless we're actually going French; I don't know a lot about wine, but I do know that much-- via a wine man. I need to educate Jules' palette, clearly, and I don't know anything about the kind of wines you'd get here."

"I don't think we'll want to go with actual champagne. First off, most of it is actually horribly dry and the only reason people drink it is because they've been told that Champagne champagne is very fancy. Second, the ones that aren't terrible are very expensive, and I wouldn't want somebody to feel that the point of winning the prize isn't to give it a good shake and then accidentally foam cannon everyone around themselves." Ravn winks. "You know, speaking of dick cookies and all."

Yes, he can absolutely picture Rosencrantz opening a bottle of bubbles like it's -- yes.

“Oh do you.” The lift of Jules’ eyebrows goes with her arch tone. She makes sure Mikaere can see it. It doesn’t last; she breaks into laughter in response to the innuendo. “Sounds like it’s turning into a real contest,” she declares.

Jules gets to her feet with the suggestion, “Is it sandwich time?” It is open a second beer time for her, at least.

Potentially counted as 'real' competition, the redhead sitting comfortably on the prow smiles towards Mikaere. "You're too kind." It's now doubly tempting to forget judging and see about this snake hips business.

"Alright, show of hands for Ravn enabling a goddamn champagne foam cannon with a sacrificial bottle because who's really going to wear their costume again to any other event sometime soon in the year before a nice dry cleaning can happen?"

Oh, look, Ariadne with both hands in the air. Field goal is good? Idea is, at least.

"Also could be sandwich time." Another look down the boat at Ravn. "Can I be Kitty Pryde and remain up here and look all vastly dignified and arrogant and assume you'll feed me?" she asks of the Dane with a heavy undertone of amusement.

Too kind? Sure. Look at that innocent face. Champagne cannon is a go, though; Mikaere's got a snort of laughter that has nothing to do with Itzhak and everything to do with the idea in general, and Ariadne's suggestion gets a raised hand in turn: hell yes.

"I do," he adds to Jules, all smugness and mirth and raised eyebrows that make it very difficult to take anything seriously. "And I want a sandwich too, since you're up?" But, alas, no beer.

"Does Her Ladyship require a chicken and bacon sandwich or would Her Highness prefer the tin of tuna that usually is served for that particular seat?" Ravn disappears under deck for a moment -- and given he does not wait for the actual answer, Ariadne is probably not about to be served a plate of tuna kitty kibble.

He emerges a moment later, holding two wrapped sandwiches. Keeping the other for himself the Dane plonks himself back down in the aft and gestures towards the sun. "This is the life, man. People ask me why I live on a boat. This is why."

Raised hand from Jules, while we're at it, as she makes her way to the cooler (or whatever Mikaere calls it). "Wait, why didn't I think of that?" she wants to know, now that she's already up. "You could be doing the fetching." Too late now. Two sandwiches extracted, and a beer for her, and another question for Mikaere. "Anything to drink?" While she waits for the answer, she passes over one of those sandwiches.

Answer floats melodiously in Ravn's direction while he's scrounging up sandwiches in the kitchen area: "Chicken and bacon, please." As such, sandwich acquired. Ariadne is surprisingly delicate and precise about how she unwraps it, making sure the plastic can catch any and all crumbs to spare her own clothing. Maybe there are some fingerlings hiding in the shadows of the boats now who would appreciate the pieces of sandwich, but old habits die hard.

"It is delightful." She's not going to argue with the Dane's statement, slung as she is along the prow railing and quite comfortable as is. "I did mention a short sword earlier as part of my costume design. Maybe I can see about using it like a saber to open the bottle of champagne. Ravn, better make that two bottles of sacrificial champagne, there's science to try here."

That's a chilly bin, Jules. Duh. Just like you wear togs to swim in, and jandals are rubber sandals. Obviously.

"Too late," Mikaere says, following Jules with his eyes and grinning. "No, I'm good for a drink. Thanks." Sandwich in hand, he turns back towards the other boat and grins. He's far less dainty in how he opens his, though he does set down his mostly-finished beer in order to get it done, big hands making short work of the wrappings, and making the normal-sized sandwich look small when he picks up the first half of it.

"Too right there. A day like this? Why would you want to be anywhere else. Pretty much perfect conditions. See--" Ariadne gets a nod. "Now you're thinking. For science!"

"Could buy a crate of the cheapest trailer bubbles I can find, just for you to practise on." Ravn smirks. "In this country I am positive Walmart has an entire isle of horrifically pink sugar water with bubbles in, for when it's not on a budget as much as, all looks and no substance."

So Jules shuts the lid of the chilly bin (which, let's admit, is a great name) and moves to rejoin Mikaere, though she does not require his services as her lounge chair while she's eating.

"Hey, no knocking Walmart," she says primly. "Some of us like their pink bubbly sugar water." So yes, educating Jules' palate is definitely in order. "And yes. It is a gorgeous day to be out on the water. I definitely get the appeal."

"Okay, I'm not even going to ask for a vote on Ravn buying me a crate of the cheapest trailer bubbles to practice on. I'll just you all know how it goes." Which means Ariadne's got the short sword already somewhere in her apartment and who needs a baseball bat for self-defense when you can screech I AM NO MAN while bringing a short sword to bear?

Another bite of her sandwich disappears. "So...I don't want to jinx anything, but nobody's seen any of the local seals today, right?" The barista does wince like she knows this is a temporary shadow of a question on an otherwise sunny day, but given her own experiences with the sirens, she's starting up a habit of keeping track of them. Might stem from her interest in tracking the more normal large mammal predators of the region.

"Jules, no," is mostly just mock-horrified (let's face it, Mikaere does not especially seem like a wine snob, though clearly he's drunk a few bottles of good Kiwi plonk in his life), commented on around a bite of sandwich (at least he covers his mouth with his hand). "That stuff is good for practicing on-- an excellent plan, do report back-- but not for drinking." Not once you're of legal drinking age, at least, and in New Zealand? That's eighteen.

He glances out towards the water of the bay, the ocean beyond it, and shakes his head. "No seals. I know they don't tend to bother us, but I'm still relieved not to see any. They may need to eat, same as we do, but I'd rather... well." Well.

Ravn laughs softly. "Nothing wrong with wanting a pink, bubbly soda. Go get one. My issue's more with the idea of dying cheap booze pink and then upping the price because the suckers can't tell the difference. And honestly, alcopops -- if you want a soda, drink a soda. But to each their own."

He glances towards the gap out to the Pacific. "I don't see them often. I see regular seals but not those seals. I think they know that Vagabond isn't worth checking out -- I never have prey on board. No women, no shine -- how many people do I know who meet both those categories, and how many of them do I take out on my boat?" He shakes his head. "They just got to eat, yes. But I stand in complete sympathy with every prey animal ever when I say, they're not going to be eating me."

"Jules, yes!" mimics the woman in question, grinning all the while. "My grandma loves her wine coolers in the summer," she warns Ravn next. "Don't you dare bash them in front of her, or you will feel the pain." Jules, meanwhile, is perfectly content to crack open her can of beer.

"I've yet to see one of these seals," she notes, "and I have to admit, I am a teensy bit curious."

"How to put this, Jules." Ariadne thinks a second and then, plainly continues, "You'll know them when you see them. Ravn's got it right. They're out for the non-shinies and they have a preference for meat. We're all safe here, I'm pretty sure, because we're not palatable. But Mikaere and I, we've seen them in action before." The Kiwi gets a sympathetic look before the young woman shakes her head. "Unfortunately, they're not swayed by any kind of bubbly drink."

More of her sandwich disappears, but at a slower and more thoughtful rate now. It's obvious how the marine biologist is musing over the curse of something so horrifyingly normal in the scheme of nature itself.

Mikaere acknowledges Ariadne's explanation with a solemn nod of his own. "She's right," he says. "And if it hadn't been for us... people would've died. Which is-- not a particularly comforting though, ay? I've... not quite communicated with them, but as close as you get. Makes it hard to figure out where to stand. Like Ravn said, I guess: I respect their need to eat, but not me, and not people around me either, thanks very much. Not if I can help it."

The last bite of Mikaere's sandwich-- one that is pretty much just bread-- gets eaten, then, the wrapping rolled up tidily with one hand and tucked into the pocket of his shorts. "I imagine you'll get your chance, even so. They'll be back."

"When you say wine cooler I think something like rosé wine mixed with sparkling water and chilled," Ravn muses. "Like the Italians do -- table wine is half wine, half water, so you get the taste without getting drunk in no time. I am talking about those sugar sodas full of vodka -- the ones that taste like you're drinking a fountain drink at McDonald's but get you drunk in no time. Always seemed like they were marketed at kids who can't stomach the taste of alcohol but who do want to get blotto."

He lingers a moment and looks at the water again. "Denny tells me they don't target women if they can avoid it. And they're supposed to leave us shiny people alone. He won't say who's doing the supposing."

"Mm. These are sweeter. Not like what you're thinking of." Jules lets the subject of her grandmother's summer beverage of choice rest and applies herself to her sandwich while listening to the others describe these so-called seals.

"Let me rephrase -- I'd like to see them, but not when they're out hunting. In any case, I know better than to lead kayaks out into the bay. I'll stick to the rivers."

"Sounds like the stuff I used to drink on and off in college. Blotto," the barista then echoes, smirking despite herself. Great word. She picks off a chunk of bread in order to flick it into the water below. It gets soggy and then proceeds to start sinking down. Ariadne watches it drop with the idle curiosity of what's going to swirl up and take it and perhaps linger for more. It is starch and probably quite attractive in the end to any sort of wandering opportunist.

She momentarily considers if some non-shinies are more like French fries than chicken cutlets -- and banishes that thought forthwith.

"Rivers would definitely be better, Jules, truly." Her eyes flicker to Mikaere and back to the other woman as if she's certain he'll agree.

"'Please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you're used to'," quote-says Mikaere, which is arguably impressive since that song came out when he was, in fact, only about seven and probably not especially into that kind of music. "By which I mean: yes, please. I think the last thing anyone wants is to accidentally lead people into something like that."

"I'd love to know," he adds, to Ravn, "where he gets that information from, yeah. I mean, the women thing stands up of course. But us? Who says that, and why? Aside, I guess, from the-- uh, Veil?-- that thing wanting to torture us in more complicated ways. Maybe knowing that they're there and seeing them go after other people is half the torture, who knows."

"Maybe when we've been around town for sixty years like him, he'll think we can be trusted with whoever or whatever his inside source is." Ravn offers a half-smile -- and then finds himself humming, Don't go chasing waterfalls.

He glances back at the bay. "I'd imagine the bay is not bad for kayaking, actually -- but you need a kayak built for the ocean. They're different, I think? I never got into kayaking myself but I know there's such a term as an 'ocean kayak' in Danish, and given Greenland kind of taught us how that stuff works, I figure there's a reason they add the 'ocean' bit."

"Maybe we just don't taste good." Jules finishes off her own sandwich and balls up the wrapping.

"I don't know about 'used to,' but I plan to pretty much stick to the Hoquiam and Copalis. Chehalis for more experienced people who can deal with the choppiness. Honestly, I'm looking forward to exploring more around here. Have you guys been to the Ghost Forest on the Copalis?" And then Ravn asks a question. And oh, Jules is very happy to answer it. "River kayaks are shorter, and they'll be tippier, which is actually better for rougher water, like if you want to do whitewater stuff. Sea kayaks have rudders or skegs, and they're more stable. Different dimensions. In any case, the tours are pretty much just going to use standard beginner stuff -- did I tell you I got a job at one of the outfitters here, so I don't have to drive up to the lake?" She looks between Mikaere and the other two on Ravn's boat, bright and expectant.

"The things I learn..." It's a murmur to herself as to Denny's history as well as the information about the types of kayaks and their locales of use. Ariadne does file all of this information away as she finishes her own sandwich. Plastic is crinkled up and temporarily pocketed; no hurting the environment. When she glances down at the dropped piece of bread, it's gone. Damnit -- she'd missed what plucked it up. She also misses the song reference, alas. Another day!

Though Jules has snared her curiosity well and good: "I haven't been to the Ghost Forest, what's this then?" Something the Seattle-raised local doesn't know? A rarity and she likes it.

"Hey, that's great!" enthuses Mikaere. "I'm not sure I've ever been kayaking. Plenty of other boats-- lots of canoes of differing types-- but never a kayak. You'd better take me, sometime this summer. Ghost Forest? Looks like you'd better tell us all some more."

Whatever it is that Denny knows, whoever his source is, this will have to wait.

Ravn cants his head. "I'd been meaning -- well, we'd been meaning to ask, actually. Seems like a good occasion. Miss tourist guide, can you spare a few ideas for beautiful places to go in the woods, that aren't overrun by tourists? They don't have to be special -- just, well, beautiful and quiet."

And so Jules settles into storyteller mode, sitting cross-legged with her back straight as she happily regales her audience. "There was an earthquake in the 1700s with the epicenter right off the coast here. I think the land dropped something like six feet. The native people have all kinds of stories about it. Nowadays, scientists figured out it caused this massive tsunami in Japan. Anyway, it drowned this stretch of forest on the Copalis, and voila, ghost forest. Kayaking is great -- just say the word, and we'll head out." The offer, made in response to Mikaere, is broad enough to incorporate the others.

Ravn's question is just another opportunity for her to dive into her favorite subject. "Oh my goodness, yes. How far do you want to go? Like, are you thinking the Park? It's huge, and there's hiking at all different levels. I'm guessing an easy hike given the asthma?" Of which Jules now knows all too well. "In any case, nothing is honestly too touristy, because you really have to want to get out to the Olympics, versus, say, a day trip to Mount Rainier. Ocean Shores is about as touristy as it gets."

Look at Ariadne all but twinkle with curiosity now. "Wait-wait-wait. Like, there's a standing forest underwater? The trees are still upright? Or it's all a spread of logs on the bottom and it's obvious the forest was there at one point?" she asks of the location off of the Copalis.

She also doesn't look at Ravn after his question. Rather, she lifts her brows in accordance with it. Indeed, Jules, where are these nice quiet places to hike in the woods?

Ravn shoots Ariadne a look as if the man is wondering what he just said; he knows that expression. "I think I've seen pictures of that -- one of those 'amazing places' lists? It'd be worth seeing."

Then he nods at Jules. "The asthma is an issue. I can walk a good distance but if I have to carry a pack and tent that distance grows significantly shorter. So somewhere that's accessible on a motorcycle, or has enough facilities that I don't need to pack for a week in the field. That said, I can do a few handy tricks with packing stuff now, that does help."

"Hey, that sounds amazing," says Mikaere, approvingly and with apparently unfeigned interest. "I'd definitely be up for that. Not sure I've ever seen anything like that." He, too, seems more than happy to include the other two, gesturing in a way that is broadly inclusive.

There's something warm in his expression as he watches Jules, in her element sharing her local knowledge. Clearly, it seems to make him happy.

Jules tosses a look at Ariadne -- does she hear what Jules hears? She's trying to keep a straight face, but admittedly, that smile is edging towards a smirk.

Explanations and suggestions help her simmer down. "The forest isn't underwater anymore. More like a half-mile of dead trees right at the river's edge. Kind of like St. Helens, except still upright." Ariadne will get the reference. "As far as hiking goes, there's some nice day hike loops by Lake Quinault, if you don't want to camp overnight. And the lodge at the lake is really nice. If you've never been to the rainforest, the one people usually go for is the Hoh, but the Quinault rainforest will be quieter and it's just as pretty. Also off the Lake Quinault trailheads, and you can park your motorcycle there. You can also do hikes along the coast, which are all pretty flat and gentle. Kalaloch is lovely," pronounced CLAY-lock, "and I really like the Ozette Loop. It's an easy in-and-out, start off in the forest, then camp one night on the beach. Don't plan for much sleep though." Now she's absolutely smirking, although her follow-up is perfectly G-rated. "The sea lions get super loud at night. There's a similar hike up farther north, into the Makah res, the Shi Shi Beach trailhead, which'll take you to the Point of the Arches -- a mile of seastacks. So basically, pick your poison."

She's in her element indeed.

Look at how absolutely innocent Ariadne's expression is. It's honest curiousity, cross her heart, Girl Scout's honor, as to these quiet places. She can't look at Ravn anyhow, not after she's caught his look in peripheral. She'll bust out laughing. Not blushing. We're not blushing. We're listening to Jules and this is important information.

Besides, Mikaere's doing that little smile and it's adorable. More to razz Jules about later, the barista decides as she can't help a little grin of her own.

"Those sea lions." Such an innocent shake of barista head. "Could you text me the names of those places later, Jules? I want to do some Googling." Since that's a skill-set in the family.

Ravn looks from one to the other and decides that he's missing some vital bit of information here. "I like quiet beaches," he offers instead. "And honestly, yes -- some of those places sound amazing. Secluded and quiet, without requiring you to walk for a week. I have been meaning to see the rainforest sometime but I haven't got around to it -- going on your own just isn't the same, you know?"

He'll get it eventually. And then he'll die because he's just digging the hole deeper here.

Has Mikaere genuinely not picked it up? Is he just being blithely, deliberately oblivious? It's so difficult to tell, particularly when he's being so focused on Jules and her expression of her element. "Sea lions, huh," he says. "Wonder how similar they are to the ones we have back home, around Auckland."

Beat. "The Pākehā call them 'Hooker's sea lions', so, you know. There's a joke there. No sleep for anyone." Sure, he definitely didn't get it, nope, not even a little.

"And we call 'em whakahao," fuck-uh-how, yes, "Which may not be much better."

"Oh my God yes. Plus more details." Jules has a task, and it involves hiking. She's practically wiggling where she sits. "Kalaloch would be the busiest beach because of the lodge there, but you can also rent a cabin from the park service or camp. Or just pick another beach. Basically, all the land on the coast once you get north of Moclips and hit the QIN," Quinault Indian Nation, for those not in the know, "is either tribal land, Quinault-Quileute-Ozette-or-Makah, or owned by the park. You really can't go wrong. There's a million places to see, and you don't have to do a several day hike unless you want to." All of this is amplified by gesticulation. Jules has the map of the coast in her head, and she's trying to draw it all in the air. Reservations are bang-bang-bang up the coast, until she's at the end of her reach overhead.

Those hands come down to land on her thighs as she starts laughing at the names. "I mean, that fits right in with the Hoh Rainforest and Humptulips and dick clams."

Looks nobody-ever-at-all got it. Ariadne has to bring the majority of her self-control to bear about doing no more than smiling with her lips rolled upon themselves. It still looks like she's about to explode into giggles like a dandelion puffed by the wind.

"I'm seriously going to remember that line about the Hooker's seal lions." Such mostly-straight face, much wow. She's not even going to try out the other name, not while she's at serious risk of giggle-fitting. Still, Jules has the majority of her attention -- and does break her attempt to avoid tittering in the end. "Oh my god, right? Humptulips. I just want to know what was going through someone's head when they were submitting this name. I'll let the other two slide, but Humptulips, yes," she agrees with a wrap of hands around her stomach.

"But I still want to know the spot with the best views, Jules! Best views. If it's quiet too, all the better!"

"It means 'place where the canoe is hard to paddle'." Ravn, ever the party pooper. "Humptulips, that is. It's a Salish word. Nothing to do with humping or tulips, just phonetic spelling."

He takes a dozen mental notes of what Jules is saying, though. Quiet places away from Gray Harbor. He can think of a few dozen reasons a man needs to go somewhere his thoughts are his own at least every now and then. And if his girl will go with him --

Oh, now he got it. Blush.

"So basically, the whole world wants you," us, people, whatever, "to root. Or at least think about it." Mikaere means 'fuck'; it's not his fault slang doesn't always translate between countries, alas. "Or maybe we just have exceptionally dirty minds. Who can say."

His mirth is pretty obviously visible; he's all-but smirking. So be it.

"Seriously, though, it's beautiful country around here, what I've seen. I'd like to see more of it."

“Well yes, but even when you’re a native kid, Humptulips is going to make you giggle.” And speaking of giggles, she’s having trouble getting hers under control, especially with the slang-that-doesn’t-work; she can figure out the meaning from context, and the slang is funny to her in itself.

When she gets hold of herself, Jules makes a stricken face as she looks out across the way at Ariadne. “I have to pick one?”

This leads to her advice for Mikaere: “Many day sails-hikes-kayaks are clearly the way to go. Oh oh oh.” Idea time. “Figure out where you can dock, and then take packs with you on board, and then use the boat as your launchpad for hiking everywhere.” Jules doesn’t quite invite herself along, but from her animation and the way her eyes are shining, it’s pretty clear that this is her idea of heaven.

Of course there's an etymological commentary from down the boat. Grinning fondly, Ariadne glances in Ravn's direction and lifts brows. Oh, there's the blush -- she knew it would show up at one point or another if she was patient. There's still a sympathetic faintest coloring of her cheeks in turn.

A gesture towards Jules. "See? It's giggle-worthy! Which means," and she gestures now at Mikaere, " -- that we're all just happily living in the brain-gutter. Or maybe it's just me." Unrepentant shrug on her part. "That's a really good idea though, Jules, using the boat as a disembarking point." Another glance over at the Dane minding the captain's chair. "What do you think?"

"Absolutely. Also solves the problem of finding a place to stay so that you can do a full day trip wherever it is you're going -- you can sail there the day before, and have the whole day." Ravn nods his agreement; this is the kind of sailing his King's Cruiser was built for -- island hopping and short treks -- and while she can cross the Atlantic, her comfort levels are not for extended periods at sea.

He grins slightly at Jules. "Humptulips made Terry Pratchett grin enough that it's featured in the Long Earth series -- which is really quite impressive for a nowhere town of three hundred people, I'd say."

He's not blushing, you're blushing. Obfuscating obliviousness, engage.

Mikaere's not blushing, but oh does he have a chortle of laughter: at himself, at his companions, at everything. And why not? "Brain-gutter's perfectly comfortable, isn't it? Why would we want to leave, indeed. Anyway-- that's an excellent idea, Jules." He nudges at her with one shoulder, not much more than the lightest of taps.

"Not that driving's not always going to be faster, but I'm not willing to sleep in a car, and I'd rather avoid sleeping in a tent," being tall is hard, guys, "but my girl here? She's perfectly comfortable."

Definitely the boat and not Jules. Just so we're clear.

“Gutter brain,” Jules sings out, and of course she’s willfully misinterpreting Mikaere’s final remark and smirking away.

“Honestly, the biggest challenge would be finding places to dock. The only marina between Westport,” the south finger of the bay, “and Neah Bay up at the top of the Peninsula is in La Push. There’s gonna be more places on the north side than Pacific side. Sequim,” squim, people, “and Port Townsend and then into the Sound. What we should really do,” she determines, eyes gleaming, “is somehow bring kayaks along and the use those to get to the beaches. There’s a reason people here used canoes and not sailboats. Reefs and rocks.” Jules turns towards Mikaere, because now she’s latched on to this idea. “Is that something we could do? Bring kayaks?” She’s willing to overlook his slight against camping if she gets her kayaks.

"I bet the folks who live in Humptulips are proud about that, being name-dropped in a Pratchett book. I should go dig around the place and see if there's...not a shrine, but if they've made a point of being proud about it." A musing to herself as Ariadne again looks down the boat. More fond smiling in Ravn's direction. Of course he's not blushing, not at all.

Don't think the barista doesn't miss Jules' smirk either. Her eyes flick between the woman and Mikaere and if her smile is somehow moderately self-satisfied, then it's surely because she's patting herself on the back about the little black dress. Window shopping: who knows where it might take one.

"I knew about La Push," she then shares, "But the point about kayaks is valid. Very valid. Might I second the idea for you two?" Adorable individuals, she does not sling onto the end of that statement. "They're quiet and they let you get closer if you'd like to see the wildlife. I mean, fingers crossed no orca comes over to investigate because they won't hurt you deliberately, but you're sure as hell going ass-over-tea-kettle if they want to bump you about with their cute little melon heads." Not so little, Ariadne, but she knows it by her grin.

"What we do back home is take a small dinghy. It ties after the sailboat easy enough, and lets you moor at greater depth, then take the dinghy to shore. Requires waters that aren't too wild, of course, but then, we're not talking about crossing the Pacific to Hawaii here." Ravn smiles. "And of course it's traditional to name them something ridiculous. The best one I've seen was in Marsaxlokk, Malta -- the U.S.S. Missouri, a dinghy so small only the man rowing could fit into it."

"Oh-- maybe," says Mikaere, giving this consideration. "I know some people have proper storage set up, along the line of the boat, for kayaks. I don't, but that doesn't mean--" Ravn's suggestion draws a further nod from the Kiwi. "There we go. You organise the kayaks, Jules, and I'll get us there." His mouth twitches. "The U.S.S. Missouri. Sure, why not."

Adorable? Surely not! Though Mikaere very likely has strong feelings about the utility of that little black dress, let's be honest.

"I'll definitely pass on the orcas, if I'm in a kayak... actually, for that matter, even in--" This time he doesn't say it. Not in his girl here, nope. "Wā Kāinga, she's sturdy enough, but I'll be very happy to avoid large marine life all the same."

Kayaks: check. Jules isn’t Ariadne, so she doesn’t vocally squee, but she does beam at Mikaere. “Done.”

“The beauty of kayaks is that it’s okay to roll,” she says then. “I’ll risk a dunking if it means I get to be up close and personal with orcas.” She shoots a grin towards Ariadne, orca-lover that she is. “More likely to get close to seals and otters though. Mostly grey whales off the coast here this time of year, but I don’t know that they investigate in the same way an orca would.”

A snappoint for Jules, specifically at the thankfulness of them rolling rather than dunking their paddlers permanently at heavy risk. "Great minds think alike. I'd love to get up close and personal safely, but one day. I can dream." Normal dreams, thank you very much. Mikaere's got a point about safety anyhow. "I don't think the grey whales would come see, no, we're too small for them to notice in a kayak -- or this tiny-ass dinghy. So leetle," she giggles briefly in Ravn's direction.

"But oh, did I -- I must not have. We took a flight over the Sound a few days back, Ravn and I, and found the J pod. They're down south now from the San Juans and looking for food. Oh, and the baby is still alive -- the calf they had last year -- and Granny too, oh my god, she's so ancient now. I took pictures and her fin was in one of them and I'm so pleeeeeeeeased!" Yes, the word was part-squee. "Did you know you can identify them by the markings on their dorsal fins? The chunks and scars along the backside? It's like fingerprints! It's so cool!"

Yes, it is, and Ariadne seems to realize she's caught herself geeking out. A pastel-pink blush and she waves a hand while laughing at herself. "Anyways. Very cool."

"It was a wonderful experience," Ravn agrees. He does not quite share Ariadne's levels of marine geekdom but he understands the passion well enough; scientist gotta science, just like the historian's gotta historian. "And one I'd recommend -- there's a fellow in Hoquiam, hires out his Cessna out of Bowerman. His prices aren't terrible and he knows the area."

He smiles lightly. "Although I suppose we could also sail back to James Island sometime."

Ariadne's enthusiasm for her subject makes Mikaere smile-- not, as it happens, a smile of amusement, but something much deeper than that. "My people," he tells her (tells all of them, really), "consider whales to be the sons and daughters of Tangaroa-- the god of the ocean. They're tapu; sacred. No one's supposed to touch them. Our ancestors, in a sense, since we also come from the sea. When they beach themselves and die, it's considered to be them coming home to us, their family."

Which is, naturally, when they harvest them-- but that's a whole other thing.

His expression turns wistful. "One day I'm going to have a conversation with them. One day. Though I suppose that would need to be up close, and not from the air-- even if that sounds spectacular, too."

Ariadne’s pleasure is the infectious kind, making Jules grin along. “I knew about the dorsal fins. That sounds super cool.” An approving look is intended for Ravn: good man, making these things happen. Somehow she suspects it’s him with the connections, like the Cessna.

“Can you talk with them?” She asks curiously, watching Mikaere’s expression as he speaks. “I suppose you could, they’re so intelligent, even if it isn’t with words. The Makah are still fighting in the courts for their treaty rights to have annual whale hunts,” she notes next. One might suspect they have these compare-and-contrast cultural conversations from time to time. “It caused a big controversy when they got permission to do it in 1999, and they only did it the once, I think. But it was always their way of life. Not sacred like don’t touch the whales, but sacred in a different way, I think. They don’t just go hunting —the whole tribe prepares spiritually, first. Kind of like we do with the salmon.” She glances at Ariadne, then, a little cautious about the marine biologist’s take on the matter.

"Twist my arm." Still riding the high of the remembrance of spotting the whales from on high, Ariadne flashes a bright grin down the boat at Ravn. "We'll try it one time."

Mikaere is quick to steal her attention and enthusiasm both. Brows lift high. "Waaaaaaait a secco, you can speak with your mind too?" A blink. She wouldn't have predicted it, but then again, the man's a relative mystery to her.

Time to see if Jules will tell more over beers again.

"If you're wondering whether or not I respect the treaty rights, I do," she adds after catching Jules' glance in her direction. "It's not whole-sale slaughter. The whales are food as well, it's just...I'll choose 'jarring' to think about."

"I'm not keen on whale hunting but I find it less revolting when it is done by indigenous communities for their own needs. Which is not to say that I condone the Faroes and their driving whales into shallow bays and butchering them. They don't need to do this anymore. There has to be a way to update those rituals, those spiritual connections to an era where the indigenous people no longer need the meat for their survival." Ravn shakes his head. "But I'm not familiar enough with either culture to suggest it. And for the Faroes at least, it's become a fuck you, Denmark thing -- which I kind of do understand, to be honest, because we've spent six hundred years treating those islands like they're the end of fuckall, nowhere and they don't matter. So now they're largely deeply fundamentalist Christian and resentful of their colonial overlords."

"I've never tried," admits Mikaere in answer to Jules, "But I could talk to the mermaids, so... it'd be worth a shot."

How he feels about the tribes wanting to hunt whales is clearly a more complicated thing. He's slow to try and put it into words, and finally says, "I think... I have to respect different beliefs, even when they feel tapu to me-- and in that context, I mean prohibited under sacred law, rather than sacred, since the word does double duty. We do, after all, harvest the whales that come home. But to kill them deliberately... it's not my belief, and I have to work hard to accept it. The 'fuck you, Denmark' bit," he acknowledges Ravn with a nod, "that's a challenge."

There's no visible answer to Ariadne's question; instead, his mental hand knocks at the door to her mind and, should it be permitted entry, answers her silently: Among other things, yes. And with it? The mental image of a second Mikaere, this one sticking out his tongue in proper haka style.

“Hmm.” Jules keeps further comments on indigenous whale hunting to herself. It’s easier not to insist on treaty rights, perhaps, when it’s not just a modern conservation-versus-stubborn-Indians narrative, but multiple traditional belief systems in play.

Instead, she raises her eyebrows and says, “And here I just thought you just meant talk to whales more metaphorically.”

Ariadne too doesn't have more to add about the whale hunting. She's shared her two cents and it's majority emotional on her part; the scientist in her knows there's more to learn before she feels comfortable sharing further opinions. Educated opinions are things she prefers over all else for herself.

Mikaere, however, will find the barista staring and then blinking at him. She's blinking away the briefly overlay of the haka style display. It's impossible to help laughing and covering her mouth after with her hand. "Oh no-no, not metaphorically. Holy shit, Mikaere! Wow! That was crystal-clear." A tilt of her head and her golden-amber eyes narrow at the Kiwi now.

It's polite enough, her knock-knock in return, and should her own reply be allowed? It's...perhaps enthusiastic: I'M STILL LEARNING! Followed by a much quieter: ...whoops, sorry, still working on volume. Her wince communicates genuine sheepishness in turn. No mental imagery shared, given she's not figured out this method of Veil mentalism just yet.

"I want to know if you manage it, please," she then asks of Mikaere. A glance down the boat at Ravn. "Then Ravn and I can go out and I can try too." Roped into that adventure now, Dane!

"I guess that for me it would be quite metaphorically," Ravn tells Jules. "But for those two, they probably mean it quite literally. I'm not sure whether to be envious of the ability or grateful I don't have it. Imagine what we'd be like if we were constantly having mental conversations around people -- sudden snickering, strange looks, random blushing. We'd probably be ridiculously annoying to everyone else."

He glances back at Ariadne, proud prow decoration, at her request. "I don't want to take the Vagabond into a pod of orcas. But near enough to see them? Yes, definitely. They're not known to try to capsize boats that I'm aware of, and she won't break apart from an accidental tail slap."

"I don't think it would be considered tapu to try..." Mikaere's musing out loud, turning his gaze out over the ocean, less because he's convinced of seeing a whale (he clearly does not expect to), and more because, well, perhaps it's just fuel for his thoughts. "I'll report back, if the occasion ever comes up to try, absolutely.

Volume takes time to learn, he adds back to Ariadne, amused, without glancing back at her. Precision, too. Practice makes perfect. I do generally try to avoid making people laugh at private jokes, but... His amusement is undeniable: Ravn's comment is valid. Just think of the possibilities for silent innuendo!

Now he does glance back, grinning. "It is a little rude, carrying on silent conversations with people, and I do try not to. But it can be useful, too, in an emergency. Like most displays of our power, the point is to use it when it matters, not just for fun."

Jules doesn’t have to nosily investigate to figure out that Mikaere and Ariadne are tuning in on a different wavelength. She just eyes them curiously before nodding to what Ravn has to say. “I have to wonder just how much my grandma used on me when I was being a little shit growing up. I’ll never know, and she’ll never tell.”

Mikaere’s final comment occasions a quirk of her brow. “Doesn’t mean you can’t also use it for fun too, right? I remember Ravn floating quarters over his knuckles and flinging a spoon at Una when I first arrived—not to mention the whole summer wonderland we’ve got going in our backyards. Just so long as fun doesn’t turn into growing blue babies.” It’s become Jules’ point of reference for dumb decision-making.

"We're legally not allowed to go within a certain number of yards of the orca pods with any non-research boat as is, so if anyone's going around saying one can sail into the middle of a pod, they are grossly misinformed and will be heavily fined for it -- possibly jailed -- and I'm really not kidding," Ariadne replies to Ravn with a smile half-dimmed by utter sobriety. "Your baby will be safe." A patpat of the Vagabond's railing she's mostly-slung herself over.

She still gives Mikaere a squint of conspiratorial amusement. If I wasn't such a fine and upstanding individual not prone in the least to gleefully playing with these powers, I'd have Ravn bent in double with laughter. A blatant admission, surely, but then again, the pairings are clear enough.

"And Mikaere's got the major point anyhow in my book: don't draw unnecessary attention from those Veil fuckers." A beat and with a chuckle, the barista continues, "Annnnnd Jules is clearly on my wavelength because it's the whole responsible-within-reason use kind of deal. That's how Ravn charmed me anyways. I said he could have another cup of black coffee when pigs fly because gentlemen don't make snow fall down the back of lady's coats and then there he is, literally floating a Peppa Pig plushie. If I've told that story already, my apologies, but it remains cute as hell." A wink down the boat towards Ravn.

"I don't float quarters," Ravn murmurs with a hint of wry indignation. "That's not -- that's sleight of hand, not shine. Anyone can learn to do it, if they take the time to practise. I was a very bored kid in school."

Then he nods. "I didn't know about the law against sailing into a pod but it's common sense anyhow. You don't want to disturb the big marine animals that potentially can capsize you if they decide you're looking at them wrong. Have a little respect, and give them right of way."

His cheek does dust a little pink though, and he adds, "Look, you can't say something like that to a caffeine deprived Physicalist who thinks you've got a cute smile."

Mikaere's laughter is barely held back, though he restrains himself enough to only nod-- okay, yes, and smirk-- at Ariadne, and not answer her back in any other way.

"That's an adorable story," however, is he announces for the other couple, and from there, there are inevitably more questions-- and more conversation-- until it's time to separate the two boats and let them head off in their different directions, to enjoy the rest of this perfect sunny day.