In the late Spring of 2021, some Hawaii friends invited me to join their online writing group. We meet monthly via Zoom, each person providing a writing “prompt” from which we can create anything that comes to mind and pen. I found having external nudges stimulating, and, to my surprise, came up with some fiction and poetry. (I wrote both in college, and everything was very, very bad.) The prompt that inspired my first underwater noir story was “Starfish,” which made me think of the speakeasy password “Swordfish” from the 1932 Marx Brothers film Horse Feathers. I never thought it would turn into a series.
Starfish
I got the tip from Puffer, a skittish type but a reliable source who owed me a few favors. It would be the tidal wave of the season: the opening of King Piranha’s newest nightclub, the Coral Reef Cabaret. Me and my pals Finny and Sal navigated the forest of waving kelp beds until we saw the pulsing biofluorescent sign lighting up the grotto. A school of pilot fish valets descended, shoving each other around for the honor of escorting our skate scooter to the parking lot. “Hey, careful you don’t damage the antennae!” I shouted as they hurried off.
The entrance was tucked into an unobtrusive niche and practically blended into the rubble. “Don’t worry, boys; I got this covered.” I sashayed up to the peephole and tapped the buzzer twice, then twice again. A bulbous eye peered out at me. “Hiya, Moray,” I said nonchalantly. He grunted, showing a mouthful of jagged teeth. “Password?” he snapped.
“Starfish.” I decided not to push the friendly banter and stick to business.
The door opened, and a current of music wrapped in warm salty water greeted us. Surf music, of course; it was the Mermen, hot off their tour of the Caribbean ringed reefs. A bevy of damsel fish wafted around taking orders from patrons at small tables carved from brain coral, lit by lantern fish dangling above the bar. On the dance floor, patrons were smashed together like sardines and gyrating to the bass beat. The band shifted into a vocal standard, and I was surprised to see Molpe shimmy up to the microphone. “Impressive,” I thought to myself. “The boss hired an actual Siren to class up the joint.”
Music might soothe the savage kraken, but our target was the back room and a high stakes game of Go Fish. Zig-zagging our way through the dancers, we swam down the hallway to meet our host. And there he was, King Piranha himself, surrounded by his mussels and sipping a salty dog. He waved us over and said, “Take some seats, gentlemen. Don’t be koi.” I took a quick glance at our competition: mostly a bunch of bottom feeders, but Hammerhead was a real shark and could be trouble.
The night flowed on, and I was winning in a small way, although Finny looked a bit seasick. Sal had dropped out and was trying to make time with a cute angelfish, but she wasn’t taking the bait. I knew she was part of Hammer’s crew, but figured it was not a bad idea to keep your anemones close. I was just about to score a big lobster pot of goldfish with a winning hand, when one of the less successful players, new to the establishment and a really cold fish, shot up and accused me of cheating. Spines came out all around the room. “Hey,” I said, “everybody just keep clam. I got cred in this cove, and I play an honest game.” “That’s not what I hear,” the doofus retorted. “Well, you just can’t believe every fishcious rumor going around the pond,” I replied. “But since the atmosphere has gotten murky in here, I think I’ll take my winnings and make for clearer waters.”
Piranha’s mussels didn’t stop us. That was lucky, as I still had a couple of high numbered Go Fish cards stashed inside my gills. Finny wanted to swim by the bar and have a Dark ’n’ Stormy to celebrate, but I figured it was best to maintain a low profile. As we headed to the exit, Molpe blew me a bubble and launched into a cover of Sade’s “Smooth Operator.” I tipped my dorsal and gave her a friendly fish eye as we made our exit.
Flash in the Pan
Just down the reef from King Piranha’s new cabaret was a hole-in-the-polyp joint called the Waving Frond. Flush with our winnings from the Go Fish session, Sal, Finny and I were still feeling that the night was young and the tides in our favor, so we swam on in and squeezed into a booth. We had heard some cuttlebutt about a hot new band called Flash in the Pan, making their debut, and figured we’d help them shellabrate.
I had some inside dope on these musicians via word of bigmouth. The bandleader’s name was actually Barry Cuda, a fairly well-known local crooner of shoal tunes. Barry had been cruising around looking for some trumpetfish to fill out his new group when he helped out some urchins who were being harassed by a couple of gormless tourists. It being a sunny day at the shore, Barry launched himself into a spectacular jump, and the flash of his silvery scales startled the doofus visitors into backing off. The urchins quickly rolled themselves under a nearby ledge, while an impressed audience of goby onlookers gifted Barry with the nickname “Flash.” Hence the band’s new moniker.
We ordered a round of Tidal Waves and settled in, as Flash took the stage and turned on the mic. Diving fully into his new persona, he sported a dazzling scarf stuffed with silver sequins, which nicely complimented his own highly polished scales. Flash, indeed! The ensemble — drum, banjo, cornetfish, horn shark, guitarfish, plus the trumpeter duo Barry was scoping out during his rescue adventure — more than filled the performance space, which, come to think of it, wasn’t much bigger than a pan.
And the repertoire? Holy smoked oysters, it was impressive. They played everything from “Minnow the Moocher” to “The Buoys Are Back in Town,” and covered the widest spread of musical genres you can imagine. Highlights included “Heat Wave,” “The Gull from Ipanema,” “When You Fish upon a Star,” and “Ain’t Sea Sweet?” Blues? “The Krill Is Gone.” Rock and roll? “Gimme Shellter.” New Wave? “Don’t Sand So Close to Me.” I could go on, but after a few drinks me and the boys were reeling so much we didn’t see Piranha’s mussel oozing over to our booth. They must have caught on to our slightly irregular antics during the Go Fish game earlier. Luckily for us, we were big tippers, and Angel, our waitress, wiggled past the Cabaret goons to our table and helped us clear the decks. As Flash in the Pan segued into their rendition of “Sole Kitchen,” we ducked into the actual kitchen and high-finned it out the back way, through the employee lava tube, and into clear waters. Just another typical Saturday night on the reef.
Mantis
Thanks to a hunch from our bookie Sarcastic Fringehead, Finny, Sal and I made a killing at the seahorse races this afternoon at Barnacle Downs. But I was getting tired of the ups and downs (mostly downs) of the betting life, and decided to put some of my goldfish winnings aside for foul weather. I needed an investment opportunity, and that meant a visit to the Eccentric Sand Dollar, a pricey joint known to be frequented by the artsy crowd.
One look around the place, and I knew I’d hit pay sand. At the most prominent table in the place was the up-and-coming auteur film director, Kiwa Hirsuta, drinking with his favorite cinematographer Tasseled Wobbegong. I scanned the rest of the room, knowing that I’d find Napoleon Wrasse, local gossipmonger and wannabe producer, and yup, there he was, lurking a few fronds away. I swam over, totally casual like, and flashed him a fin. “Hey, Nappy! What’s the news?”
“Shhh!” he whispered. “Hirsuta is putting together a crew for a new production, and I want to grab a producer credit. He’s about to meet with Donto Scyllarus; he wants him to star in a biopic.”
“What?!” I was incredulous. “Odontodactylus Scyllarus? The Peacock mantis shrimp? We used to hang out behind the anchovy schools, back in the day!”
“One and the same,” smirked Nappy. “Only… just don’t call him a shrimp. It’s a whole different species.”
“I haven’t seen Donto in ages,” I mused. “He must have gotten serious about training He was always going on about mantis shrimps being the martial artists of the insect world.”
“You’ve been out of touch. Donto convinced Master Stomatopoda to take him on as an apprentice, and teach him the art of thumb splitting kungfu. You should see him now: he can smash a hole in aquarium glass, and punch so fast it results in cavitation bubbles. Donto has won competitions all over the Pacific Rim, and he wants to set up his own training center.”
“Awesome! And perfect timing: I’m flush with goldfish and looking for a project to invest in. And here’s Donto just swimming into the bar. I bet he’ll be happy to introduce me to Director Hirsuta…. Hey, Donto, old pal! How have the currents been treating you?”
The martial artist phenomenon looked startled, but then flashed some color and fake-smashed me a couple of times. He steered me over to the big table and made the intros, touting me as an old buddy from our school days (not that we ever belonged to any schools ourselves). Hirsuta and his collaborators were more than happy to take me on as an investor, and they were generous enough to give Nappy a producer role.
After the meeting, Donto, Nappy and I stuck around for a few more Salty Dogs and caught up on some of our recent adventures. Squinting through the bubbles all around us, I said, “Hey! Do you have a name for the picture?”
Grinning from claw to claw, Donto replied, “Mantis.”
Whale of a Tale
“Call me Fishmeal.”
Sal and Finny were leaning across the table in the corner booth, totally mesmerized by the grizzled old pilot fish sipping at his Salty Dog. I nudged them over to give me space, waving my dorsal in the direction of the bar. I knew Angel would notice and take our orders for a second round.
Fishmeal (If that was his real name) cast a beady eye in my direction, but continued his story.
“I was looking for a new berth. Experienced pilots don’t mind a little R&R, but we don’t like to spend too much time in the shoals. Myself, I get a hazy eye and know my rest is ended. So I’d been cruising the usual pilot fish joints, testing the currents so to speak, when this bunch of rowdy suckerfish stumbled into the Electric Eel, all excited. You know how they can get.”
We nodded knowingly. The remora clan were notorious on the reef, always sticking their suckers into trouble they usually couldn’t handle.
“Well, they’d hooked up with this whale, named Mobilius dichromis. Big time operator, lots of connections, stood out as being both huge and pure white in color. Quite impressive, but known to be a little crazy. He was cooking up a new venture, said it would be hugely lucrative, and looking for a crew. The remoras had been canvassing all the usual watering holes and signing up anybody with a functional fin and one good eye.”
“You joined up, I’m guessing,” I interjected, breaking a long, thoughtful silence.
“To my regret, I did. I almost turned tail when I showed up at the dock, it was such a motley crew. Missing appendages, scales tattooed with heathenish symbols, eye patches galore… but I needed the work, and the pay, so I stuck with it. And once everybody settled in, it wasn’t a bad posting, not for the first few months.”
“What happened?” Finny asked.
“Once we were well at sea, this Mobilius — we started calling him Moby Dick — started to act a little crazy. Hmm, more than a little. He would mutter to himself, go off alone and breach without warning, spend hours staring out as if he expected something to show up on the horizon. And then it did.”
We held our breath. “What was it?”
“A beat up sailing ship. An old whaler, in fact. Full of ghosts, it seemed, humans in old-timey clothing and dark beards. The captain had one fleshly leg, and the other made of bone. It was very disturbing.”
Sal gulped down the remains of his drink, and signaled for another round.
“So,” said Fishmeal with a smile that held no evidence of pleasure, “it turns out that this whaling captain had sawn off the horn of a narwal to fashion himself an ivory leg, and that narwal was Moby Dick’s best friend from their school pod days. The whale never forgot this outrage and desecration, and he definitely never forgave it. He was out for revenge.”
Fishmeal took a deep draft of his drink. “Our captain bellowed, and the entire gang ran straight for that ship. It was chaos. Screaming, flailing, churning water, blood and blubber everywhere. When the seas calmed, the surface was littered with broken bits of wood, fish scales, pieces of baleen, and a narwal horn floating in the midst of it all. Not a sign of life: whale, suckerfish, plankton, human.”
Our mouths hung open with this horrifying denouement. “But … how did you escape?” we demanded.
“‘Twas luck, although betimes at night I wish I had joined my mates in sinking to the deeps. The nightmares of that voyage are with me still. But I was thrown off the white whale’s belly, having no suckers as do the remora, and landed far enough away that I was spared. I floated, dazed, and in time a pod of humpbacks arrived and guided me back home.”
Fishmeal sighed, and slowly rose from his seat in the booth and swam towards the exit. As he passed through the doorway, he turned back to us with these parting words, “And I only am escaped alone to tell thee.”
In total silence, Sal, Finny and I drank four more rounds.
An Unexpected Invitation
Finny, Sal and I were having a leisurely brunch (Eggs Sargasso, seaweed sesame bagels, and, of course, minnowsas) when a messenger squidlet wriggled over with a special delivery envelope. Elegant parchment, engraved lettering — classy!
“So, what’s up?” asked Sal.
“It’s from Howard Carper, the archeologist,” I replied. “We go back quite a ways. This is an invitation to the ceremonial opening of the Tootin’ Common cave excavation. I was wondering how that project was coming along.”
“‘Tootin’ Common’?” Finny queried.
“It’s sort of an archeology in-joke. The cave system belonged to an elusive character named Ocypode ceratophthalmus vulgaris. That’s a common horned ghost crab in the vernacular, and the “ghost” part has made this particular site what you might call the Holy Grail of ocean archeologists for over a century. If Carper has found it, it will cement his reputation.”
I went on. “Howie never had any academic training, but his artistic talent and dedication to detail got the attention of Flinders Petrole, who hired him and taught him the finer points of navigating a successful dig. Let’s make plans, gang! Everybody who’s anybody will be at this shindig, and we don’t want to miss out.”
On the day of the big event, we pulled up in front of the excavation site in the Valley of the King Crabs and dorsalled our way through the crowd. I waved a fin at Carper, who was directing the technical crew on how to set up the lights. The excitement was palpable. Retro jazz from Flash in the Pan filled the air. Lord Carcharodon, who was funding the dig, held court in a bespoke shark-skin suit; as a Great White, he understandably inspired awe in both the pros and the gawking tourists.
With a trumpetfish fanfare, Carcharodon and Carper swam to either side of the draperies covering the cave opening and dramatically drew them aside. A loud gasp filled the room as the glittering mound of treasure was revealed: gaily painted statues, jewel-encrusted chests, delicately-carved coral canopic jars, gold doubloons and pieces of eight. Perched atop the treasure trove was the mummified form of old Ocypode himself, his carapace, claws, and antennae encased in gold and precious gems. It was not subtle. He resembled nothing more than a stunted and deranged parody of a medieval dragon guarding its hoard, but still, that eyestalk-searing bling was impressive.
After a few minutes of stunned silence, the crowd quietly backed away toward the refreshment tables set up on both sides of the canopied party space, in search of alcoholic sustenance. Poseidon knows we needed it, too. As the band regrouped and swung into an upbeat rendition of “We’re in the Money,” I grabbed Howard Carper and, joined by Sal and Finny, we toasted my old pal’s good fortune. Hopefully it was not connected with a deadly curse.
SHIT
It was a busy night on the reef, happily-inebriated party fish surging against the tides as everyone enjoyed the Midsummer Fair: kelp frond dancing, conch blowing competitions, anemone garlands everywhere. We were just starting in on our second round of drinks when a quartet of diminutive but spectacularly clad Labridae made their way across the room, the crowds seeming to part open like the proverbial Red Sea around them.
“SHIT,” I muttered, somewhat startled.
Finny turned to me, confused. “Huh? What’s wrong? Did you spill your drink?”
“Uh, no. See those four gold-encrusted bottom dwellers over there? They’re SHIT.”
Sal frowned, “That’s pretty rude.”
“No, I don’t mean that kind of shit. You’re looking at the Scarlet Hood Intelligence Team. SHIT.”
“I thought that was a myth,” Finny objected. “Secret societies, cryptic codes, evil chanting …”
“Most of the stories are pure fiction, true, but there actually are a few extant groups of the illuminati swimming around. The best ones, of course, are so secret they are dismissed as mythic, and are free to act without drawing any attention. SHIT is one of the top agencies in operation.”
“If they are so secret, how come you know about them?” asked Sal.
“Ah, that’s a long story,” I replied, staring at the bottom of my empty glass. Sal got the message, and waved a fin at Angel to bring us another round. I took a deep draught, and a deeper breath, and continued. “Before I settled down here, I floated around quite a bit, picking up odd jobs and skills and meeting some very interesting characters. I even did a bit of underwater intelligence work for a government agency, but we’ll leave those skeletons lie in the deeps. Anyway, that’s where I found out about SHIT and a few other such clandestine enterprises. You’ll be surprised to learn who heads this group.”
“Some killer shark, I bet,” said Finny. “Sounds like a gangland operation to me.”
“Not even close.” I smiled at my friends and paused for effect before continuing. “It’s Pele.”
“Pele??!!” they gasped in unison. “The volcano goddess? She has enforcers?”
“Yup. Of course, we all know Pele is revered on land as both creator and destroyer, but we ocean dwellers also respect her powers. And she is a jealous deity, always in conflict with her sister Nā-maka-o-Kaha’i, the Sea Goddess. That’s why Pele decided she needed to recruit some sea people to keep her informed about any machinations Nāmaka might try to pull off. So SHIT is much more than just mussel. They are smart, subtle (although you wouldn’t think so looking at their gaudy plumage), and ruthless. There are always only four of them, Hooded Fairy Wrasses recruited as fingerlings and trained in all forms of maritime arts. You’ll rarely see them, but when they show up it is not a good sign.”
Finny smirked. “Looks like there could be quite a show in store.”
“Dude, you weren’t paying attention. This is not a situation for sticking around. When SHIT hits the fan coral, there’s no such thing as an innocent bystander. I think it’s time I made that trip to see my Aunties in the Caribbean. I’ve been putting off visiting, but I’ve been getting some weird letters from them and I’m starting to worry about what’s going on over there. You guys are both welcome to join me. I hear the reef scene in Cuba can’t be beat: great music, colorful coral hangouts, excellent rum ….”
“Works for me,” Sal nodded his head, his dorsals already moving to the Caribbean rhythms. Finny agreed. We drank up and headed for the exit, just as the volcano started to rumble.
Vacation
I was able to track down our old pal Fishmeal at his favorite haunt, the Waving Frond, and he was happy to hook us up with a pod of Orcas heading to the Caribbean for spring break (Orcas are such party mammals!). It was not an uneventful voyage, but that’s a tale for another time. Eventually, Finny, Sal & I broke off from the rowdy whales near Havana. To decompress, we headed to the Sandbar Malecón for a rejuvenating drink. Our eyes boggled at the tropical cocktail selection: Peached Whale, Mermaid Water, Electric Shark, Tipsy Turtle …. Unable to choose among them, we started with a shared Fishbowl Punch and settled in, waiting for the music to start.
Sal was excited to see one of the hottest local groups, Las Naranjas Ásperas, who soon took the stage. They began with their hit song, Planktonamera, and soon the joint was jumping, every patron’s fins waving with the beat. “That octopus drummer is really something,” I whisper-shouted to Sal across the table. “That’s Reefie,” he replied. “Quite a character. Rumor has it he was wild as a juvenile, spent some time dabbling in the cult of the Old Ones, hunting for the city of R’lyeh. But now he’s a respected spiritual leader in the reef community.” “He’s certainly got chops,” Finny remarked. “I’m digging his work with the claves, too.”
The next day, we swam down to Cojimar to visit my Aunties. For this, I had to prepare the guys. “So.” I gave Sal and Finny a stern glance. “My Aunties might look sweet and harmless, and they do love me, but they are much older than they look, and more than a little weird. I’ve heard them tell stories of their lives before they decided to retire in Cuba, and if I believe even a few of these tales it’s enough to make me wary. Just be polite and agree to everything they say.” The three sisters — Clotta, Lacha, and Atra — lived in a red coral bungalow named Casa de los Bondadosos. I’d let them know we were coming to visit, and they had prepared a welcome feast that had everyone groaning with full stomachs and glazed expressions.
But, it turned out, this was only the first stage of our night’s entertainment. “Get your fins moving!” stated Clotta emphatically. “We’re expected at the Floradora, and it’s bad luck to disappoint a bartender.” The Aunties’ favorite watering hole was a haven for locals, with small groups of colorful reef fish trading jokes and toasting each other’s saltwatery wit. I glanced over at a corner booth, where a grizzled wolf herring was holding court, waving a drink in one hand and a pencilsmelt in the other. I leaned over and screamed in Auntie Atra’s ear, “Who’s the old-timer?” “That’s Ernie Herringway,” she replied. “He’s famous, or at least notorious, around here. Loves to fish, and tell tales. Some of them are pretty fishy, themselves, like the time he ran with the bull sharks.”
Auntie Lacha broke in. “He invented those drinks you’re gulping down, or he claims he did. The Tuna Libre. Says he named them for a resistance group he used to swim with, destroying nets and opening lobster pots.” “He’s got quite a following here,” I noted. “Must be a good storyteller, even if the facts are hazy. But what’s with the pencilsmelt?” Atra chimed in. “He writes a bit. Might make a name for himself one of these days.”
We settled into our booth, sipping drinks in comfortable silence. “Where are you buoys heading next?” Clotta asked. “Well, I want to mosey over to Cienfuegos,” I replied. The Aunties collectively sighed and nodded their heads. “El Sonero Mayor,” they chanted reverently. “Tell Beny we said hello, and not to forget our advice.” I was a bit bemused but knew better than to ask for more details. Several rounds later, we weaved our way out of the Floradora and back home to get some sleep.
As we swam south towards Cienfuegos, I explained to Sal and Finny that our destination was to visit Beny Moray, the greatest popular singer of all time along the Cuba coast. “So that’s why your Aunties were so excited,” exclaimed Finny. “They seem to have a history with Moray.” “My Aunties have a long, long history, with a surprisingly broad collection of famous acquaintances,” I said drily. “But yes, they are very fond of Beny. You’ll see why, when you meet him.” The master of the soneo lived in a vast cave complex surrounded by a coral reef teeming with life: anemones, urchins, vibrantly colored fish of all stripes darting among the waving fronds. It was music in motion, and as charming as Beny himself, as he wriggled out to greet us, showing us all of his teeth in a huge smile. “Bienvenido! Bienvenido!” Without waiting for a reply, he led us inside, where we drifted speechless, gawking at the collected history of Moray’s storied career: piles of musical instruments, film and concert posters, gold records, trophies, and photographs of Beny with his many musical ensembles, including the famed Bandfish Gigante. An ancient Victrola stood in one corner, with a stack of LPs. Sal shimmied closer so he could read the labels. “Salmon. Mantazanillo. Bonito y Sandroller. These are all terrific songs.” “My greatest hits,” Beny smiled fondly. “Those were the days.” With the sweet strains of son montuno, mambo, guaracha, guajira, cha cha cha, Afro-Cuban, canción, guaguancó, and bolero in the background, we spent an unforgettable evening with the master of Cuban popular music, drinking in his vast trove of stories as well as his even vaster selection of rums. It was a meeting each of us would treasure for the rest of our lives.
Silver Dollar
Still a bit dizzy after a night at the Benny Club, our last evening enjoying the Cuban music vibe, we hooked up (so to speak) with a school of basking sharks on spring break, heading to the Gulf coast for their annual festival of bottomless mimosas and topless lunch buffets. Sal, Finny and I split off near the town of Abalone, however, and headed for the Silver Dollar Saloon. This was a venerable establishment was run by Metty Argent, an old friend I hadn’t seen for a turtle’s age, and I wanted to catch up on her news and doings.
“Don’t mind Metty’s demeanor,” I warned the boys. “She’s crusty on the exterior, but will give the fins off her spine to help a fish in need. And, believe it or not, most of the tales of her exploits are true. Well, mostly true.”
The Silver Dollar had all the familiar trappings of a slightly decrepit local hangout, comfortable but a bit shabby, with the usual assortment of grunt sculpins and forehead brooders perched along the bar.. We had just ordered our first round of drinks when Metty sashayed in from the back office. “Well, look what drifted in with the tide,” she said. “I haven’t seen you since that whaler we commandeered ran aground in the Sargasso. Looks like you didn’t get stuck in the Bermuda Triangle, after all.”
“Yeah, that was quite an adventure,” I recalled. “These are my buddies Finny and Sal; we’re just returning from a trip to Cuba to visit my Aunties.”
“Ah, and Beny Moray as well, I’m guessing. From the state of your bloodshot eyeballs, he hasn’t yet depleted that rum he’s stashed away.”
We nodded in chagrined agreement, and sipped our “hair of the dogfish” slowly in appreciation. I took a good look around the establishment. Sea urchin waiters scuttled about with wriggling zooplankton shishkebabbed on their spines. In the far corner, a long-whiskered catfish was tuning his guitar.
“You’ve got a terrific saloon here, Metty. Looks like you’ve finally found a place to settle down.”
“For now,” she responded. “I had to lay low to avoid some scurvy pirates who objected to my crew appropriating their treasure chest. Serves ‘em right… I mean, they carved a big fat X on the rocks just above where they buried it. Dummies. Anyway, that’s how I was able to buy this place, and it’s developed a pretty good reputation on the reef.”
“No complaints about the liquor,” Finny commented, his mouth full of larvae. “And these pupus are delicious.”
“Who’s the entertainment?” Sal asked, nodding to the corner where the ban was set up to play.
“That’s Brack Filament,” Metty told us. “Kinda a local legend: swam around these waters for ages, herding cowfish, repairing reef walls, doing various odd jobs over the years. Decided to try his luck playing music, and he ain’t half bad. Just listen.”
We ordered another round and moved closer to the band set-up as Filament began to sing.
Abalone, Abalone
Prettiest bed in the tidal zone
Hagfish there just leave you alone
in Abalone, my Abalone.
I swim alone most every night
Watch those whales breech out of sight
Don’t I wish they would give me a tow
Back to Abalone, my Abalone.
Abalone, Abalone,
Prettiest bed in the tidal zone
Hagfish there just leave you alone
in Abalone, my Abalone.
Crowded seabed, nothing free
Nothing in this reef for me
Wish to Poseidon I could roam
to Abalone, my Abalone.
Abalone, Abalone,
Prettiest bed in the tidal zone
Hagfish there just leave you alone
in Abalone, my Abalone.
Metty was right: the singer wasn’t half bad. Sal and Finny seemed appreciative, as well. My dorsals waving gently to the rhythms of his nostalgic ditty, I recollected past and present travels and pondered the powerful draw of returning home. We’d had some good adventures during this last jaunt, but it was time to return to the reef.
Tangled Web
After our travels to Cuba and the Gulf, the back booth in the Waving Frond felt cozy and familiar. A couple of bigmouth regulars drifted by with the current gossip, but Sal, Finny and I were content to sip our Salty Dogs in companionable silence. There’s no place quite like one’s local dive bar. After we polished off our first round, Sal turned to me. “Cuba was smoething else! The music, the emergy, the tropical vibe….”
“The booze,” Finny added drily. “But I do have some questions about your Aunties. They were great hostesses and obviously well settled into the Cojimar community, but I sensed that they are not exactly local to the Caribbean. Am I right?”
I nodded. “Yes, the Aunties are originally from the Aegean. I think I mentioned that they are much older than they look. And, well, they aren’t exactly my ‘aunties,’ not in the taxonomic sense at least. They more or less adopted me when I spent some time drifting around Cuba a while back. They’ve told me a bladderful of stories about what they call their ‘misspent youth’ — tales that brought a chill to my dorsals, even as they appear quite incredible.”
“Like what?” asked Sal, sucking on a piece of plankton garnish.
I pondered a moment, gazing down at my empty glass until Finny ordered another round. “OK,” I decided. “I’ll tell you the tale of why they left the Greek waters. You can believe it or not.”
Clotta, Lacha, and Atra were happily settled into their small grotto in a cove off the coast of Naxos, crocheting seaweed frond draperies for the Nereides’ dance parties and squabbling over who deserved to use the best urchin spine needles. They also kept a fisheye on business, of course: lives to weave, futures to scry, tenures to trim….
One day, the seafloor churned as two of the Gorgon sisters burst into the cove in high gudgeon. “It’s that annoying giant triton, Posiedon!” spat out Euryale. One day, the seafloor churned as two of the Gorgon sisters burst into the cove in high gudgeon. One day, the seafloor churned as two of the Gorgon sisters burst into the cove in high gudgeon. He’s had his beady eyestalk on Medusa for some time, and although she’s managed to avoid that multi-armed cretin, it seems some other members of the olympic brood have been sticking their claws into things and stirred up a lot of flotsam.”
“So what exactly is going on?” asked Lacha.
“They’ve recruited a suckerfish, some smarmy yellow perch — they even call him Percheus, to make him seem all heroic and all — and loaded him up with weapons and a team of Ichthyocentaurs to go and lop off our dear sister’s bell to illuminate some tacky wedding ceremony. You have to stop him!”
“Humph,” snorted Atra. “We have no love for those meddling gods and their fingerling minnowions; no respect for anything but their own amusements. I think I may have an idea to put some winkles into their plans. Clotta, Lacha: come with me!”
The Aunties wriggled into a huddle and then each one darted off. Clotta herded up some urchins to gather coral fronds, while Lacha sent for Coco, a velvetfish friend. The Gorgons watched, bemused by the flurry of activity surging around them. Soon, Atra returned, exuding a satisfied stream of bubbles. “All in hand,” she announced. “Paddle over to the centaur stable if you want to see what happens. Stay hidden behind the reef, though, or you’ll spoil things.”
At the stable, Percheus was intently listening to the sinuous Coco and fingering a finely woven net of iridescent red strands, as a silent but rapt audience peered around a reef outcrop. Then the perch mounted up and sped off into the distance.
“What was all that?” Euryale asked the Aunties.
“Coco convinced Percheus to use the net we created to capture Medusa before attempting to de-bell her,” was Atra’s reply.
“How? He already had all those weapons from Poseidon and the others.”
“She said that if Medusa’s tentacles touched him, he’d turn to stone. It was an easy sell. Coco is a velvetfish, you know, and, well … Percheus is rather stupid.”
“I guess he is, since he headed off in the wrong direction.”
“That was the second part of the plan. The net is made of sea whip coral. It will make sure the Ichthyocentaurs go where we intended.”
“And where is that?” asked Stheno.
“Percheus will be making an unexpected visit to Scylla,” Atro said with a shrug. “He wanted to see a monster? Well, he’ll get his wish. And we owed Scylla a birthday present, in any case.”
As soon as Clotta, Lacha, and Atra returned to their grotto, they packed up the best of the sea urchin spines and a bag of leftover sea whip coral strands, and headed west. They knew that Poseidon would not be very happy when his heroic Percheus did not return, and besides, they were curious to see what that gossip about a sunken city in the Atlantic was all about.