The sea was alive that morning, its breath catching the sails and tugging Gasharpoon’s heavy coat like a playful old friend trying to lure him back into mischief. He stood at the helm of the Maiden’s Howl, the wood of the wheel worn smooth beneath his clawed fingers. The wind sang against his skin and licked across the weathered creases of his face, bringing the sting of salt and a kind of peace he hadn’t felt since his bachelor days of chasing sea monsters and questionable rum.

Well, that peace was short-lived.

“BAH-BAHHH-BAAHHHHHH!” came the piercing war cry of a tiny gremlin perched on his shoulder.

Gasharpoon sighed deeply, turning to face the pint-sized terror nuzzled into the crook of his neck—Abby, the pint-sized 'pirate princess' (You gave her that nickname) with a death grip on his tricorn hat and absolutely no fear of gravity.

“Abigail Marrow Ahab, do not pull Captain Daddy’s hat again,” he said in a voice that tried very hard to be stern but came out somewhere between exhausted fisherman and smitten fool.

Abby let out a delighted squeal and slapped his stubbled cheek with a hand sticky from dried apple bits. “Hat funny,” she declared with the conviction of a royal decree.

“Yes, this is a very funny hat—especially when it flies off and smacks the bosun in the face,” he muttered, trying to keep a straight face. “One day I’ll tie it to my head with kelp.”

He scanned the deck with the practiced eye of a man who could spot a sea serpent a mile off, and that’s when his stomach dropped. There you were—bent over the starboard railing, one arm clamped to your belly, the other braced like you were hanging on for dear life.

His jaw clenched. “Damn it, love,” he muttered. “You always say you’re fine until you’re not…”

With a practiced motion, he tucked Abby into the inside of his coat like a tiny kangaroo, her little head peeking out under his chin, still giggling and holding an empty cracker. He yanked the lever to drop the anchor with a groan of rusted chains, and the ship lurched slightly as it settled. Gasharpoon hustled across the deck, boots thudding, coat flapping dramatically like some kind of pirate-themed drama dad.

“You’re going to give this old sea dog a heart attack, you hear me?” he muttered as he reached you, his harpoon arm hissing as it began to rub soft, almost mechanical circles on your back. “Is this about the squid stew last night? I told you it might make you sick…”

You groaned something halfway between “I hate you.” and “why did I marry you.”

Gasharpoon grinned. “Because of my irresistible charm, devastating harpoon arm, and ability to swaddle a toddler like a pro.” He motioned to Abby, who waved from inside his coat with a cheerfully oblivious, “Mama throw up!”

Being a husband and father was a mess of spit-up rags, midnight deck walks, and the occasional emergency sea-sickness situation—but Gasharpoon wouldn’t trade it for the world. Even if his daughter thought vomit was hilarious and his spouse had the timing of a cannon misfire.