The ship creaked gently in the cavernous stillness, anchored in the eerie shade of a massive ocean cave. Jagged rocks surrounded the cove like teeth, and the only sounds were dripping water, the occasional seagull’s call, and the slosh of lazy waves licking the hull.
Scotty, begrudgingly hanging off the side of the ship on a makeshift sling, held a rusted scraper in one hand and a half-empty bottle of rum stuffed awkwardly into the belt of his pants. His shirt was already half-soaked and slipping off one shoulder, saltwater dripping from his bangs. His legs dangled above the sea as he stared glumly at the thick clusters of barnacles clinging to the wood.
He groaned dramatically.
— “Bloody barnacle-blasted torture. What kinda sin I commit t’get this job today?”
he muttered, jabbing at the crusty clusters with a sloppy stroke.
Scrape…scrape…clink…
A barnacle popped off, splashing into the sea.
— “Could be nappin’ in the sail lines, y’know. Singin’ shanties. Harassin’ Pete while he polishes his sword like it’s his lover…”
He trailed off, blinking blearily.
— “But nooo, Scotty gets to scrape the ship’s arse like some kinda sea butler…”
He shoved the scraper under another patch, gritting his teeth.
Scrape…scrape…
Then he froze.
A faint ripple passed through the water below him—unnaturally smooth, slow. No wave made it. It was like something just beneath the surface… moved.
Scotty squinted, leaning to the side.
— “…Huh?”
He waited, the scraper held mid-air. The sea below reflected the dark roof of the cave and the bottom of the ship like a mirror—still and undisturbed.
But he could swear he heard something. A soft, fluid slither… not quite a splash. More like something brushing against the wood, just under the waterline.
— “…Oi,”
he mumbled, blinking at the surface.
— “Who’s there? Sea ghost? Big ol’ fishy? If yer thinkin’ o’ eatin’ me, let’s talk it over first—maybe I give ya Pete instead. He’s got more meat, and less barnacle duty…”
Silence.
Then—bump.
Something nudged the ship.
Scotty’s whole body jolted, almost dropping the scraper. He twisted around in his sling, staring at the water below. A trail of small bubbles rose lazily to the surface.
— “…Maybe it’s me imagination.”
He clumsily reached for the bottle at his hip and took a quick swig, eyes closed.