The bright sun beats down on the deck of the Mystic Wave, while the exhausted crew seeks any shade as a respite from the heat. Crimson however stands resolute at the wheel sweat pouring from his brow. First-mate Cole sits beneath the railing that overlooks the main deck, cowering in the shade. Meanwhile, the Angler hangs from the bowsprit, his hand shading his eyes as he scours the sea, looking for the fish that devoured his island whole. Little beads of sweat run down the rippling bronzed skin of the Angler. The large deck gun of the Mystic Wave sits with the improvised harpoon menacingly looming out over the sea.
“What do you think about calling off this ridiculous fishing trip and let’s go home,” whispers Cole to Crimson pleadingly, “We’ve exhausted the crew, and for what? Who’s to say this fish exists at all?”
“As much as I would like to,” answers Crimson in a hushed whisper, “how do you rid yourself of a demigod? You saw him walking across the water. Who’s to say he wouldn’t sink our ship and drag us all to the deepest depths? To be honest, I believe the greater danger is offending our new friend as opposed to the relentless heat or whatever monstrous beast we’re hunting.”
The Angler closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath, breathing in the salty sea air. Suddenly, his eyes snap open.
“MAN THE HARPOON, EVERYONE PREPARE YOURSELVES,” bellows the Angler as he grabs his pololu. The Angler turns and sprints up the bowsprit and dives off the end, leading with the pololu.
The crew turns to look at Captain Crimson, not used to following the orders of anyone save for their captain.
“WELL? MAN THE STATIONS,” hollers Crimson, “JOHNSON BOYS, YOU’RE ON THE MAIN GUN… I MEAN HARPOON… WHATEVER.”
In a lower tone, Crimson turns to Cole and says, “Now let us see what this islander has had us fishing for.”
Three crewmembers run out to the main gun, two of the brothers, Mitch and Les, are gangly. The third, Porky, is as tall but thicker, what folk back east would call cornbread fed. The rest of the crew rushes over to the edge of the ship to see what the Angler dove in after. Lester Johnson stands on foremost of the bow, eyeing the ocean as he pulls on his pipe. Suddenly his eyes widen and he runs back to the gun pointing at the ocean.
“HE’S RIGHT THERE, HE’S RIGHT THERE,” yells Les Johnson.
Porky cranks a wheel turning the main gun towards the patch of sea where Les is pointing. Mitch is staring down the barrel with his good eye, giving corrections for aiming. Everyone stares at the spot Les is pointing.
Suddenly, the ocean explodes. The Shark, nearly as long as the Mystic Wave, erupts from the ocean, flying into the air. The Angler is hanging off the back of the shark with the pololu dug in deep into its back. The two rivals dive back into the ocean with a splash.