It was a four-hour whale ride to Great Barrier Island. Gary had suggested the off-grid location, knowing there was a camera and radio mic stashed at his family beach house—a little cabin by the sea. Whale riding was exhilarating at first, but the thrill soon faded, leaving only the relentless arm cramps from desperately hanging on.
At last, they hit the bay, and Gary spotted the golden sand of Medlands Beach. He let go of the leviathan and kicked off for the shore. Swimming was an arduous process, particularly with his post-whale-riding arms. They slopped around like seaweed, undulating uselessly with the tide, and only by spinning onto his back did Gary arrive at a wadeable depth.
The fishmen slipped into the bay with considerably more grace. They were designed to ride whales and, apparently, to rule worlds.
Gary flopped heavily onto the shore like a starfish, letting the gentle tide lap over his aching limbs. “Did you bring the ice bath, brothers?” he wheezed to the approaching creatures before a mouthful of wave splashed into his open mouth. Gary rolled sideways, spluttering in disgust.
From this new vantage point, he spied a lone fisherman perched on a rocky outcrop, gazing out at the open sea.
“Is that a fishcatcher?” growled the green fishman.
“It might be,” said Gary cagily, “Is that gonna be a problem? I’m sensing it is.”
The would-be fishcatcher fumbled with a pilchard, accidentally hooking his thumb before finally getting the bait on hook. The rank amateur licked his lips, then cast his line awkwardly into the sea.
The fishman’s gills flared. “Let’s say, Gary Graves, that he catches a fish. What then? What will he do with it? I wonder…”
Gary shrugged as innocently as he could.
“Does he befriend the fish he catches, Gary? Does he house them in a top-of-the-line aquarium? Treat them like kings?”
“I mean, he definitely might.”
“Or… does he simply kill the fish, Gary? Does he murder them in cold scaly blood?”
“I highly doubt he’ll even catch one,” said Gary, doing his best to downplay the situation. “The bro can’t fish for shit.”
“Why would he fish for excrement?” asked the purple creature.
“It’s a saying, dudes. Just—leave him alone.”
“Or better still,” said duck-egg blue with a glint in his eye, “we could mess with him.”
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Which is exactly what they did.
With sneaky grins on their faces, the fishmen began to slink—slinking quickly and carefully to a conveniently placed rock. They beckoned to Gary, and gracelessly, he followed, his ungainly footsteps crunch-crunch-crunching all the way.
Any normal fishcatcher with undamaged ears would clearly have heard Gary’s bumbling approach. Fortunately, years of excessive headphone use had crippled young Johnny’s hearing, and as a result, he didn’t hear shit.
The creatures sighed in relief, peering out at their still-oblivious target.
The duck-egg blue fishman signalled to the sea, whispering something in a slippery, guttural tongue. In came the fish in glistening waves of coppery pink. Snapper—vast swathes of deliciously catchable snapper—leaping from the water in a mock ballet. Johnny watched, hypnotised, as a cascade of fish pirouetted past—leaping, diving—a snapper carousel!
Johnny cast. Cast again! But each time the fish scattered. They were everywhere—EVERYWHERE! Except on his god damn hook.
“Come on, come on you beautiful bastards!” screamed Johnny, feverishly casting, casting, casting—his eyes glued to the sea. “Get on my hook!” he implored them. “Is that too much to ask?”
A marlin breached in the distance. A mahi-mahi drifted lazily past.
“Why can’t I catch you?” cried Johnny. “Unless… you’re not actually there?”
“Watch this!” said the duck-egg blue prankster. “This is gonna throw him for a loop!”
He sidled out from behind the rocks, and over to young Johnny, whose already blown mind was barely able to cope. When he reached the tide pool, the fishman stopped, chuckled to himself, and casually reached out, plucking a ten-pound snapper from the water with oh-so-much ease.
Johnny could only watch in horror as the creature threw back its scaly head and choked down the fish—bones and all! He went from horror to revulsion, revulsion to yeah… I’m out, slumping back into the rocks for a panic-induced nap. Even Gary, who had seen some shit, looked decidedly queasy.
“Dude, you eat fish?” he spluttered.
“Fish eat fish,” said the duck-egg blue fishman. “And men eat fish. And we are, in fact, fishmen. Vis-à-vis…”
He clicked his fingers, and a flying fish sprang from the sea. Up it soared—up, up, and away! Its final destination? The belly of the beast.
“It’s what he would have wanted,” said the creature as he spat out a stubborn bone. “We’re predators, Gary, not guardians of the fucking sea.”
“Do you eat fish, Gary?” asked the purple fishman, raising an expectant brow.
“Yeah, but not like that!”
Gary did fancy a snapper. In fact, it was his special meal. He prepared it like his mum did—with a simple egg-and-flour batter, a sprinkle of panko crumbs, two pinches of salt, and a slice of lemon on the side. For Gary, it was a dish rich in memories, a rare and treasured treat, a dish that took him back… back… all the way back to the doting days of yore.
He’d had a happy single-parent upbringing. His mum always listened, hanging on his every word. Even the most boring and brutally long story could somehow enthral her, and they would aggressively celebrate even his most mediocre achievements. Like his offstage and uncredited role as the wind in the school production.
“That wind,” she proclaimed proudly, “was the undisputed star of the show! It just made it so immersive, like I was actually there!”
Anything—literally ANYTHING—was cause for celebration. He wasn’t given fancy presents; they weren’t rich, not on a single schoolteacher’s income. What she gave him was attention. Gary, her special boy. To her, he was perfect—just the way he was.
But the world didn’t see him like she did. Instead, it shrugged with indifference, which, to Gary, was a real shock.
He rarely felt special anymore. Not now that she was gone.
