The Dramatic Sea Lions of Dock 39

[treblesome1]

Author's note: This is my first submission and I would love some feedback! Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy.

Part 1.

Have you been down by the bay? Where the waves gently lap at the rocky shores, and the winds threaten to whisk your hat right off your head and into the sea? Then I’m sure you’re familiar with the many characters who call the bay home…

It’s been a good year for Mr. Pelican’s Freight and Fish Shipping Service (motto: one fish, two fish, red fish, you better pay me fish), and business is booming. Mr. Pelican, with his crisp brown suits and ever present monocle is often seen strolling amongst the shipyards, barking orders at the lazier of dockworkers.

Madame Downspouts School for the Developing Mackerel is in the middle of recess, and you can see the teachers swimming frantically too and fro, trying to keep the wayward young fish from swimming too far from the group. These young fish have big dreams, of becoming doctors or lawyers and one young smelt even wants to be a fireman (though the rest of the class hasn’t the heart to explain why this is impossible. He just doesn’t have the grades). Soon they will graduate and go on to Fishy University.

And here come those class clowns, the otters. With their laid back attitudes and their natural good looks its no wonder that they are so popular. They surf in with the tide and laze around between the boats, enjoying every minute of it. Everyone else is just shellfish.

But the most colorful characters yet are the Dramatic Sea Lions of Dock 39. They pile one atop another, jostling and pushing and shoving, struggling to remain on the floating pier. Inevitably a few fall with a crash back into the sea. And they bicker, OH do they bicker, arguing and complaining like a whole herd of fishwives (though I am sure Madame Downspout would take offense to the comparison).

“Would you PLEASE cut it out already,” Fred yelled at his brother, who had managed to squash half of his rear end as he rolled over to tan.

“I don’t know what you’re TALKING ABOUT!” Stan shouted back, scratching himself with a flipper and rolling further onto his brother.

“OUCH, you’re on my BUM!”

“You’re a bum, you lazy excuse for a sea lion. Sea house cat is more like it.” Stan chuckled at his own joke.

“Oh you’re soooo clever. And I’M the lazy one?! If you weren’t such a portly pinniped, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Low blow, brother. You KNOW I’ve been watching my weight,” Stan sniffed defensively.

“Ya, and everyone else has been watching it too. Watching it INCREASE. And right now I’m watching it squash my nether regions”

“SHUT IT, both a’ ya,” bellowed Donald, an older, larger male who reared up in front of the bickering brothers. “It’s ba’ enough with this lot,” he said with a gesture to the adjacent pier, “And I don’t need you two addin to me headache, kapeesh?”

The two brothers paused to listen to the racket. Sea lions were a wordy bunch, and tended to favor extremely…lively conversations. Why say something with a whisper when you could say it with a shout?

“I’M HUNGRY.”

“WHAT TIME IS IT?”

I HAVE TO RUN OVER TO THE GROCERS TO PICK UP A FEW THINGS.”

“HOP ON POP….” “NO NO HOPPING ON PO…ARGHHH”

“I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M YELLING.”

“IM YOUNG AND ALIVE” “SALLY WILL YOU TELL SUZIE TO MEET ME BY THE LOCKERS AFTER CLASS?”

And so on. The life of a sea lion is an uncomplicated one.

Part 2.

Not all creatures who call the Bay home are as cute and cuddly as our sea lions, oh no. In the abyssal depths, deep down where the sun does not reach and the waters turn cold and forbidding there are creatures of considerable size, things made primarily of teeth and cruel intentions. Some scuttle along the ocean floor, many legged, pincery things. Others slip in amongst the nooks and crannies of the rock, waiting patiently for unwitting passerby to come calling. And still others float silently above the ocean floor, enormous shadows haunting the dreams of those both below and above.

Randolph Crinklesnout had had a tough day. He was supposed to be menacing, ferocious even, but the best he could pull off was mildly unpleasant. He aimed for spine tingling, yet ended up somewhere between a mild itch and that feeling you get when your leg falls asleep. And to top it all off, the other Great White’s had chosen today to pick on poor Randolph, laughing and calling him names. They never let poor Randolph join in any Great White games. He briefly wondered if all Randolphs were as maligned as he was.

“Perhaps I need to gnash my teeth more, that might do the trick,” mused Randolph as he glided slowly over a deep ravine in the ocean floor. “Or scare some beachgoers, that always seems to put me in a good mood.”

The water was murky, visibility low. But this was not an issue. For Randolph, the world was painted in shades of smell; the pungent smell of the bottom dwellers, the rotten, putrid odors of the underwater vents, and interestingly, the pepperminty tangue of certain fish. What’s this? The briefest hint of a smell, lingering just at the edge of perception, taunting Randolph. What could it…SEA LION.

Randolph Crinklesnout quickly changed direction, headed towards the coastline. He had made some passes at a pod of dolphins and managed to snag a few bluefin tuna, but he was HUNGRY. Sea lions were notoriously hard to catch, but if you did, you’d be full for at LEAST a few days. He could hear them now. Laughing and playing, tumbling into one another in the waves.

“I LOVE SWIMMING. SWIMMY SWIM SWIMMING”

“STOP RUNNING INTO ME.”

‘YOU, stop running into ME.”

“Oh splendid,” thought Randolph. “The Dramatic Sea Lions. I’ll get a meal AND do a good deed for the day. I should get community service hours for this.There must be a school of fish up there”. Stealth mode time.”

Randolph swam deeper, circling below the unsuspecting sea lions. As he swam, he started to hum. “Dum dum…dum dum….dum dum, dumdum, dumdumdumdum….” Later, he would wonder why he always got the urge to hum this before a hunt. In retrospect, it seemed kind of silly, but at the time it felt right.

The sea lions were not as unsuspecting as Randolph had assumed.

“Hey Fred, look who showed up to crash the party.”

“Ahh yes, the terrible Randolph,” mused Stan. “The Destroyer of Sea Lions, the Terror of the Bay. What do you think, should we have a little fun?”

“What did you have in mind, oh wise and devious brother?”

In the waters below, Randolph was giving himself a pep talk, his pre-attack routine. ”You got this, man. You are menacing, fierce, FEROCIOUS. The scourge of the seven seas, the terror of the wayward sailor, the slightly intimidating, when seen in a favorable light…” Randolph flicked his tail in annoyance. SLIGHTLY intimidating? Some pep talk.
“Time to spring into action.”

Great White Sharks are known for their speed and even on occasion, their grace, but the only way that this particular shark were to spring into action would be if the spring was old, rusted, and found in the seat cushion of a moth eaten, floral print sofabed.

Randolph made a beeline for the group of sea lions. His plan was to surprise one from below, snatch it up, and shoot out of the water like a squid out of seagrass, possibly posing dramatically mid-air for the tourists sightseeing on boats nearby. Boy were they about to get their money’s worth.

He could sense some sea lions darting around nearby, but he had already chosen the unlucky winner. This one seemed to be oblivious, bobbing slowly up and down with the tide. This would have given him pause, that is, if Great White Sharks were the kind of creatures to stop and logically think about, well, anything really. The only thing on Randolphs mind was, “FOOD.”

What happened next seemed to take place in slow motion. Randolph opened his enormous maw, smiling the blood curdling smile of the apex predator. With a powerful surge forward, he broke the surface of the water and…

Rammed directly into the underside of a dock. At the last possible second (It is a universal truth that the last possible second is when the most important action occurs, when dreams become reality, when the big game is lost or won, when the protagonist saves the pretty girl tied to the train tracks or the mustachioed madman makes off with the loot. But I digress). At the last possible second, the sea lion (Stan) had darted away, cartwheeling to the side leaving Randolph with nothing more than a mouthful of driftwood and a slightly more crinkled snout.

“HO HO HOOO,” cackled Fred. “Hope you know a good carpenter, because you’ve got some wood on your face.”

Stan paused… “Brother…correct me if I’m wrong…but…that doesn’t really make a lot of sense.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s a woodchuck’s uncle!”
“….What?”
“He’s a seastars saucy underside, that he is!”
“Fred..”
“RIGHT!”

Sea lions have never been known for their intelligence, but a select few seem to swim a little closer to the shoals of instability. Stan was a few planks short of a pier, but you’d be hard-pressed to find a sea lion more loyal than he.

The other sea lions had seen Randolph careen madly into the pier and were laughing raucously, slapping one another on the back, rolling about on the floating docks.

Randolph, meanwhile, was collecting himself and skulking off to deeper waters, tail metaphorically between his legs. He tried to ignore the laughter fading in the distance.

As he swam, he grumbled to himself, “Today could not POSSIBLY get any worse.” (Another universal truth is that as soon as someone says this, the Powers That Be will intentionally go out of their way to prove them wrong. A sick sense of humor is in their job description, but of course it’s labeled as “character building aptitude”).

The shadows in front of him shifted, materialized in the form of three larger Great White’s. Stu Megaladont’s gang.

“MegalaDORK”, Randolph thought sullenly. Come to bask in the glory of my failure. They circled Randolph slowly, as Stu began the evenings’ festivities.

“Don’t you need to CATCH something first, before swimming around with a mouthful of toothpicks, Randy?”

“Yeah, don’t ya need to CATCH something first?” echoed Slate McTonkin, Stu’s perpetual shadow. (Traditionally, Great White Sharks rarely fraternize and even more rarely have lackey’s, but an evil villain is contractually obligated to have an obnoxious understudy, so tradition can take a long walk off a short pier).

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Randolph mumbled as he tried to surreptitiously spit out the fragments of dock stuck between his teeth.

“Oh come off it, half the bay has heard how talented you are on the hunt, your prowess as a predator. Perhaps you’d be more successful on the other end of the food chain.” The light in Stu’s unblinking eyes indicated that if he’d had lips, he would have licked them.

“Yeah, the food chain!” Slate chimed in, right on cue. What he lacked in comprehension he made up for with enthusiasm, and when you’re a two and a half ton floating horror movie, a little enthusiasm can go a long way.

“Whoa boys, whoa. No need for anything like that, ha ha,” Randy laughed with the worried laugh of the ‘recently added to the menu.’

“We’re all pals here, right guys? Besides, I’m all skin and bone, salty as a clam. Nowhere near as succulent as those sea lions. And besides, while I may not be able to snag one on my own, how many do you think we’d get if we worked together, eh? What do you think?”

The gang circled slowly, a little slow on the uptake. Stu slowly gnashed his teeth, mulling over Randolph’s proposition. “So what you’re sayin’ is… YOU and US… we…we work together right? To get those dramatic, namby pamby sea lions?”

“Every last, namby pamby one,” agreed Randolph. “What did yer have in mind?” Randolph smiled slowly, sidling up alongside Stu. “Come with me, oh Wise and Fearsome One. I know just the thing.”

In the depths, the seagrass waved slowly in the current. Small crustaceans scuttled along the ocean floor, darting in and out of rocky fissures. Long, banded, needle-toothed eels lurked in the holes that seemed to say, “Come, stick your hand in here, there’s probably treasure.” Two large crabs fought over a rather mediocre plot of sand, but dammit if it wasn’t THEIR sand and they were here to stay. And above, four large shadows drifted slowly along the coast, plotting, scheming, strategizing. Talking of things to come.

Part 3.

Marty Stroutrump was foraging for oysters like it was going out of style. The wife had woken up on the wrong side of the kelp bed, and until she got a good five or ten oysters, “till death do us part” seemed like a very real possibility. He stuck both paws in the murky sand, churning up a cloud of silt as he searched for breakfast. This area was mostly sand, a good-sized clearing amidst surrounding walls of kelp. Marty had discovered this little patch the other day as he and the wife were passing through, making their way to La Isla del Ostras for a weekend with the in-laws.


He sighed, pausing in his search to stare at the waving kelp forests, mesmerized by their tranquility. What he wouldn’t give to set up shop here, swim solo for the weekend. Crack open some shellfish, maybe cruise behind a fishing trawler, they always raked up some good eating. Terrorize a pelican or two. Instead he was on his way to Nagtown. Population: His mother in law. (A third universal truth: son’s in law are, without exception, perpetually lacking in the eyes of their wife’s mother. It doesn’t matter if you’re Average Joe the Interior Decorator [what, Joe can’t be an interior decorator?] or the High Priest of Fallafaland, with a million devout followers and your own talk radio show. In your mother in-laws eyes, [Insert Daughter’s Name Here] could have done better.

His brief reverie was interrupted by the shrill call of Meronica Parsley.
“MARTY? MAAAARTY! Where have you gone off to now?”
“Here, my rosy seaflower of delightfullness.”
“Don’t you rosy seaflower ME, Mr. Wanders-Off-at-All-Hours. Worried half to death, I was, wonderin where you’d gone. Lost amidst the kelp forest, I was sure of it. Eatin up by some creature. I can’t be a widow, Marty, oh no. Not at this age. I look positively dreadful in black. It’s spring for heavens sake. What would the ladies say at cribbage?

Marty wasn’t sure exactly what the ladies would say, but he was sure they’d say it over and over again, loudly, and all at the same time.

“Glad to hear you were concerned, my Shining Moonstone of Joyousness. I was just off foraging. Wouldn’t want you to waste away, now would we?”

His wife snorted, and glanced sideways at Marty. Meronica Parsley was dainty the way bulldozers were petite, the way heavy machinery was well proportioned. You were constantly in danger of losing a limb if you slipped up even a little. Marty Stroutrump knew this, and like a sailor on suddenly rocky seas, he skirted the oncoming storm.

“Why don’t we make our way towards your parents, my Resplendent Sand Dollar of Delight. I’d hate to keep them waiting.”

Four large shadows passed over the sun. The couple froze only briefly before gathering themselves and darting deep into the kelp forest. As they dove down amidst the holdfasts and the seagrass, Marty could make out hushed voices slowly moving overhead.

“And then we attack?”
“No, then we lure them out.”
“And then we attack?”
“No, we wait patiently while Slate and Jaz get into position…”
A pause. Those creatures with much finer hearing might have heard wheels slowly turning, catching, and breaking down entirely.
“And then we attack.”
A sigh… “Yes, and then we attack.”
“I like it.”
“I thought you might…”
“And those Dramatic Dumbfins of Dock Who the Heck Cares won’t hardly know what hit ‘em?”
“They’ll be taken completely by surprise. We’ll get them all, come Hell or High Water. And the tide is coming in, just you wait and see.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with tides… you never said nuffin ‘bout tides…”
Another pause… “I think… I think that might be a umm… a hyper bowly, a speech thingy.”
“SHUT IT JAZ. Who asked you?”


The voices slowly faded in the distance. Marty turned to his wife, who seemed to be frozen in place.

“Meronica? They’re gone now, my slender seabiscuit of seductiveness. Nothing to fear, nothing at all…”
Meronica slowly turned to face her husband. Marty gulped.

Sailors are known to have a six sense, an ability to predict when the tides have turned and the winds are no longer in their favor, when they should just cut their losses and return home emptyhanded lest their brazen insolence anger the many sea gods who delight in reminding fisherman why they were born on land, and why being so far from solid ground is such a foolish idea. Marty could tell that his luck had not only run out, but it had packed a bag, booked a flight, and locked the door behind it.

“SLENDER. SEABISCUIT. OF SEDUCTIVENESS?! Four sharks float by and YOU SAY THERE’S NOTHING TO FEAR?! Oh, OK. Let’s just swim around amongst the kelp, willy nilly. Tra la laaa.” His wife pirouetted clumsily. “Nothing to worry about, nothing at all. I’m Marty and I haven’t a care in the world…
YOU KNOW WHAT WE ARE? Snacks for the road, MARTY. We’re TRAVEL SIZED TIDBITS for those lunatics and I HAVE NO INTENTION OF BEING ANYONE’S TREAT TODAY!!!! (Yes, she was four exclamation points mad).

Marty cringed under his wife’s onslaught, and quickly tried to change the subject.
“You heard what they said, though, right? They’re planning something. That’s not like them. They’re lucky if they can recognize food from attractive looking driftwood, and even then there’s a fifty fifty chance that they go home full after a big meal of car tire.”

“What do I care what a few sharks’re up to, eh? Long as it’s got nothin’ to do with us, and doesn’t interfere with our trip to my parents…”

Marty paused, lost in thought.
“The sea lions! The sharks are after the sea lions! We have to warn them.”
“What? Why? We have no dogfish in this fight.”
“Because it’s the right thing to do, Meronica. Because they would do it for us.” And to himself, Marty thought: Because it’ll get us out of visiting your parents.

With the uncanny mind-reading ability every woman develops after marriage (much to the chagrin of the man) Meronica hissed, “Youuu just don’t want to visit my parents, do you?”

Marty did his best to look offended.
“Meronica, I’m offended. How could you accuse me of such a thing? You know I adore your mother, and I would literally kill for some of her famous shellfish flambé.But how could you stand by and let those scumbags do, err…whatever it is they’re going to do. Which is clearly not good. And should be stopped. We have to warn the sea lions.”

Meronica glared at her husband before storming off into the kelp forest.
Marty sighed and slowly followed his wife. The kelp continued to wave slowly in the current. Small, brightly colored fish flitted in between the long stalks, dappled sunlight slowly streaming down from the surface. A halibut buried in the sand burrowed deeper, kicking up a cloud of dirt. He had seen the otters, the sharks, the scheming, and had what could be called a unique perspective on things. When you go through life sideways and half underground, you tend to view life a bit different than most folks. He knew that while the otters had good intentions and the sea lions were a scrappy bunch, it would take a bit… more to deal with the Great White gang. The flatfish swam further out to sea, leaving the relative safety of the bay. He wondered if it would be awake. The halibut shivered, and it had nothing to do with the temperature. It would be awake. It was always awake.

Part 4.

The dock was crowded. Earlier in the day, the sea lions had stumbled upon a large school of herring and the result was sixty momentarily satisfied sea lions, lounging on the docks. They were content, but far from quiet.

“Eh, Sally Anne, did that school seem to be a bit smaller than normal?
“You bet your buxom behind it was, Norma Sue.”
Norma Sue didn’t know what buxom meant, but she assumed the worst.
“Back in MY day the schools’d be so large a whole complaint of lions could eat for days and never see the end of it. (The little known plural noun for a group of sea lions is a ‘complaint.’ As in: That complaint is rather obnoxious).
“In YOUR day, eh? Well in MY day, we di’nt e’en have to leave the docks at all! The fish were so plentiful they practically jumped out of the water and into your mouth, beggin to be eaten. It was our civic duty, you understand, to remove ‘em from such overcrowded conditions. Poor buggers. It was the least we could do.”
Norma Sue looked sideways at her companion and scoffed, flopping onto her side to think of the perfect comeback. Little did she know that it, like all comebacks, was destined to come two days later and when no one was around to listen.

Marty Stroutrump and his extremely disgruntled wife surfaced about a hundred yards from the pier.
“We’re here, are you happy? I’m hungry.” complained Meronica.
“La Mer, please, bear with me.”
“Five minutes, then I’m trollin for abalone, with our without your scruffy behind.”

Marty swam quickly towards the docks.
“Ahem,” he began, never one for a strong entrance.
The sea lions continued to bicker, snore, and generally ignore him.
“AHEM. Who is in charge here? I have important news.”
Stan, who happened to be relaxing nearby, raised his head just enough to shout, “May the sandfleas of a thousand beaches infest your fur.”
Not to be deterred, Marty continued, “Really, who is in charge here?”
“May a million flatfish slap you soundly about your fuzzyface.”
“It’s about Stu and his gang!” shouted Marty.
“May the crabs of innumerable ravines pinch you in your sleep.”
“He’s coming for you, with Randolph Crinklesnout. They’ve got some sort of plan to surprise you all at once. All of you. I just thought you should know.”

Marty turned to join his wife.
“Hold yer seahorses, pup.”
Marty looked up into the scarred, gnarled face of Donald, one of the largest males of the group.
“Where did yer hear about this?”
“I was traveling through the kelp beds to the west and they swam over my wife and I. We only heard a little, but I thought that I should warn you so you can, I don’t know, prepare or something. Flee.”



Donald snorted. “S’ that your suggestion, eh? Turn tail? Well let me tell yer somethin’ Mr. Half a Fur Coat. These docks are our home, and it’s gonna take more than a few nitwit sharks to change that.”

Donald shouted over his shoulder, “Oye! Fred! Stan! Front and center!”

The old sea lion waited patiently as a chorus of muffled shouts and cries of pain slowly grew louder. Fred and Stan appeared over the backsides of the nearest slumbering sea lions, haphazardly throwing themselves from body to body, muttering apologies in their wake.

“S’ry mate, didn’t seeya there.”
“Upsee daisy, watch it there, comin’ through.’
“Step lively, brother, we’ve been summoned.”
“I’m stepping as lively as possible, oh wise and magnanimous one.”

The most recent victim of the brothers unorthodox travel yelled back, “And we all would appreciate it if you stepped a little LESS lively. Or NOT AT ALL.”

“Brother do you hear something?” Stan asked
“Just the wind, Fred. Just the wind.”

The two troublemakers careened to a tentative stop next to Donald and on top of a few younger, unfortunate lions.
Donald chose to ignore this.

“This feller here says we’ve got a problem. Somethin’ to do with Stu and his gang. You two make the most mischief out of all of the group, so let’s see you put those talents to good use, eh?”

Stan feigned shock, “ What?! Us? Makers of mischief? Disturbers of the peace? Scallywags and rabble-rousers? Brother do you hear what we are being accused of?”

Fred looked stricken. “I hear it, brother, but I don’t believe it. Never, in all my years, have I been so-“

“Shut it, would ya,” Donald interjected. “Just figure out how to stop them. And keep this to yourselves, I don’t want to alarm the group. Last time that happened they up and left for Oregon and stayed for months. It’s cold in Oregon. Let’s not go to Oregon.”

“Understood boss. You can count on us,” said Stan.
Fred chimed in. “We’re just the guys for the job, Chief. Five orders of sharkfin soup, comin’ right up.”
Donald snorted again. “Just don’t screw this up.”
And with that the weary patriarch flopped back down and was almost immediately asleep.

Stan and Fred barrel rolled into the bay, splashing noisily as they went. They headed for deeper waters, both hungry once more; it was a perpetual state for them.

“Sooooo, brother… Any idea as to how we’re going to foil the plans of five determined, albeit peabrained, megasharks?”

“Not a clue. I was hoping you had thought of something, replied Fred.

“Well, there is something I’d thought of…” Stan trailed off, swimming slowly along next to his brother.

“Do share, Oh Sage of the Seven Seas. Magician of the Murky Mudflats. Oracle of the Open Ocean. Seer of the-

“Once you start, you have a hard time stopping, don’t you?” Stan said, glancing over at his brother.

“It’s a condition. It really is,” replied Fred. “Please, ignore my brilliance and tell me what you have in mind.”

The two brothers swam slowly onward, plotting, scheming, and getting sidetracked by small schools of fish.

Ten leagues away, out of the relative safety of the bay, the halibut crested a small rise in the ocean floor and stopped at the edge of an abyss. An unfathomably deep trench scored the seascape north to south, as if the gods themselves had tried to cut the ocean bottom in two and gotten distracted halfway through. The halibut contemplated turning around. He descended into the darkness.

Part 5.
Randolph Crinklesnout was dubious. His plan had more holes in it than the boat of the unfortunate fisherman he dreamed about snacking on. Slackjaw and Riptide were consistently offtrack, Stu tentatively grasped the idea at best, and Shifty Leftleaner, well… he did his own thing.

The plan itself was simple. Randolph had taken a page from the dolphin’s playbook. The sharks, acting in unison, would herd a large, appealing school of fish towards the docks. They would then hang back and wait for the sea lions to realize what good luck they seemed to be having and come hunting for lunch. The gang would then surround the unwitting sea lions and strike, completely annihilating the entire group. Randolph had visions of the hunt, him streaking through the confused sea lions like white lightening, a blur of fearsome marine power while the other sharks watched on in awe. No more teasing, no more being picked on. The sea lions, gone. Stu’s gang, impressed.

Contrary to Randolphs daydreams, the problems with his carefully crafted master plan seemed to be mounting. Working together to herd fish was proving a bit more difficult than anticipated. The dolphins had made it look so easy: Swim in tight circles to push the school closer to the surface. Take turns feasting on the trapped victims. Done and done. The sharks had practiced earlier on a large group of sea turtles. It had not gone well.

Randolph had done his best to coordinate the group, but these sharks took the phrase ‘feeding frenzy’ to heart. Slackjaw and riptide kept running into one another. Stu was too tempted to eat the turtles and Shifty spent half an hour batting the turtles back and forth with his nose, talking like an Australian and saying things like, “Tubular.” No one knew why.

Randolph sighed. It was midafternoon, almost time to go. They only needed to succeed once, and although it seemed a long shot, crazier things have happened.

“You guys ready? There’s a large school of tuna about half a mile from here, towards the East. If we spread out it shouldn’t take too long to push them towards the docks. Remember- its ok if a few fish break away from the group. DON’T go after them. You’ll get a much bigger reward later for forgoing a few small fish.”

Stu grunted in response. He wasn’t used to being ordered around and this type of approach was definitely not in his wheelhouse. Attack first, plan never. Feeding was a basic impulse, not something that had to be thought about.

Slackjaw and Riptide slowly gnashed their teeth, lidless eyes staring blankly at a world in which ‘prey’ was the only label needed.

Shifty leftleaner swam a tight circle, irritated flicks of his large tail propelling him around the group.
“Sea lion…. It’s been a while… let’s go before these two lumps forget what we’re doing.

The group turned slowly to the East, heading quickly for the docks, and presumably, the unsuspecting sea lions.

——
Fred coiled another strand of seaweed around the log.

“You sure this is going to work, brother?”
Stan emerged from the kelp bed, completely covered in seaweed. Long, leafy strands floated around him, like the head of some underwater medusa. He grunted as he wound the holdfasts around the enormous log.

“Your doubt wounds me, my friend. Of course this will work. Now, quickly, stick some more algae on the sides here. We only have a short while before the sharks attack.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Fred asked.

“When do you eat, brother?”

Fred didn’t hesitate, “Constantly. All day, every day. Morning noon and night.”

Stan sighed, “Yes, but when do we hunt most often, when does the group go out together?”

Fred thought for a moment. “Morning and evening, I suppose.”

“Exactly, and the sun is slowly descending. Almost time for the group to leave. Marty said that the sharks would try to draw everyone out into the ocean to attack, and that would most likely happen when the group is hungriest.”

“So what does a kelp wrapped, algae smothered log do for us, Mr. Smarty Snout?” Fred asked as he rubbed more green, goopy algae onto the log.

“It provides us with a distraction. Come, help me drag it towards the docks.”

The brothers swam clumsily homeward, dragging the now quite heavy log behind them. They passed small ravines on the ocean floor, undulating hills covered in fields of waving seagrass. Oyster beds speckled the bottom. Above, a container ship passed noisily, churning the ocean into a cacophony of sound and froth. The brothers waited patiently for it to pass.

“The group is feeding a little north of here. According to our otter informant, the sharks should be coming from the south. We’ll meet them here.” Stan turned to face his brother. “ I want you to hold this log at the surface until I give the signal. Then, drop it straight down and come join me. I’ll be about fifty meters down, over that way,” Stan said as he motioned with his flipper.

“What then?” asked Fred.

“And then we strike, before they do.”

Fred looked dubious, but decided not to challenge Stan’s plan. “If you say so, brother. But if you get me eaten, boy I am going to be PISSED.”

Stan smiled. “Don’t worry, Fred. This should be a walk in the aquapark.”

Randolph, Stu and his gang were getting excited. They could sense that they were getting close. Randolph had visions of the celebratory feast to come, and he could hardly contain his excitement. Even Riptide and Slackjaw seemed more attentive then usual, making a beeline for the coast.

Randolph wondered if he could get a nickname. He wasn’t sure who had stuck him with the unfortunate moniker ‘Crinklesnout’ but it was high time for an update. Perhaps, “Scourge of the Sea Lions,” or “Finned death.” “Toothy sea-terror?” This was how he got stuck with Crinklesnout in the first place- a lack of creativity. He wouldn’t let that happen again.

Stu had insisted on swimming at the head of the group. No surprise there. As Randolph daydreamed, Stu had gotten further and further ahead.

Stan had spotted the group about a kilometer ago, and had slowly been keeping pace at a safe distance. He calmly watched Stu distance himself from the rest of the group. As soon as he judged Stu to be in position, he raced for the surface and shouted over at his brother, “NOW. DROP THE LOG.”

Stan dove back down to watch his plan unfold. As the sharks had been traveling, the sun had dipped lower and lower in the sky, and with the heavy fog completely blanketing the bay, there was precious little light left. Stan knew that this was not a problem. Most sea lions were convinced that sharks had horrific eyesight, that they could hardly see prey in front of their faces and instead relied on a more acute sense of smell. Stan was not one of these sea lions. He realized that most sharks, and Great White’s in particular had fantastic vision, and could see particularly well in dim, clouded waters. Just like these.

Stan edged closer to sharks, just far enough away that they wouldn’t pick up on his scent immediately. He saw the blurry outline of his brother racing towards him from behind. Fred had circled back to avoid the floating feeding machines. They both watched the log drift downward, on a collison course with Stu. As the log slowly fell, the seaweed unfurled, long tentacles of grass extending in all directions. The algae they had so painstakingly rubbed along the log began to glow. The phosphorescent algae gave off a strong blue light, illuminating the tentacles waving in the current. The log slowed it’s descent, floating almost peacefully in Stu’s path.

The brothers dove deeper, beneath the gang.

Stu, almost completely lost in his own, single minded thoughts of feeding, was taken completely by surprise. A glowing, blue eyed, many tentacled sea monster seemed to have materialized out of the depths. Long arms waved maliciously, reaching out to grab him and pull him to his inevitable death. He’d heard stories of the things that lived in the ravines, things that snacked on sharks and feasted on fleets of fisherman’s boats. He froze, momentarily stunned.

During his moments’ hesitation, Stan and Fred came barreling upwards, streaking toward the surface like batrays out of some murky, underwater Hell. They hit Stu simultaneously, with such force that he was flipped completely over.

Now, sharks, aside from being Mother Nature’s version of a cruel joke, have an interesting quirk of biology, an Achilles heel of sorts. When placed on their backs, or rubbed on their noses, they fall into a coma-like trance. In this state, you can do whatever you wish, dress them up like prima donnas, tag them for research, or draw lewd things in marker on their faces so the other sharks won’t take them seriously. Long term side effects include a drop in self esteem and an aversion to arts and crafts. Not that sharks have anything to do with arts and crafts anyway. Lincoln logs were more their speed. But I digress.

Stu, unceremoniously flipped onto his back, was immediately unconscious. He bobbed gently up and down on the current, staring blankly into the darkness. The two brothers sped around the backside of the log and hid from the rest of the approaching gang.

Randolph was the first to see the ‘sea monster.’

“Holy Deepwater Horizon, what is that?” The gang slowed considerably. All they saw was an unconscious Stu and a giant, many-armed nightmare that glowed ominously at them in the distance. The monster made no move forward, and seemed to be completely ignoring it’s new prize. Not a good sign.

The other sharks were agitated. Lefty swam up to Randolph.

I don’t know about you guys, but if that thing can get Stu, then it can get me. There are a lot of things tastier than a sea lion, Crinklesnout. I’m out of here.”

Riptide and Jazz, adrift without a clear leader, looked from Lefty to Randolph and gnashed their teeth. They glanced over at the pulsating blue horror in the distance, turned tail, and swam after Lefty.

Randolph was visibly nervous as well. He too had heard stories of things that live in the deeps, out in the ocean and he had no intention of validating those stories firsthand. He turned to go.

He thought he heard a chuckle.

He turned back to face the sea creature. It bobbed up and down, tentacles whipping back and forth, apparently aimless.

Hunger must be getting to me, he thought. He swam after the other sharks.

Behind the log, Fred and Stan were heartily congratulating themselves.

“HO HO brother, how did you know that would work?!”
Stan did his best to look nonchalant, and failed.

“Oh, you know, I picked up a few things here and there, in my many travels.”

Fred snorted. “Travels? You hardly leave the dock any more let alone the bay. But I have to hand it to you this time, Brother. Well done.”

“Thanks, Fred.” Truth be told, Stan had heard an interesting story from a passing flock of pelicans about five years earlier. Apparently, near some small islands to the west of the bay, an orca had gotten a bit uppity and took on a Great White by himself. In the course of their tussle, the orca had flipped the shark onto his backside and was stunned to find his foe out cold. But Stan wasn’t about to share this with Fred and miss basking in the lukewarm glow of momentary adulation.

“We shouldn’t be hearing from that lot any time soon. Not after what the ‘sea monster’ did to their fearless leader. If we’re lucky, they’ll avoid this area entirely,” Stan said

Fred looked over at his brother.
“What should we do about Stu here? If he wakes up, we’ll be in for a world of hurt.”

“Let’s push him towards the surface. Some fisherman will undoubtedly think he’s dead and haul him into port. By then, that’ll be the fisherman’s problem.”

The two brothers pushed Stu slowly towards the surface, careful not to accidently flip him. They could already see at least two fishing trawlers close by. It was their lucky day.

Fred turned to his brother.
“C’mon Stan, let’s go home.”

The two sea lions headed slowly back to the docks.

The wind picked up. In the distance a large container ship kicked up a small wave. The current got choppier.

Stu was slowly rolled right side up.