Why do some boats return to their slips with no record of who took them out, and what's behind the harbormaster's refusal to discuss the vessels that dock only during fog? Which moorings stay reserved for crafts that haven't been seen in years, and why does the tide pool near pier seven never freeze despite winter temperatures? What's anchored in the deep water beyond the marina that sonar can't properly map?
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Into the sea I’d love to sink When with both eyes a shark can blink Is he a brave fish or a marine man? Through those closed eyelids my heart will he scan?
― Munia Khan
The air at Salem Marina carried a peculiar weight---heavy with salt and something more insidious that Phoebe Kwan couldn’t quite place. Seagulls that should have been noisy scavengers remained eerily perched on mooring posts, watchful and silent.
She had inherited the small motorboat from her uncle---a man she barely knew but who had insisted in his will that she specifically should have it. “Wavecrest,” the boat was called, though its once-bright lettering had faded to ghostly impressions against the hull.
The marina manager, a weather-beaten man named Sorrell, handed her the keys with reluctance. “Tide’s coming in,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the horizon rather than her face. “Best to wait until morning.” But Phoebe had driven six hours to get here, and the sunset painted the water in such inviting amber hues.
Out on the water, engine humming beneath her, Phoebe noticed how the other boats---sleek and modern against her uncle’s aging vessel---seemed to cluster together in the marina, as if seeking safety in numbers. Only Wavecrest had been moored at the outermost slip, where the marina met the deeper waters.
The first oddity was the water’s warmth when she dipped her hand in---unnaturally warm for this climate. The second was the silence---no distant conversations from other boats, no music, just the gentle lapping of water against fiberglass. The third was the subtle pull she felt---not of current or tide, but something drawing Wavecrest steadily away from shore.
Night fell with unnatural swiftness. The lights of the marina receded though she was certain she hadn’t traveled far. The boat’s engine sputtered once, twice, then died completely. In the sudden quiet, Phoebe heard it---water moving not with waves but with purpose, circling her small vessel.
Below the surface, something vast and patient shifted. Phoebe realized with mounting horror that her uncle hadn’t gifted her the boat. He had scheduled a delivery---and she was the package.
The harbor had been hungry for so very long.
