• Reach, pull. Reach, pull. Hands, seasoned with years of work, quickly pulled length after arm length of water worn rope into the ship. Reach, pull. Reach, pull. Droplets of salt water and sweat dripped down the fisherman's brow, the sea breeze working to cool his sun leathered face. Overhead, the sea gulls cawed and screamed with greedy hunger; they would feast on whatever the fisherman threw back from his hull.
    Save for the gluttonous birds above and the swelling sea below, the fisherman was alone. He had only the reach, pull, reach, pull of his work to keep his mind sharp, from swimming away into the ocean beneath his ship. To day dream would be to lose track of time; to lose track of time would be to allow the catch to get away. If the man did not return with an abundance of fish and crab, he would receive nothing for his labors. Death from starvation would follow; death from humiliation later. Only fools allowed the gentle grace of a fish below the ship to appear in his mind's eye as a glistening, busty mermaid.
    He had been a young boy once; every withered, salt-and-fish-scented sea dog had been at one point. Before the constant reach, pull, reach, pull of dragging a net aboard had consumed his life. He had caught mermaids then, using books and pens and paper and all sorts of other things he had swiped from his mother's study. Any little glimmering sparkle in the night sky or on the street in a rain storm was the promise of adventure; his first kiss had been from a princess rescued from the jaws of a dragon. His first dance had been with the Queen of fairies; the first time he made love had been with an enchanted maiden from the darkest regions of the moon beyond the skyline.
    The boy aged and became a man. Instead of catching mermaids, he settled with catching dollars waved under his nose and the promise of wealth. One could think of mermaids and fairies when one had the time to grow fat and the money to buy the food with which to do so.
    Something moved beneath the water.
    Reach, pull. Reach, pull. The net, pregnant with flopping fish and skittering crabs, finally plopped down in the middle of the deck to give birth. With quick, skilled hands, the fisherman unknotted the masterpiece of rope to find his bounty within. Eyes, once blue but now gray with age, counted out each cent and dollar he would receive for this hull; half way through, he paused to stare.
    Pale skin, glistening, black scales and gasping mouth stared back at him, all tangled up in the remnants of the rope net. Wet eyes, the color of the underside of oyster shells, burrowed into the man's face. A hand, pale and thin, more like fins than anything else, moved to the creature's face, then fell limp at its side.
    Reach, pull. Reach, pull. Silently, quietly, with the salty sting of the ocean wind wiping at his hair and face, the fisherman laced rope between the creature's hands to form a sort of pull string. He brought it to the edge of the ship and dumped it, hands still tied, over the edge. Without a second glance, he returned to his work as the sea swallowed the creature whole.
    Mermaids were worth nothing in the market.