June Rewards 2/4 (Summer Fun) - Sea Smarts (Patreon)

"Go ahead, lady, float along."

The fisherwoman watches from the pier, spitting the shell of a sunflower seed into her bait-bucket, scratching at the fuzz of her chin. Sweat soaks the pits of her jacket; she peels it from her back and snorts.

"Ya get lost lookin' for those beers, kid?"

Her apprentice, baby-faced and blushing, stumbles to her mentor. The older woman slips the hook of her left hand - a tarnished old metal thing, never one for the fancy new-fangled shit - under the bottlecap, flicking it into the bait bucket. The hook is fine. It can gut fish, it can thread lines, it can open bottles, and whatever it can't do, the kid can. She takes a swig. It's cool, bitter. A good, dry profile - light and hoppy.

"Sorry, ma'am. Whatcha lookin' at?"

The apprentice leans her elbows on the pier railing, squinting to see what her mentor has been following. A hooked hand indicates the bobbing silhouette of a tan woman in a striped inner tube, floating like a buoy abou a half-mile off the shoreline.

"See her? I give 'er about five minutes."

"Until...?"

Spitting over the rail, the fisherwoman grunts and smirks. "Ya really are new around these parts, huh, city kid? Didn't think you were one of the slickers not aware what lurks 'neath the bay."

Taking another drink, she runs her tongue over her teeth.

"Th'waters here are clean. Real clean. But that don't mean things don't crawl in the deep. Things with tendrils 'n' feelers, huntin' for doggie-paddlin' feet and bikini bodies floatin' along in their inflatables. Hungry things."

"Should- I- hey! If she's in danger, we should-!"

She shoots her apprentice a glare. "Don't you bother the coastguard, she ain't in any danger, simmer down. These things don't eat flesh. Or, they don't eat anythin' you actually need."

Sensing the young woman's confusion, she snorts.

"Dead skin. Sweat. Sand. Debris. These things are omnivores, kid; they largely get their nutrition from sea-plants 'n' sunlight. Sometimes from the coral off'a the critters they've learn'd to live alongside. But these li'l fellers, old skin 'n' sweat is a special treat for 'em. Proteins and salts. They scrub it off 'n' convert it into energy."

"How- how do-"

"Damn, you're a curious kid." She smiles and uncaps another beer, handing it to the gal. "Like I said, they've learnt to live alongside the bigger critters, so where the li'l guys can't, the big guys can. Big ol' tendrils wrappin' around your ankles as you float along, holdin' your feet in place-"

The apprentice visibly twitches.

"What's wrong, kid?"

"Nothing, I-"

"Yer cringing. I assume you've guessed what those li'l fellas do. Yup - the angel feather anemone has its symbiotic partners ensnare human tootsies so it can scrub 'em nice 'n' clean."

A scarlet blush has crossed the apprentice's face. Setting down her beer, the older woman takes a calloused hand and leans her hook on the railing, chucking the young lass's chin up.

"Look at me when I'm ramblin' to you, kid. Does it hit a li'l close to home? Y'got ticklish feet?" She waits for a second for an answer, but the silence makes her grin. "That's why you gotta listen; so they don't snag you up and tickle those pretty city-slicker soles. I bet they're real nice 'n' soft, huh? Cotton socks 'n' easy work don't toughen your peds up any. So listen here."

She relinquishes the other woman's chin and turns back to the sea. The shape is moving now - a chubby wealthy woman escaping the toil and turmoil of luxury life, the stress of being perfect, now squealing and splashing as wriggling tentacles lick and lave between her perfect little toes. The fisherwoman grins wider. That's what you get, lady. Respect the sea, or it's gonna teach you.

"First of all, don't go floatin' out in an inner tube. That's jus' common sense. If yer wakeboardin' or surfin' or whatever, keep yer grip shoes on 'n' keep yer feet out of the water. Don't go swimmin' with painted toenails - they see that and think your feet will be extra tasty, like some pretty coloured candy. And always wash yer feet before you go swimmin'. That's jus' respect."

"Wow." The apprentice rubs her cheek. "What time are they most active?"

"'Round midday 'n' dusk. They love people, so they've gott'n used to people's schedules on the beach. 'N' they tend to reach up to the pink sky at sunset, b'cause it's the colour of a blushin' sole. Well, that's the old wive's tale, anyway."

"Huh. Ok, that makes sense." The apprentice licks her lips, brow furrowed. "What other things- uh- attract them? Loud music? Groups? So I- um- so I know to avoid them. I would never- uh-"

She splutters a little, suddenly shy.

"I would never want a nasty little sea-critter to t- t- tickle my toes. That would- uh-"

The fisherwoman's hooded gaze only makes her stammer more.

"That w-would be super- um- gross..."

"Heh."

Downing her beer and tossing the bottle into the nearby glass waste can, the older woman rolls her shoulders. "They should let her go in about an hour. But if y'wanna be real safe, then a little trainin' is in order. Now, I know you're a strong swimmer, but it's hard t'kick away when you're gigglin' your head off. C'mon, into the cabin."

"W- what?"

"Y'heard me. Time for trainin'. A little tickle therapy to toughen up those tootsies. Y'gotta build up an immunity to it. Three hours of rough foot ticklin' a night should do you, huh?"

Silence, but for distant laughing and splashing waves.

"Quit gawkin'. I got enough bait, I don't need you catchin' flies." She stretches, shirt riding up over her gold-furred belly, goosing the smaller woman's side. "Y'signed up to learn from the best. S'time for a new kinda lesson, Peachy-Feet."

Gulping, her apprentice nods shakily, eyes darting back to the woman's silhouette in the sea - full-breasted, squirming, desperately holding onto her wide-brimmed sunhat.

"Y- yes ma'am."