The morning started like any other — warm neoprene, smooth wakes, and the rhythmic hum of Storm Surger’s boat carving the water like a sword through silk.
Wake Razor stood ready, one foot strapped into his single ski, the other bobbing in the water. In the boat, Storm Surger throttled up with a grin, while behind him, Poseidon’s Edge leaned casually on the engine cover, arms crossed, eyes narrowed beneath sea-worn sunglasses.
“You ready to dance with the tide?” Storm called back.
“Always,” Wake Razor replied.
The line tightened. The boat surged forward.
Wake Razor exploded from the surface like a launched spear, leaning deep into his first cut. The bay was his kingdom — until they entered the fog.
It rolled in low and fast — a thick silver sheet swallowing the sun and muting the world in vapor. Even the roar of the engine became ghostly and distant, like it was underwater.
Poseidon’s Edge stood straighter. “This is no normal fog.”
Storm nodded. “You feel it too?”
Then, without warning, the tow rope snapped taut mid-turn — not from Wake Razor falling, but from something pulling him back.
There was a splash. A shout.
Wake Razor was gone.
The boat looped hard, circling back. They found him floating in the mist, dazed but still holding the rope.
“I’m fine,” he said, coughing. “I think I... hit something?”
“You fell clean,” Storm said. “No turbulence, no tailspin.”
Wake Razor shook his head. “Something grabbed my ski.”
Poseidon’s Edge narrowed his eyes at the water. “Try a deep-water start.”
They circled again. Wake Razor coiled the rope and took position.
“Hit it!”
Storm gunned it — but Wake Razor lurched forward and then tumbled again, the ski jerking to the side unnaturally.
“Something’s there!” Wake Razor barked.
Poseidon’s Edge stood at the bow, scanning the misty water. Then he froze.
There — just under the surface — a flash of silver scales and long, flowing dark hair.
“Oh, sea-gods help us,” he whispered. “It’s a mermaid.”
Storm cut the engine. Silence fell.
The fog swirled around them like a cocoon. They drifted.
“Mermaids aren’t real,” Storm muttered.
Poseidon’s Edge didn’t answer. He was locked on the rippling patch where the figure had vanished.
“I saw her,” Wake Razor said quietly. “She had eyes like... like stormwater. And she smiled before she let go of the ski.”
They floated, waiting.
Nothing.
Just mist. Just silence.
Storm revved the engine softly. “One more start. Let’s end this.”
Wake Razor nodded, more resolved than ever. The rope tightened.
This time, he launched clean — the ski cut a hard arc, and the rooster tail flared like defiance.
Behind him, Poseidon’s Edge watched the water as the mermaid surfaced briefly, far behind — just a silhouette, hair fanned in the mist, eyes glowing faintly blue.
“She let him go,” he said, just loud enough for Storm to hear.
They didn’t speak again until the fog broke and the sun lit up Mission Bay once more.
Wake Razor coasted in with a triumphant laugh, the fear washed away with the wake.
“You’re not gonna believe what I just saw,” he said.
Storm shook his head. “We already don’t.”
Poseidon’s Edge stayed quiet, still staring back at the fog.
Somewhere beyond it, the waters whispered — and remembered.
