Skipper’s Quiet Nook

A nap sounded perfect—until the ship got busy.

My name is Skipper, and I am a small fish with a very important nap to take. I had found the old sunken ship just that morning. Its wooden deck rested on the sandy seafloor, and its tall windows stood open to the sea. Long blades of sea grass swayed through them, brushing the quiet cabin walls.

“This looks like a fine place to rest,” I said.

I swam onto the deck and tucked myself beside a thick wooden post. I closed my eyes.

Clack-a-clack!

A little school of silver fish zipped past, turning together like a shiny ribbon. Their tails stirred the water and sent me scooting across the boards.

“Sorry, Skipper!” they called as they hurried away.

“I was almost asleep,” I told them, though they were already gone.

I tried again near a coil of rope. A tiny bubble slipped from a crack in the deck and tickled my nose. I sneezed a string of bubbles right back.

Then a sea grass blade swept through the open window and brushed my fins. I scooted away, trying not to laugh.

“Maybe the cabin will be quieter,” I said.

Inside, a pale stripe of sand lay across the floor. I settled near it and folded my fins close. The ship creaked—not loudly, just a long, low groan, like an old chair shifting.

I shut my eyes.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

A little crab was marching over the floor with a shell balanced on his back. He stopped beside me.

“Are you sleeping?” he asked.

“I’m working on it,” I said.

“Oh! I’ll be quiet.”

He tiptoed away, but his shell bumped a wooden cup. It rolled in a slow circle, making a hollow, bonk-bonk sound.

I watched it roll until it stopped.

The deck was busy. The cabin was busy too, even when no one meant to be. I swam back outside and looked around the ship. There were corners and posts and curled railings. Surely, I thought, one of them could hold a small fish and a little bit of quiet. I began my search again, keeping my eyes open this time.

I started beneath the ship’s wide stairway. It was shady there, but a stream of water slipped between the steps and nudged me out into the open.

“Not that spot,” I said.

I tried behind a stack of wooden crates. They stood close together, but the space between them was too narrow for me to turn around. I backed out tailfirst and bumped gently into the crab.

“I’m Clove,” he said. “I was looking for a quiet place, too.”

“Skipper,” I said. “I know just how you feel.”

We searched together. Clove peeked beneath a bench while I checked beside the mast. A stream of tiny bubbles rose from a gap in the boards and tickled his claws. He giggled so hard his shell wobbled.

“Maybe the ship is full of busy spots,” he said.

“Maybe,” I replied. “But I haven’t checked everywhere.”

I swam slowly along the deck, looking past the places I had already tried. The curved railing bent around the ship’s side like a wooden arm. Beneath it was a small nook, tucked between the railing and the deck.

I slipped inside.

The water moved differently there. It swished past in a quiet, even stream, without pushing me or making bubbles. The railing curved over me, and the busy deck seemed far away.

“Oh,” I whispered. “This is it.”

A long blade of sea grass wandered through the nook and brushed my face. I wriggled backward. For a moment, I thought I would have to give up the spot.

Then I noticed the grass was only caught on the edge of the railing. I nudged it with my nose. It swayed away, then curled back again.

“Can you help?” I called.

Clove came close and held the blade gently with one claw. I pushed it aside with my nose. Together, we guided it through the opening, where it waved freely in the water beyond the railing.

“There,” said Clove. “Now it can swish out here, and you can rest in there.”

“And you can rest nearby,” I said. “There’s room for your shell beside me.”

Clove settled on the sandy deck, just outside my nook. The railing sheltered us both, and the water kept moving gently past. At last, no part of the ship seemed to be asking me to go anywhere.

Clove turned his shell a little, searching for the comfiest place on the sand. He tucked his legs beneath him and rested one claw near the railing.

“Is this a good spot?” he asked.

“It’s a very good spot,” I said. “The water does the swishing for us.”

We listened. Swish, went the water past the curved rail. Swish, went the sea grass outside the nook. The sounds came and went, slow as a rocking boat, though the ship itself stayed still on the seafloor.

From our sheltered place, I could see the old deck without being in the middle of it. A tiny fish passed by the mast, then disappeared through an open window. The loose rope rested in a quiet loop. In the cabin, the sea grass brushed the wall and swayed away again.

Nothing bumped into me. No bubbles tickled my nose. The wooden cup stayed where it had stopped, and Clove’s shell rested without a sound.

“I think I’m finally ready,” I murmured.

“So am I,” said Clove.

I folded my fins close and nestled beneath the railing. Clove settled beside me, with enough room for his shell and both of us to feel cozy. The water flowed past our little nook, smooth and steady.

I remembered how I had searched the busy deck, the stairway, and the cabin. I had tried to find quiet by myself. But the best resting place had been waiting in a small corner, and Clove had helped me make it just right.

We listened to the water swish softly past the ship. The sound filled the nook, then seemed to grow farther away as my eyes grew heavy. Clove’s eyes grew heavy, too.

The ship rested on the sand. Sea grass swayed through the open windows. And beneath the curved railing, Clove and I stayed tucked close together, peaceful and still.