Sea Lion Shores the halls of our fathers

[table width=80%][tr][td]

Szymon watched with approval as Ragna maneuvered with powerful sureness in the water and winced with sympathy as she blinked away the sting of salt. “Over t-t-time you will g-get used to the f-feeling,” he reassured her. The Cairn brood had grown wholly immune to it through the years and he had no reason to doubt that Ragna would be any different. “Watch how the waves m-m-move them,” he advised. “All f-fish are different — grown b-bluefish are not g-g-good for practice. F-Fast and aggressive, like y-you and me.” He grinned. “These are y-young.” He struck out for deeper water, motioning that the blue-eyed girl do the same, and nodded toward shore. “The adults churn the shallow w-w-water during frenzies,” he said, “and a c-c-careful wolf can t-toss them onto shore. Your p-paw, not your m-muzzle.” Their bites were quick and sharp, and it was unwise to put one’s face that close to the water. Even edging too close on the reef could be a stupid decision for a beginner. Szymon said as much, then nodded toward the lingcod school. “Use the w-waves,” he advised. “Watch.”

Szymon watched the incoming waves, his muzzle dipping below surface to check repeatedly the location of his fish — and when they swam under an outcropping of rock, he swam over it to hide his shadow. Then, using a wave, he rode the current and swept in with a powerful thrust of his body, scattering the school and coming up with a fish in his jaws. It flopped, slapping him in the face with its tail, and he clenched down to make his kill — giving Ragna time to attempt a catch of her own if she wished.

[/td][/tr][/table]