Fishing the Gris
by C.L.Chick

Read time: ~4 minutes

A smile spread across Roy’s face as he sat with an open beer staring at the polished mahogany in front of him. Owning his own boat had been a dream since he was a kid and he’d finally managed to save enough. She wasn’t just any old boat either. She was a 1951 Chris-Craft Riviera with a custom banjo style wheel, chrome windshield, and original dark green marine vinyl upholstery. He ran a hand along the bench seat enjoying the feel of it – smooth and warm, but not hot, under the late afternoon sun.

A glint along the placid water caught his eye. Could it be a fish? Finally? Or was that just wishful thinking? He’d been in the middle of the Gris, a short, but deep and wide passage between Mere’s Island and the mainland, for more than an hour without a single bite. He checked both lines. Still nothing. And that glint was the closest thing to a fish he’d seen yet in the unusually opaque waters that surrounded him. But even if the fish didn’t bite, he was content just to spend time in his new boat.

He chortled to himself remembering a conversation he’d had with a local captain before he left the dock. The man told him the area was dangerous, that a lot of boats had gone down in the Gris. But how? The water barely moved. One would almost think it wasn’t even part of the sea, even though the open ocean could be seen from where he sat. In fact, the water was so still, it was boring. Of course, the captain also said the Gris was loaded with murderous jellyfish, so the old man was probably a kook.

He yawned. Some stimulation was in order. He tossed his empty beer can into a bag he brought for trash, then went to pull another from his cooler, but his life vest caught on something and prevented him from reaching the compartment in the rear. He unclipped it and shrugged it off his shoulders. Movement was easier and more comfortable without it anyway, and the water was so calm, it wasn’t like he was going to need it. He got his beer, then retrieved his “Boating Enthusiasts” magazine and started flipping through it hoping he’d find a good article that would keep him awake. But, before long, his eyes grew heavy and he drifted into a relaxing slumber.

Jostling roused him and he blinked a few times, then rubbed his eyes. He was still in his boat in the Gris, but the sun had dipped below the horizon and the sea surrounding him resembled a black hole. The boat moved again, tipping unnaturally in the placid water. Barely a second went by before it tipped in the opposite direction, enough so that he slid to the side.

His heart rate increased as he scrambled to start the engine. But he wasn’t able to get his hand on the key before the boat tipped again. He slammed against its side so hard he was sure it bruised him. He reached for the key again. It took two more tries, with the boat being bandied about, before he was able to capture and turn it. Nothing.

He turned it again, and the boat tipped once more, this time nearly halfway, tossing him dangerously close to the water. Still no engine noise. His heart raced and sweat broke out on his forehead. The boat tipped again and he gripped the steering wheel to prevent from being thrown into the sea. As the boat crashed down, he grabbed for his life vest and held it with all his might when the boat swung in the opposite direction. Water rushed in with a ferocity that belied the stillness that surrounded him, and the strength of it pushed him back and ripped the vest from his hands.

A gasp escaped his lips as he plunged into the blackness. The sensation of thousands of icy needles piercing his body assailed him as the frigid waters enveloped him. He tumbled and lost track of the surface. Then something soft and pleasant, the texture of smooth gelatin, brushed against his arms and legs. It would have been comforting, maybe even soothing, if the origin of the sensation were visible. But it wasn’t. Nothing was visible – and he needed air.

He blew a bubble, felt it rise against his nose, and began to swim in the same direction. One stroke. Two strokes. Something long and thin wrapped around his leg, then around his ankle and arm. An impossible burning, like fire against his skin, ignited in the cold blackness as tendrils coiled around each of his limbs, multiplying by the second. The more he flailed, the tighter their grip.

They drew him deeper, their gelatin-like skin no longer soothing, but terrifying, when it brushed against him. The pressure of the water’s weight built around him as he was drug into the abyss. His lungs begged for air. Without his consent, his body gave into its demand for survival and he gasped. Salty liquid slid down his throat as the tendrils continued to tighten around him.

Behind the scenes: I was on a Discord and something came up about murderous jellyfish. So, I decided I’d see if I could write a piece in 1,000 words or less about murderous jellyfish. This story is the result. Hope you enjoyed it. Please feel free to tell me what you thought of it below.

“I thought it was very good!” - Vikki Chick