I’m no fool. I’ve seen ’em with me own eyes.
And I’m setting a trap right now for one of ’em. The bait? A nice, thick plume of underwater oil.
Gulf Girl feeds off raw oil.
That’s the name they gave poor little Jane, the British pain. She once was a pretty lass with a shapely future. Today she wears skin like a dolphin and smiles with diamond sharp teeth.
Gulf Girl reaches an underwater speed of 37 mph at a maximum 6,000 ft depth. Catchin’ that one will be a task. But even so, if I do, there’s odds I won’t turn her over for cash – if instead I should behold her figure and decide I’ll turn her over for fun!
With the lung capacity of a dolphin, enhanced hearing, clarified underwater vision and gills that allow an additional 28 minutes of underwater time when air runs out, Gulf Girl is elusive, to say the least.
Topping it all off she has the strength of three women and an intuitive sense for trouble.
But she’s still not near as familiar with the sea as meself. I’ve studied up on the wayward wench.
Formerly the wee daughter of a British oil executive on a tour of daddy’s operations, young Jane Colvin was lost in the Gulf when their helicopter went down en route to a drilling rig twelve miles off Louisiana.
The accident caused a catastrophic failure of the rig pouring millions of barrels of oil into the Gulf.
Jane wasn’t seen again and some time passed before the people of the Gulf started talking about the weird woman said to come aboard yachts at sea at night uninvited, make herself at home, drink heartily, joke with a British accent, then dive into the black ocean in the middle of nowhere as their fuel leaks into the water.
Thriving on the briny oil she does all she can to make more, sabotaging ships and taunting stranded crews. Now the manhunt is on…for Gulf Girl.
Then there’s that other one. Quelphe can submerge near the surface for two hours without a breath…
Oceanic life is constantly moving.
There’re layers of depth and current flows acting as barriers and challenges to Quelphe just as mountains and oceans challenge humans.
This one I’m turnin’ over for cash money. Ugly as sin she is.
There are depths below her reach and domains where she and her kind cannot go, for the Great Current will not allow it.
Quelphe is a recurring migrant, moving with the flow or along the settling boulevards of detritus. Such was the way of the Unda, her people.
Yes, she has “people.” This one’s no accident. There’s a bunch of ’em out there… somewhere.
Her undersea world is huge, a thousand times larger to her than this pathetic surface is to humans, and ever moving, always transforming and delivering new visitors that one hopes will get along but has to assume might be dangerous.
Here in the waves they sleep half awake, Quelphe’s dreams shared with the herd. But her wakened adventures draw her ever closer to the shores, alone…
Like most practical folk I, Captain Diabolito, had always dismissed tales of mermaids as mere bunk, drunken fabrication, illusions or fraud.
Yet after coming so near to one I could deny them no more, I am obsessed thereafter.
Some will call me crazy; no matter. I know what I know.
Nothing but the Grim Reaper will stop me from catching them.