The Mermaid's Tale
You know you're lucky the local fish let you frolic with them, seeing as how you ate three of them the day before. You feel so hungry lately. And driven, by urges you don't understand, to venture into more shallow water. You've never been so close to the shore, not in the more than 200 years of your young life in the sea.
You admire their delicate streaming fish tails, the vibrant colored stripes and fan-like fins. Why can't your dull scales be even half so pretty?
Breaking the surface for a moment, you peek at the shoreline. You find that you like to watch the two-leggers on boards. One in particular...
The chitter-click of fish conversation suddenly increases to a frantic level, attracting your attention. Usually it's dull as rocks with them -- their little brains encompassing only what's right in front of them -- but miraculously they discuss something beyond coral and food. Before they scatter in a panic, you realize with amazement that a big surge of water now rushes toward the shore.
You shrug, your long pale hair floating back as you flick your tail. They panic when the coral creaks. And you enjoy big waves, big currents. The better to play in. Like the two-leggers, you ride nature's ebb and flow rather than darting in fear like the little fish.
You observe with interest, however, that the two-leggers aren't frolicking in anticipation. Most seem to be thrashing toward land and then stumbling away in a panic. The few who remain follow the strong current's tug out to sea with grim expressions. You swim closer to "your" two-legger, a handsome dark-haired specimen with especially beautiful glistening muscles and a graceful way of finning the water. Another shouts, pointing to the horizon.