It was a bitter winter night. The Pacific was as calm as it was large. Upon the shore lay a small fishing boat, inside was a crew of three: the captain and two young men. Meanwhile, unnervingly deep in the ocean lay their demise.
The three men pushed their small, sturdy vessel into the dark blue. The captain, an old man in his fifties, barked at the two chattering boys. His gruff voice echoed throughout the air and across the blue where they heard it.
The other trio were deadly, vicious, and beautiful beasts. Tonight would be their debut. That night would be the stories’ stem; these stories would depict the threat as it truly was, if not worse. Tonight would be the night the sirens were made known.
The boat made its way further from shore. Then, they struck. With graceful movements, like leaves in the lightest breeze, the three hefted themselves onto a nearby boulder and sung.
The ship halted. Each of the three men heard a different yet similar melody. The captain felt tears brim, the soft voice was so close to one he held dear. The eldest of the young men heard of riches none could dream of, glory greater than Hercules’, and mountains of gold only Midas could aspire to muster. The youngest, a poor, heartbroken soul, heard a voice lighter than a feather, breathier than the wind, a child’s, his daughter’s who lay six feet below at the age of four.
The captain blinded by tears steered towards the jagged peaks, where their doom lay. They all thought the same: follow the voice. Their captain jumped and swam to his doom, the others followed suit. The youngest snapped back to reality and swam upstream, mustering all his might for he had seen them.
That young man grew old. Although he died, the stories he started lived on. The sirens were true and he saved countless with his tales.
