Maria Pianelli Blair
We caught a mermaid down by the pier. Her eyes were bright, like midsummer skies; her hair the shade of sugarplums. Until then, only the occasional shark sighting or whale carcass made headlines, folklore banished to the faded murals of selkies and sea dragons that lined Ocean Avenue. Until then, Harmony Grove’s biggest claim-to-fame was the Victorian style church in town square, complete with a gabled roof, ornamental spires, and a congregation 500 strong.
Those days, we spent weekends at the boardwalk, riding our longboards through throngs of tourists. There was usually some hubbub or another at the shore and, that Saturday, all eyes were on the new cross-shaped pier, funded by St. Luke’s. Stretching nearly 600 feet, and funded by $2 million in parishioner donations, the fiberglass monstrosity was deemed an “architecture marvel” by the county paper. Others called it “controversial,” spurring a year-long debate over whether religious symbols, especially ones the size of a football field, belonged on public beaches. But the Methodists won, as they often do, and Jack figured what better way to christen the pier than with his granddad’s old fishing rods?
“Mike Caldwell caught some fluke last summer,” he assured us. “We just need a few lucky casts for a fish fry.”
Instead, we caught a mermaid. It took the three of us to reel her in, heaving and hawing like a game of grade-school tug-of-war. I imagined a colossal sea bass leaping from frothy waves, the kind that smashes state records and lands you an interview in Field & Stream. But when the line burst from the swell, we were blinded by her iridescent tail, scales more resplendent than the sun. She landed at our feet with a thud, hook tangled in her coarse tresses.
We stood, breathless, Indie still white knuckling the fishing rod, until she threw her head back and screeched an ungodly screech. More grating than nails on a chalkboard. Visceral, like a mosquito humming in your ear. The sort of sound that sends a jolt down your spine, convulsing, writhing, ravaging your body until sweet relief rushes in. Relief that leaves you numb, stunned, and grateful, all the same. She screeched until the whole pier stared, stopping only to catch her ragged breath.
“They caught a mermaid,” a fellow fisherman whispered, with a hint of envy.
“They caught a mermaid!” a little girl squealed, tugging at her mother’s skirt.
“They caught a mermaid,” an old woman shuddered, crossing herself.
And then they rushed in like a tidal wave, swallowing us into their fervid depths. A sea of hands, desperate for a selfie, a TikTok, a handshake. They clawed at her braids, bestrew with shells and starfish. Caressed her tail. Groped her conch shell necklace, the color of a hurricane. One woman, offended by the mermaid’s breasts, forced her into a ratty t-shirt—“Harmony Grove Community Potluck,” and a garish cartoon of a fish in a chef’s hat now emblazoned across her bosom.
It was all too much for the mermaid, who barreled behind Indie. She sat there, curled up and quivering, but the crowd remained relentless.
“Stop!” Indie cried, smacking away a smartphone. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her?”
The old woman crossed herself again. “Can’t you see that this is a miracle?
“Reverend Paul blessed the pier this morning,” added another.
A low rumbling rushed over the crowd as they inched closer, debating their next move.
“Someone call St. Luke’s!”
“That’ll take too long. We should carry her over ourselves.”
“Forget church, this has TMZ written all over it.”
Indie picked at his cuticles, blood pooling around a gnawed-down nail. Even Jack had gone pale. “Dom,” he hissed, “what do we do?”
But there was no time to think. The mermaid pressed her conch-shell necklace to her lips and exhaled. A low melodic moan, like the whale calls we studied freshman year, resounded, reverberating through our bones. But unlike Songs of the Humpback Whale, her wails were haunting, conjuring images of Sirens and sailors destined for watery graves.
A sharp pang pierced my arm and I realized it was Indie’s nails, digging into my flesh. Petrified, his gaze had locked on a seismic wave that had erupted some 600 meters out. My stomach dropped as it rolled in like a thunderstorm, skies darkening above its rising crest. As the conch shell screeched, the wave tripled, growing wider and wider. An insurmountable wall, the wrath of Poseidon, the scourge of Triton, the ultimate damnation for our sins.
But before the tsunami could break, swallowing the pier and everything in its wake, a shriek rang out from the far side of the cross: “My god! He’s caught a Kraken!”
The crowd couldn’t resist one final brush with the fantastical, a miracle, a mirage, or simply distraction from their own mortality. Those who hadn’t run screaming for the shore stampeded towards the new spectacle, dismissing the mermaid like a sideshow attraction.
The mermaid’s eyes jutted back and forth. Her jaw unclenched, her shoulders softened.
Indie crouched to meet her. “Look!” he pleaded. “You’re safe! They’re gone now. Call it off. Please call it off!”
And so, the conch shell ceased. A brisk sea breeze rushed in, flooding our nostrils with briny whiffs of salt and seaweed. The wave receded into the abyss, drenching us in mist and nothing more.
The mermaid blinked at us, languidly. I exchanged glances with Jack and Indie. They nodded in silent agreement.
We used the Kraken to our advantage, snagging a rowboat from the unoccupied lifeguard stand. Wordlessly, we paddled offshore. The mermaid, huddled in her too-big t-shirt, peered at the gentle waves bobbing our boat. Her fingertips grazed passing ripples. At her touch, a stream of fish leapt into the air. We rowed and rowed until our arms ached, eyes strained, and the colossal pier was the size of the cross that Reverend Paul wore around his neck. Only then, did we look toward the mermaid, and she peered back before swan diving into the undertow.
We sat there, silently, until she disappeared into the turquoise tide. Jack reached for the fishing rods, stowed by our feet, and snapped them in half. They sank like stones into the murky sea.
By summer’s end, the pier would be condemned, deemed structurally unsound by the city council, or perhaps a malevolent god, ocean-bound or otherwise, who understood that some marvels aren’t meant to be.
MARIA PIANELLI BLAIR is an artist and writer based in New Jersey. Her fiction has appeared in Gypsophila Magazine, swim press, two-headed press, Pile Press, Prosetrics Literary Magazine, Blood+Honey, and Querencia Press. Follow her on Instagram at @strange_sunsets or visit her at mpianelliblair.com.