David bucked his legs in futility. One more try, he always thought. One more! Though that One would often become some multiple of Ten before his body simply screamed “Enough!” at him. It was exhausting work.
David’s chore was the practice of swimming in a particular style. The Dolphin-Kick, some called it. Or, The Merman. David really liked that name. The style of keeping both legs together as one swam. Together as one limb. Even on a day as grey and blustery as today, he kept at it, floundering foolishly as always.
“You lookin’ for hypothermia!? C’mon, get the hell outta there!” Called a spectator. Another boy on the swim-team.
“We’ll practice some other day, it’s freezin’!” Came another.
The team had to practice, of course, but none were all too pleased at having to do so on such a poor day, and all were taken aback by David’s lack of sense, keeping in the freezing waters for so long like that.
Of course, everyone thought he was just over-ambitious. His breaststroke always served him well. They didn’t see why he wanted to learn this style so badly. But David would never tell them the ridiculous truth: He loved merfolk, and wished, a little childishly, that he could swim like one. Maybe even be one someday!
At 18, he’d be embarrassed to admit it, though.
. . .One more try.
Ms. Maisar watched the boy flounder in the wind-riled sea with a keen, sly smile on her face. “Perfect,” she though. “A subject who’d surely be most willing.”
She dappled in magics of all sorts, though liked being discreet in her studies. Being caught would probably result in some charge for possession of drugs, or somesuch. Potions and mixtures were her thing, after all.
She’d recently finished a concoction that turn a person into a mermaid or merman. She had a fondness for the mythological, but very few folk on the island seemed at all eager to try it out, especially after learning the change was permanent. But she’d studied this lad for some time now. . . He was perfect!
Ms. Maisar was pleased to see the rest of David’s swim team had left, while the foolhardy lad still wavered against the harsh, icy elements. As he swam – or tried to, in his one-limbed style – she snuck a bottle of her mixture by his towel, with a note signed “Percy”, the name of one of David’s teammates.
She snuck away, and hid. The boy would surely climb out soon, and when he did, and saw her gift, she’d have quite a show. . .