I arrived in Orkney at precisely the moment the sea decided to stop pretending.
I liked it immediately. Not because it was welcoming—it wasn’t—but because it was honest. The wind didn’t lie. The rocks didn’t negotiate. And the tides behaved like they had somewhere better to be.
Perfect working conditions.
Jack was already on the trawler when I came aboard, clipboard in hand, posture of a man who believed the universe could be solved with enough documentation and the correct line tension.
Pedro, as always, was in a mug.
I leaned on the rail. “Ah,” I said softly. “Still alive then.”
Pedro blinked once. I took that as polite acknowledgment. Or mild existential dread. Hard to tell with him.
Jack, meanwhile, was explaining the tide.
I’ve heard this lecture before. It comes in phases: respect the data, don’t trust calm water, and the ever-popular reminder that rocks often look smug right before they ruin your day.
I respect the lecture. I also enjoy watching Pedro experience it.
Because Pedro does not respect data. Pedro respects warmth, snacks, and emotional stability.
The tide began to turn.
I noticed first because the gulls changed their minds about where they were standing. That’s usually the first honest sign something interesting is about to happen.
Jack noticed because his instruments did something subtle and reassuring, like a well-trained assistant clearing its throat.
Pedro noticed because his mug moved.
“Oh,” I said, brightening. “We’ve reached the bit where the ocean starts doing impressions of a washing machine.”
The boat shifted. Nothing dramatic—just enough to remind everyone on board that confidence is not a structural feature.
Jack adjusted a line. “Controlled load transfer,” he said.
I nodded. “Yes. That thing you say when reality begins applying pressure.”
Pedro slowly slid half a centimetre inside his mug.
I pointed. “There. That’s my favourite phase of Pedro: silent re-evaluation of life choices.”
The tide picked up properly now, funnelling through the channel with the confidence of something that knows it cannot be negotiated with.
Jack worked calmly. Lines tightened. Systems absorbed strain. Everything behaved like it had read the manual and decided, reluctantly, to comply.
I watched Pedro instead.
His fur had adopted a slightly more aerodynamic shape.
“That’s not fear,” I said thoughtfully. “That’s a creature discovering geometry under duress.”
Jack glanced over. “Is he stable?”
I leaned in. Pedro was gripping the mug rim like a sailor who has just realised the sea has always been in charge.
“He’s… observationally stable,” I said. “Morally drifting, but physically contained.”
A workboat passed. The skipper gave a nod that suggested professional approval and mild concern—the standard Orkney greeting.
I waved cheerfully. Pedro did not wave. He was busy reconsidering gravity.
The trawler settled into the tidal stream properly now—no chaos, just pressure distributed through sensible decisions made earlier.
I appreciated that. I also appreciated Pedro’s slow, dignified slide as the mug shifted again.
“You know,” I said, “most creatures at sea either adapt or panic.”
Pedro chose a third option: vague existential buffering.
I shook my head. “Sorry, Pedro. The tide doesn’t accept feedback.”
A final surge ran through the channel—strong but clean. The boat held steady. Nothing dramatic happened, which in Jack’s world counted as success.
Pedro survived it without being launched, submerged, or spiritually relocated.
I crouched beside the mug. “You did well,” I told him. “You remained small, warm, and mostly useless. Admirable qualities in a crisis.”
Pedro blinked slowly, as if considering retirement.
Jack closed his clipboard. “Stable conditions achieved.”
I smiled. “And Pedro has once again absorbed approximately nine percent of the universe’s chaos.”
Pedro did not disagree. He was conserving energy for future tidal negotiations.
I looked out over the moving water, satisfied.
“Right,” I said. “Next time, we teach him knots.”
From inside the mug, Pedro made a sound that could only be described as pre-emptive regret.
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