The Worst Best Brother In The Ocean

In the Great Pacific Ocean where the water goes down further than anyone has bothered to measure and the currents run like arguments that never quite end — there lived two sharks.

Finn was older. Finn knew everything. Finn had opinions about: Which direction to swim. Which fish were worth chasing. The correct way to circle something interesting. And approximately four hundred other things that nobody had asked him about.

Ray was younger. Ray also knew everything. Ray knew this because Finn kept telling him things he already knew which was proof that Finn knew nothing about what Ray knew.

They fought about: Whose side of the reef was whose. Who had seen the sea turtle first. Who was the faster swimmer which was Ray and Finn was wrong about this. Who was the better circler which was Finn and Ray was wrong about this. And the time Finn ate Ray's fish which Finn maintained was an accident and Ray maintained was the worst thing that had ever happened in the entire Pacific Ocean.

This was a normal Tuesday.

On this particular Tuesday they were arguing about direction. "Left," said Finn. "Right," said Ray. "The current goes left," said Finn. "The fish go right," said Ray. "The fish," said Finn, "are wrong."

Ray went right. Finn went left.

This was fine. They did this regularly. They always ended up in the same part of the ocean eventually because the Pacific is large but siblings are larger.

Ray swam right. The water was warm and blue and full of the particular silence of being extremely correct.

Then the shadow appeared.

Not a small shadow. Not a reef shadow or a current shadow or the shadow of a cloud doing something dramatic up above. A large shadow. A very large shadow. A shadow the size of oh.

The whale came out of the deep the way whales do — slowly and then all at once and then enormously.

It was a sperm whale. Sperm whales eat squid. Ray was not a squid. The whale in the particular dim blue light of the middle ocean apparently had some questions about this.

The whale opened its mouth. Ray froze.

Sharks are not supposed to freeze. Ray froze anyway.

The mouth was: Very open. Very large. Very much pointed at Ray.

Then something hit the whale from the left side. Hard. Fast. With the specific fury of someone who had been swimming in completely the wrong direction and had turned around for reasons they would not be explaining.

Finn.

Not big enough to hurt a whale. Absolutely big enough to confuse one. The whale turned. Ray unfroze. They both swam.

Fast. Together. In the same direction for the first time in possibly ever.

They didn't stop until the shadow was gone and the water was warm again and they were somewhere they didn't recognise which didn't matter because they were there together.

They floated. Both of them. Catching their breath. Which sharks do with their whole bodies.

"You came back," said Ray. Finn said nothing for a moment. He looked at the ocean. The enormous Pacific ocean that went on in every direction forever. "You went right," said Finn. "The current goes left."

Ray looked at his brother. "Thank you," said Ray.

Finn swam a small circle. Not a graceful circle. A slightly embarrassed one. "The fish do go right," he said finally. "I checked."

Ray said nothing. He filed this away for future arguments. There would be future arguments. There were always future arguments.

But right now they swam together through the Great Pacific Ocean side by side in a direction they both agreed on for once because the ocean was large and deep and full of shadows — and some things are bigger than being right.