The single occupant was busy hauling in one of the nets, but not too busy to wave at the much larger vessel.
“Ayesh!” the fisherman sang out. “What ship?”
From near the bow, the first mate responded. “Good fishing?” Terious added by way of making conversation.
Grinning through his white-flecked beard, the lone sailor gestured at his catch. “As you see.”
“You’re not afraid to be out of sight of land, all by yourself?” the mate inquired. Several of the other members of the crew had moved to the railing to watch the discourse. In the detestable stillness, any diversion was a welcome one.
“Not I. Crice is the name, sir, and I am known throughout the delta for my bravery.” He indicated his mast and sail. “I know the winds hereabouts better than any man, you see, and am always confident of finding one to carry me home.”
Cupping her hands to her mouth, Stanager shouted across to the solitary harvester of the sea. “Ayesh, can you find one for us, good sir? We have been stalled here this past day and a half.”
“Sorry.” He waved again. “I have the last of my catch to bring in and then I must return home. You know that every ship must find its own wind. Not all have my skill.”
Stanager flushed, her cheeks reddening. It was an oblique insult and probably unintended, but it still set the Captain’s blood to racing. When it came to seamanship, she took a back seat to no man or woman. This solitary sailor who stank of fish guts and oil was taunting her, albeit gently.
Persistent he might be, even irritating, but Simna knew when to keep his mouth shut. Observing the look on the Captain’s beauteous face, he sidled away from her and closer to Ehomba.