Sea Changes
 by Marta Randall
It's been a long season, but I made my quota and now I
come, with pleasure, down to the coast for the autumn
curing. Season's end brings me far south of my usual
cove, but this one will do just as well. Sandy hills covered
with rough grass slope to a small crescent beach,
protected by arms of boulders on either side; the great,
warm ocean current piles fog along the mouth of the cove.
It looks as though the end of the world lies just beyond
the blue-gray rocks; even at mid-day the fog doesn't lift,
lying dense at the cove's mouth and never entering the
cove itself. In the sunlight, at the foot of the rolling, grassy
dunes, it is quite warm.
    The land slips gradually into ocean here. I strip and
plunge into the sea, taking my spear with me. There is little
to harm me on Greengate, but things still sting, or take
occasional bites to find out what an alien tastes like; I've
learned caution in three planet-years. Small blue fish pierce
the water over a rock and sand bottom. I inspect sea
plants with jointed fronds, opalescent crustaceans and,
near the breakers, something I can't identify. Whatever it is
sports a mass of waving, lavender arms set with brightly
colored florets; the mass moves as I move, sideways to
the spill of the waves. Those pretty, undulating arms look
sharp. I don't like this. Fascinating creatures are of use,
but cutting edges threaten my season's catch, fourteen
perfect hides, and the high prices they will fetch at
McCree's two months from now. I prod the lavender thing
with my spear; I come too close and it nicks my hand. I
surface, curse, and suck at the tiny wound, then submerge
again and prod in earnest. I can't find the body of the
damned thing, but it seems firmly rooted in the seabed and
not likely to come free. Back on the beach, I stick a
plaster on the nick, stretch the season's pelts on their
curing frames, and anchor them securely under the gently
breaking waves.
   Camp goes up next, foam hut, fire pit, various articles
of furniture created at random from the saffron-colored
leftovers of the hut. Such luxury, after the long season
following the herds, setting and baiting traps, searching for
the perfect animal, the perfect pelt. Season of killing and
skinning and wrestling heavy sacks from and up to
Keam's sagging back, and dirt over everything, and hard
rocks under my back at night. The area is cluttered with
soft things, but come winter the foam will melt harmlessly
into the sand, leaving no trace of my curing camp.
   Keam watches my preparations with mild, silent
perplexity. He shifts from foot to foot to foot to foot to
foot to foot, six-legged curiosity slouching about the