Waves caressed the shore, as calm as a winkless night, upon the lonely gasp of land and I was forced to call home following the wreck. It was days now since I had last seen another soul, since I had said good-bye to dear Maria and my darling Sophie, dragged beneath the rolling boil of icy torrents, the very same that now lapped cooly at my feet.
I couldn’t be sure what dragged me so close to the coast that evening. I had simply followed a voice that was more echo than enunciation. It soothed my ears and coerced me knee deep amongst the blue-black shimmers that ran eons before me.
“Are you ready kids….” the voice chilled, whispering into my ears but screeching into my heart.
“Aye aye, Captain,” I breathed.
Forward, down, into the void. The currents swung me further into their pillow caress, cooing me into a great sleep that refreshed me of my burdens, relinquished my latest terrors that had scratched at the back of my mind following the crash.
A rush of bubbles brought me into a new world.
My feet rested on the soft seabed. My eyes could see but an arm’s lustful grasp before me, but slowly, the shade of the water drew back, and I found myself on the side of a meager road. And in front of me stood what I believed to be engineering’s greatest fruition.
At least a home tall, the great pineapple reached skyward, ripe as the day Poseidon had picked it from his orchard. A curious metal door marked the front of it, with a stovetop chimney at the top. Truly this was a trick of my tired cranium.
A great horn blared from within the pineapple. My mind raced backward to the final moans of the S.S. Pearl before it fell to the sea.
“MORNING, GARY!!!” cried a voice from deep inside the fruit. This devastating cacophony had been some sort of alarm clock?
The door of the pineapple was kicked open. There stood a creature that would make Darwin spin in his grave; a half-man, half-sponge-like monstrosity that… blessed Mary, is it wearing shorts and a tie? It stood with golf-ball eyes, nearly fanged buck-teeth, and a nose that could be used to beat natives into submission.
With every step it took forward, a shrill squelch crashed the peace of the world. “STEPPIN’ ON THE BEACH DO WOOP DO WOOP. STEPPIN’ ON THE BEACH DERROOP DO DOOO!”
The beast ignored me and slithered its way to the left, where I peered through the fog to see one of the mythical, Polynesian statues called the Moai erected next to the pineapple. The sponge called up to top of the statue:
“Good morning, Squidward! Beee-utiful day, isn’t it?”
“Give it a rest, Spongebob!” cried an unseen voice. Shortly following the outburst, the sounds of a clarinet being attacked by a herd of penguins reverberated from the Moai.
The sponge continued its curious journey to the third and final “house” on the street, which stretched for hundreds of miles in either direction. This house was the most unsettling of all: a mighty, perfectly smoothed stone, half-buried in the sand, with a curious bamboo idol protruding from the top.
“Patrick! Come out, buddy!”
Suddenly, the rock lifted into the air, as if on the hinge of a door! Sticking to the underside of the rock was a truly grotesque beast: it was a sort of starfish, but with a man’s eyes and mouth (no nose, mind you) and wearing what appeared to be festive swimming trunks.
“Morning, Spongebob,” glowered the star. He (she? it? — in God’s eyes it clearly made little difference) was clearly upset.
“What’s wrong, Patrick?” screeched the sponge.
“I can’t see my forehead.”
This creature’s forehead was the very least of its worries.
“Well, come on, pal! It’s time for jelly-fishing!” The sponge pulled a small suitcase from its (excuse my language) bottom. The clasps clicked open and it revealed a small butterfly net.
“Oh boy! Jelly-fishing!” the star exclaimed, its past woes immediately washed away.
“But first I need to visit ol’ Mr. Krabs at the Krusty Krab,” the sponge explained, as if there was nothing problematic with the sentence it had just said.
Surely this nightmare would end soon.
“Whoa! Look at that!” the star shouted, peeling himself off of the stone. It ran beyond the road behind me, oblivious of my presence, and stood amongst a dozen colossal fishing hooks. The subtle sway of each one in the gentle shimmering waves tempted me closer.
“Patrick, Mr. Krabs warned us not to play with those!” the sponge screeched, its whining voice retching into my back.
“Oh, come on Spongebob, they’re nothing! They’re perfectly safe!”
The unpolished brass beckoned. I lingered forward, enamored with this discovery. How could something so simple call to me like a siren to the sailor? I grasped the sleek edge, drove my hand carefully down and through its curve, clenched its barbed end.
I was rushed upward, the hook racing for the moonlight above, obscured by flowery clouds.
The night broke over my weathered face and I felt myself being pulled up onto a boat, a rescue dingy, searching for survivors from the wreck.
I clamored for my rescuers’ attention but they refused to hear my stories of the creatures just beneath the waves. They ignored my ramblings of the sponge and the star as they rowed back to their ship.
But all of this that I write you, my dear sister Sandy, is true! May this tale reach fresh ears on the wings of your graces. The world must know of this new life, under the sea!
P.S.: I’ve recently learned of this new trend in women’s fashion in Europe called the “bikini bottom.” God that’s hot. Send me some bikini bottoms immediately.