The Bay of Khemal was as calm as it ever got, its waters - often storm-lashed and capable of capsizing ships not crewed by those used to the weather - marked only by a relatively gentle swell.
In this lull between storms the fishermen of the Jara docks were out in force, hoping to net several day's catch before another thunderhead rolled in and brought the waves to a frothing frenzy once more. Traffic in and out of the harbour mouth was heavy, and there were more than a few collisions when sailors who got up just a little too early to start or caught a load just a bit larger than their vessel could maneuver with met each other. Most of the bumps and nudges were solved with creative name-calling, but occasionally there came the sound of splintering wood and shouts of aid. For that reason, a Syracian galley rode the swells outside the harbour mouth, sail furled but crew ready to drop their fishing poles - it was a calm day, after all - and man the oars at a moment's notice to pluck some drowning mariner from the water.
It was the galley's Sarvan*, lounging in the stern while keeping one lazy eye on the the mass of sails, who first saw the ship. Built like any other one- or two-man fishing craft, its small sail bellied out with the breeze, the small boat maneuvered amongst the others with unusual agility. Several times the Sarvan swore that a collision was unavoidable, only to see the craft turn gracefully aside. At the second near-miss he ordered his crew to the oars, and by the third they were bearing down on the strange vessel. Fishing boats scattered before the larger galley, including their quarry, but a shouted command and three arrows in its sail were enough to convince the unknown helmsman to heave to.
The Sarvan dropped into the fishing craft with three of his men, intending to give whoever was steering the vessel a stern reprimand about safety and maneuvering. He was taken off-guard by the somewhat advanced age of the owner - how could he handle the ever-awkward steering oar so well? - and then by the lack of a steering oar entirely. The fisherman, apprehensive at best about the armed soldiers glowering at him, gestured to the large, hinged oarblade attached to the stern of his craft, a long pole extending into the boat. An old man, he was not up to wrestling with the weighty steering oar, and had devised something easier to handle ... and if it was no trouble to ask, was he in trouble?
The Sarvan smiled. No, he was not in trouble. In fact, how would he like a medal?
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*Sarvan: Captain.