The Old Doofus and the Sea
Some men chase legends for fortune, some for glory. The Old Doofus chased one because, once upon a tide, a fish told him to.
by Woolfinius J. Whürl
There once was an old man who lived in a sleepy, salt-crusted village where the waves curled like lazy cats and time moved only when it wanted to. His name was Dorrie, but folks just called him the Doofus.
He was a handyman by trade, though nothing he fixed ever quite stayed fixed. Leaky faucets became fountains, squeaky doors became sirens, and one time a fence he mended blew away entirely—right into the mayor's duck pond.
Still, Dorrie was cheerful, optimistic, and deeply, incurably in love with the sea.
Every day he would stare at the horizon with a child’s awe. Not because he hoped to escape the village, but because, as he often said with a wink, “She promised she’d come back.”
He didn’t mean a woman. He meant the fish.
When he was a boy of seven, Dorrie swore he saw a fish the size of a barn, shimmering gold in the surf. Its eyes were kind. It spoke without words. It told him: “You’ll find gold again someday.”
No one believed him, of course. They said it was sunstroke, or salt dreams, or too much squid ink. But Dorrie never forgot.
So one morning, at the grand age of seventy-three, Dorrie cobbled together a boat out of odds and ends—planks from a fallen porch, an umbrella for a sail, a wheel from a barrow—and shoved off into the sea, yelling, “I’m comin’, Big Fish!”
The boat was named The Believer. It leaked immediately.
Still, he sailed on.
He packed too many bananas (which he later learned were bad luck at sea), lost his net on the first day, and spent a full afternoon trying to cast anchor using a frying pan tied to his shoe.
At night, he was visited by a chorus of rude seagulls who perched on his mast like a gang of delinquent angels. They squawked and insulted him in caws and chuckles.
“Back again, Doofus?” they jeered. “Looking for your imaginary fish?”
“Har har,” Dorrie muttered. “Mock all you want. You’ll see.”
One gull, suspiciously named Clive, claimed to have seen the golden fish near the Bermudaish Triangle. “Head east,” Clive said. “Or maybe west. One of those.”
Dorrie followed whatever direction felt right, which mostly meant in circles.
Along the way, he met all manner of strange and whimsical sea creatures:
Octavia, a confused octopus who forgot how many legs she had and kept misplacing one.
Hank, a seahorse with small-man syndrome who challenged Dorrie to a duel (with kelp).
Billow, a sailfish who longed to be a boat and constantly asked Dorrie how to “get passengers.”
Whiffle, a tiny whale who thought he was enormous and made big waves by flapping his tail as hard as he could.
And Grumpa, a wise old turtle who told him, “If you’re looking for gold, try digging in your own story first.”
But Dorrie had only one goal. The fish.
Then, one fog-thick morning, Dorrie felt a tug.
A mighty, bone-deep tug that rattled the bolts of The Believer and nearly flung him overboard.
He grinned like a boy. “You came back,” he whispered.
The seagulls circled overhead like vultures at a feast, cackling and chanting, “Reel it in, Doofus! Prove us wrong!”
He fought with everything he had. The rod bent. His back screamed. His moustache blew in the wind like a battle flag.
Finally—with a final, heroic heave—he fell backward, soaked and gasping…
...holding the tip of a mast.
What he had hooked was not a fish, but a long-lost shipwreck, tangled in coral and draped in time. The boat had snagged on its bones.
Below, a gaping hull waited, bursting with golden trinkets, goblets, coins, and pearls like eggs in a dragon’s nest.
When the villagers saw Dorrie being towed in by a whale and a sailfish, trailing a sunken treasure behind him, their jaws dropped so far they needed reeling up themselves.
The mayor made a speech. The seagulls gave a reluctant cheer. Someone handed Dorrie a medal made of driftwood.
That night, sitting alone on his porch, Dorrie looked up at the stars, whispering:
“So that’s what you meant.”
The fish had told him the truth, long ago. One day he would find gold. He had just misunderstood. It wasn’t the fish itself—it was the journey. The friends. The wonder. The proof that belief, even silly belief, could drag up treasure no one else dared look for.
He closed his eyes and laughed to himself.
“Still hope to meet her again someday,” he said. “Maybe next time, I’ll bring snacks.”
And from far out on the sea, a golden shimmer flickered and vanished beneath the waves.
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