“Seems like a long way’s ‘way from ‘ere,” the shark mused, glancing east. “Ye sure ye’ll be ‘lright by yerself, mate? I mean, with yer suit and everythin’?” Bruce asked, an expression of concern spreading across his scarred face, and head tilting to the side in genuine worry.
The Repairman had his oar halfway in the water when the shark pointed out his suit was still ruined.
The inkblot almost forgot about that thing. He might be able to salvage it, or at least parts of it. He fished it out with the oar, and plopped it near the walls of the raft.
“Eh, I’ll be fine,” he grunted as he did this. “It’s not that far. Should get there in about ten minutes, weather and tides permitting.
"Besides,” he shrugged, “I won’t be rowing the whole way.”
Siblings-a-Fixin' 