Pip hopped fast along the harbor street, his little crooked foot tapping on wet boards. The spring tide had pushed a messy line of seaweed, shells, and driftwood across the ramps, and Pip meant to prove he could help clear it away before anyone said he was too small.
He squeezed past a slippery coil of weed and planted both feet near the first step. The wood shone with saltwater. Above him, the harbor was busy and damp and full of creaks: ropes twitching, boats knocking softly, and gulls calling from the cliffs.
“Out of the way,” Pip said to nobody and everybody at once, puffing his chest.
He tried to hop onto the ramp edge. His crooked foot slid. A shell skittered away. More seaweed slithered back over the planks as another wash of tide lapped in behind him, fresh and cold.
Pip stopped and looked up. Farther down the quay, he could now see small boats nudged hard against the stone wall, their ropes pulled tight, their sides bumping and complaining in the water. This was not just a messy street anymore. The harbor itself was getting stuck.
Pip swallowed and stared at the blocked ramp. If the boats kept pressing there, someone would need to move the clutter fast. But how could a tiny gull chick help before the rising water made it worse?
What happens next?
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