Eliot squinted against the glare of the sun reflecting off the water, adjusting the tiller with hands still raw from rope burn. The sails snapped and billowed overhead, straining against the wind that carried him further from Foosha Village with each passing moment. He could feel the pulse of the ocean through the soles of his feet, the rocking back and forth like the beating of a heart.

The smell of fresh lacquer and sawdust lingered in the air. Mayor Woop Slap had claimed up and down there hadn’t had any work done on the boat, and Eliot had been apperceive enough to not call the man a damn liar. The sailor inhaled deeply, relishing the scent. It was a stark contrast to the stale, musty odor of his previous boat. That is if one would even call that ramshackle collection of planks a boat, and if they had, they definitely wouldn’t after the Lord of the Coast was through with it.

The young man stutter stepped about the deck with a mixture of determination and trepidation, his movements not yet fluid with the ship's cadence, but getting there. He stumbled as a particularly strong gust caught the mainsail, sending the boom swinging dangerously close to his head. This time Eliot ducked under just in time, the knotted bruise on the top of his head a fresh reminder of what happened if he hadn’t.

Straightening up, he gripped the mainsheet tightly, feeling the coarse fibers digging into his palms. He knew the theory of sailing like the back of his hand - could recite the points of sail, the parts of the rigging, the techniques for tacking and jibing. None of the words on paper had prepared him for out here, with the salt spray stinging his cheeks and the wind whipping through his hair. It had been a poor substitute for real experience, but he’d spent the whole week recovering from his encounter with the Lord of the Coast on the ship in dock familiarizing himself with the vessel. As his first day went on, and each step, he grew more confident and sure of his footing.

Now at the helm, his hands instinctively found their place on the smooth, sturdy wheel. He gave it a gentle turn, feeling the boat respond effortlessly to his touch. The sloop glided through the calm waters like a, well, like a boat, but for what it was the sloop responded beautifully, gliding through the gentle waves with a grace that belied its size. Lost in the peaceful rhythm of sailing, the young man closed his eyes and soaked in the soothing sounds of his vessel. He became lost in the lapping of waves against the hull, the fabric of a sail. The strain of ropes and a sail that fluttered in the wind. The gentle rocking of the sea and an insistent flapping-

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Eliot's eye twitched as he scanned the deck, trying to pinpoint the source of the maddening flutter. He stalked from bow to stern, his steps punctuated by the staccato rhythm of the noise. Once he noticed the aggravating and insistent fluttering, he couldn’t unhear it. Soon it was all he could hear; flapping, laughing, mocking. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, but nowhere in particular, dancing just out of reach. He peered into barrels and crates, rummaged through coils of rope and spare sails. Nothing. Just the incessant flap, flap, flapping that seemed to grow louder with each passing moment.

He checked the rigging, running his hands along the taut lines and inspecting each knot with a critical eye. The ropes were silent, offering no clues to the origin of the sound. Eliot glared at them accusingly, sure they were purposely withholding information.

Next, he ducked into the cabin, rummaging through the sparse furnishings and meager belongings. He upturned crates and barrels, sending supplies tumbling across the floor in a chaotic mess. The flapping continued, undisturbed by his frantic search. Eliot let out a frustrated growl, slamming a crate lid shut with more force than necessary.

Back on deck, he climbed the mast with single-minded determination half way up the sound which he had been sure just moments ago flapped from above, now mocked him from below.

Sliding back down to the deck, Eliot pressed his ear against the weathered planks, convinced the noise was emanating from the very heart of the ship.

"What in the name of the Grand Line is making racket?!” Eliot shouted, eyes bloodshot.

Eliot lay sprawled on the deck, ear pressed to the sun-warmed planks, eyes wild and mumbling when he noticed a seagull perched on the railing above, its sleek feathers unruffled by the sea breeze. It was a News Coo, one of the many avian messengers that traversed the vast oceans of the One Piece world, delivering news and information to sailors far and wide. The bird looked down its sharp beak at Eliot, a tangle of limbs and frustration, piercing eyes finding him wanting.

News Coo provided and invaluable and thankless job for countless sailors in its travels across the vast oceans of the One Piece world. They had delivered news to brave marines, daring pirates, and everyone in between. There was a sort of pride that went with the job and what they accomplished. If birds could sigh about the plight of their station, this one would have.

Before Eliot could react, the News Coo dropped a newspaper, and with a flash took the sailors picture as payment, sure that someone like him had no way of paying but unwilling to leave the desperate man uninformed. With a quick flap of its wings, the News Coo took off into the sky, eager to deliver the latest news to someone who would appreciate it more.

The newspaper fluttered down, pages rustling in the breeze before landing with a soft thud at Eliot's feet.