He killed the engine over the shelf where the current usually brought in herring. His lamp lit a pale circle of water, plankton flashing like static. The nets hung slack. Nothing moved. Then the skiff jolted. Not from chop, but from something that touched the boat everywhere at once; the hull, the motor, even his boots.
A low vibration ran through the wood and into his bones. He braced, crouched low, and leaned over the side. A massive shadow streaked beneath him. It was too clean, too precise, not the bulk of a whale or the flutter of a ray.