MAN O WAR

— 2026 —

The exhibit opens in an hour. I walk through the corridor, reviewing each canvas soaked with ocean blues, stained various shades of purple and green. Fishing line and yarn, painted deep emerald and sapphire (with some orphaned violet threads for good measure), drape across each canvas, loosely dangling beyond the edges, delineating beautifully colored, haunting tendrils. I grab the polyethylene recycling bags I prepared — unbranded, deep blue, dusted with mauve paint I scraped through a metal window screen with a toothbrush. The sea foam green tinted fins I placed on a few of the bags turned out more realistic than I could have hoped.

I partially inflate the translucent bags with helium. Just enough for them to bob around, as if they were floating — adrift with seemingly no will of their own. I attach a bag to each canvas: The 2 x 2s, the 4 x 8s, the 12 x 16s. All of them. Down the entire hall.

The Portuguese Man O War is the only creature of its kind on Planet Earth. They are oceanic pack animals. They can’t survive individually, and, as such, are called “colonial organisms,” the name for a collective “colony” of Man O War being a “bloom.” What makes them unique among all other creatures is that each “member” of the bloom (individually called a “zooid”) is genetically identical to each other member of the colony, despite their disparate physicalities.

When you first encounter a Man O War, it will look alien to your eyes. Bulbous, see-through “heads” (for lack of any better term) loosely inflated with gas — poisonous to any animal that isn’t itself a Man O War — from which dangle majestically hued tentacles that can grow to over 100 feet in length, no matter the size of the creature’s head floating above the ocean’s surface.

Despite their alluring color, Man O War are predators. This is fascinating because they can not move and, therefore, can not chase prey. They only travel — in their packs of identical twins, triplets, quadruplets, or whatever the word is for 1,000 identical children — wherever the sea takes them. Along the way, they claim what prey lies in their path, tangling them in their collective, caustic web of mindless tentacles hiding beneath the surface of the sea. They drift with no will of their own. They deliver pain, destruction, and even death everywhere the laws of physics and random chance take them, their intentions meaningless.

Just like me.

This corridor is my bloom. Each canvas, a zooid — morphologically unique but genetically identical to its siblings. They are here by no choice of their own. Their design — their purpose — unknown to them. Helpless to their effect on whom with they have contact, no matter how significant.

— 2005 —

Kevin Quaranta was the King of the Emerald Coast. Every teenager with a penchant for fishing, surfing, boogie boarding, sailing, and every other beach sport, flourished on the bone white sands of North Florida’s panhandle. But, in my little town… Among the beach bums I found myself entangled in… Kevin was indisputably the master of it all. For all we knew, the Gulf of Mexico spat him out as a baby and a pair of sun-burned surfers passing by took him in out of sheer wonder.

We called them “beach boys” (even the girls): The kids obsessed with the sand and water; the types who would throw their fist up, jut out their thumb and little finger like how kids pretend they’re on the phone, and say “Copacetic” while rocking the “phone” back and forth. In high school, the only beach boy I talked to willingly was Sam Ritter. Not enough to know him but enough for his friends to recognize me. Knowing Sam meant getting invited to bonfires on the beach.

I always declined.

Not because I didn’t want to go; but because their idea of me was better than anything I could have shown them — I was sure of it. So, I played it cool, keeping the illusion alive. At least, until Kevin himself made me an offer: “We’re going surfing. Hoping for a snowball fight. Wanna come?”

A Gulf of Mexico “snowball” fight meant paddling out on your surfboard until you found a bloom (called a “swarm” around Pensacola or a “smack” in Mexico Beach) of Cannonball Jellyfish, so named because of their cannonball-like shape. Their tendrils drooped a mere inch and a half below their firm yet squishy heads through a small, easily-avoided orifice, making it painless to grab a Cannonball from their “top” and throw it like a “snowball” at your surfer buddy. Cannonballs don’t produce enough venom at the end of their tentacles to hurt much, so the punishment for not getting out of the way was the impact plus a small zap that would leave a trivial welt behind.

Nothing serious.

You can’t tell if you’re hurting jellyfish — they don’t send any external signals familiar enough to us mammals to mean anything — but we knew we weren’t killing them. After enough of throwing them around, they’d eventually scatter, propelling themselves into so wide a radius, finding a good one to throw would stop being worth it.

When Kevin asked me to join, I, of course, said, “Yes.”

Not much of a surfer, I laid belly down on an orange board I borrowed from my uncle. Everyone else was catching small, curled wave tips and Sam would splash whomever was behind him with water off his board’s tail fin.

John Larsen was there: He had lost a fleshy chunk of his thigh while waist-high fishing in the Gulf with live shrimp in his trunks he was using as bait. A shallow water Bull Shark smelled that bait out, didn’t even know John was there, took the shrimp and some of John with him. After a couple of months in the hospital, John returned to school a hero. My life stayed the same. Now, here we were together — the first time I had seen him outside of a classroom since the incident with the shark.

A few other boys showed. I didn’t know them well, but I had seen them around: Mike, Tre, Charlie. Abby Faircloth was there too, the only girl on the water that day. Abby was Sam’s object of desire, despite her not seeming to notice any of us unless surfing was on the table. Couldn’t blame her, though. We were all the same age, but she had things like college and finances figured out. Sam never planned ahead of next weekend.

Kevin was the first to spot a Cannonball bloom. Less than a hundred but more than a few dozen. A good find. He swept one up, gripping the firm bulb of its head. Kneeling on his board, commanding his balance, he threw the toxic orb right into Sam’s chest.

The jellyfish slapped against Sam, knocking him from his board into the water before its rubber-like body rebounded and snapped it back into the air before landing in the ocean again. Sam was submerged for what felt like too long, but just as panic began to set in, he resurfaced on the other side of Abby with a Cannonball in each hand, throwing them wildly at both her and Charlie. The game was on.

I was far enough outside the chaos, effectively invisible. I had never touched a jellyfish before, and never thought I would on purpose. A Cannonball Sam had thrown got caught in the drift and floated by my reclusive outpost, bobbing up and down, chancing itself to safety. I scooped it up in a slosh of salt water, routing its retreat. Its beauty was stunning: frosted glass flesh traced with light brown, dragon-like “scales”, like a painted jewel, its tentacles a decorative skirt supporting the display. I looked to the rest of the beach boys, all laughing, splashing, dodging, throwing. The sunlight was dwindling, blasting the ocean surface with a blinding sheet of gold foil as it fell. If I wanted to be remembered as any type of fun — anything like their idea of who I was — I had to take this pretty little creature and make my move.

Kevin was distracted, kneeling on his surf board, lobbing jellyfish at the commoners below. I dipped under the water to get closer, stealthily resurfaced and aimed right at Kevin’s spine, knowing I’d get a laugh by throwing him off balance, even from him.

I drew my arm back and launched the Cannonball as hard as I could, smiling all the way, unbothered by my treatment of the helpless creature.

Instead of bouncing off of Kevin like a gelatinous spring as all the others had, the Cannonball burst, coating Kevin’s back in a jelly of thalassic napalm. I choked on terror as I saw glistening flesh on almost every square inch of Kevin’s exposed skin, thickly lined with black, brown and red strands. Two days later, I would learn that Cannonball jellyfish don’t have a painful sting due to some type of biological regulation system residing inside of their bulbous heads. If a Cannonball jellyfish bursts, however, all of the venom it possesses comes out at once, coated along its innards hidden inside of its alien-like head-body.

Kevin screamed and flailed, caught in some invisible fire. The guts and tentacles of the Cannonball had sprouted like a deadly hollow point, wrapping around Kevin’s body, neck, and face. Venomous, black innards had stuck in Kevin’s eyes, which I saw only for a moment as he spun around on his board before falling into the water, his chest also coated in crossing strands of flesh like a fishing net.

The blinding reflection of the falling sun on the sea disoriented us all. Most of the group didn’t know what had happened — they just heard screams and a splash.

Kevin resurfaced, still screaming, his eyes and face swollen, welts covering his neck and shoulders but now free of the dead creature’s ballistic organs. For a brief moment, I felt relief.

Tre screamed when he saw Kevin , “What the fuck happened?!” I was pushing through the waves of shame, hoping no one noticed it was my Cannonball that caused the scene. Playing it cool.

But then, Abby started screaming too. She didn’t sound afraid or shocked. She sounded panicked. I tried to focus on what she was yelling over the sounds of splashing and the crashing of waves…

“MAN O WAR!” she shouted. “HEAD BACK IN!” I heard her say. “MAN O WAR!” she screamed again.

I squinted through the sun-coated, glass horizon to see Abby pointing towards the sunset with one hand, paddling shoreward with the other.

I looked to where she was pointing. The radiant sheet of gold laid down by the sun had blinded us all to the bloom. But I could see them now. And they were close.

An enormous colony of Portuguese Man O War, maybe hundreds, rose and fell with the ocean, like an ornate carpet flying in our direction, the tide at its back, hastening its approach.

You don’t encounter Man O War often on the Gulf, but everyone has a story. Beneath that exotic fleet floated hundreds — perhaps even thousands — of feet of barbarous, paralyzing tendrils. Man O War aren’t normally deadly. However, if you get wrapped in their spindly embrace for a matter of even mere minutes, you will always — no matter your age, immune system, or genetic disposition — enter anaphylaxis, eventually losing your ability to breathe. The taser-like pain of the sting won’t kill you. You’ll either drown or suffocate, the venomous grip searing your flesh while you drift into a deathly sleep.

We were all taught to avoid Man O War. More than jellyfish. More than stingrays. On the Gulf, adults would even teach you to punch a shark in the nose if you had no other choice. But the lesson for Man O War was always the same: Run.

Sam paddled past me, screaming “Shit” over and over like it was his gasoline. Kevin’s board was in the drift, but I couldn’t find him.

I reminded myself he was King of the Coast. He’d leave his board behind if it meant not getting caught in the Man O War. He was fine. Better than the rest of us, even.

John’s board slapped against the shore in a light wave with John dramatically slogging in behind it, the ocean draining from his trunks. I came in right after him. Abby was there already. So was Sam. So was everybody. I got in last — not a surprise.

“Whew-ee!” John exclaimed, adrenaline still spiking. “What a time, huh? Cannonballs and Man O War? When it rain it pours, right, babes?”

Sam beached his board further up the sand before desperately running along the beach, looking to the ocean. The glint of the sunset relaxed from a glaring gold to a calming hue of orange, but it was still difficult to see too far out into the water.

“You guys see Kevin?” Sam anxiously asked, pacing the beach.

“He’s a beach boy, dude. Swims better than any of us. He might be down the beach even,” I said, feigning confidence. “Probably sneaking a beer at Toucan’s!”

Abby unstrapped her wrist from her board and helped Sam look into the horizon.

“I don’t see anything, man,” she said. “The fuck is he?”

John grew concerned. So did Charlie. So did everybody. I confronted the group again, trying to offer some kind of respite.

“Come on, guys! It’s Kevin! He’s down the beach!”

— 2026 —

As expected, the night is uneventful. Potential patrons shuffle in; their children poke at the lower-hanging polyethylene bags. Nobody buys anything.

I follow the last few visitors as they leave, thanking them, ready to lock the door. Key in the lock, a woman rushes up, peering through the glass. I push the door open slightly.

“Sorry, miss. I was just closing up,” I say.

“Zach?” she asks.

I look her over, afraid of more legal trouble. Then I see it. I see her. It’s Abby Faircloth.

I let her in, and we sit together against the wall under one of the larger canvases. She brushes the drooping tentacles over her shoulder. I let the the ones hanging over me stay where they are.

“What do you think?” I ask nodding to the canvases, not really wanting an answer.

“Makes me think of Kevin,” she says, taking in the entire hallway all at once.

“Me too.”

Abby plays with one of the fishing lines dangling behind her. “Sam still talks about it. Blames himself. Thinks he could’ve pulled Kevin out of the water.”

“That would’ve been suicide.”

We sit in silence for awhile, me fidgeting with a brochure for the exhibit and Abby taking in the various purples and blues of the paintings along the wall.

“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” she asks rhetorically.

I flush with shame, trying to hide it.

“This is what it would have looked like,” I respond.

“What do you mean?”

“Here we are, in the middle of a bloom, caught in their grasp. Kevin would’ve seen something like this.”

Abby’s face twists into some kind of lovechild of pity and disgust. “That is such a fucked up thing to say, Zach,” she says sternly, still finding a way to be soft with me. I want to explain how that feeling is the only way I was able to move on — how putting myself there was, in a morbid way, helpful. I can’t. I’ve forgotten how to speak.

The following silence frustrates me. I quietly snap, impatient in the tension: “It’s been almost twenty years, Abby. Why’d you come here?”

She stirs uncomfortably, leaning forward, leaving the dangling threads of the canvas behind.

“I read about your exhibit online. Sam and I are only a few hours away. Really, I just wanted to come and talk.”

“About what?”

She looks away. Something is coming: I brace for impact.

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault, Zach.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sharply reply.

Another haunting silence follows. Abby shifts from pity to somber disappointment. After a moment, she pushes herself up from the floor and starts for the exit. I want to call out — to apologize for everything, said and unsaid both — but I’m drowning. I can’t find any oxygen.

With her hand on the door, she turns back, smiles through squinting eyes, like the smile isn’t real.

“I’ll be seeing you, Zach.”

I force a smile. She opens the door to let herself out, and I finally call out.

“Abby!”

She stops, turning back, a glint of hope in her eye. She stares, waiting to hear what I have to say, as I sit in the tendrils of a Man O War. Too much time goes by.

“Bring Sam next time. It’d be nice to see you… To see you both. It was very kind of you to invite me to the wedding. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”

This smile is real: eyes and all. Abby puts her thumb and little finger out, like she’s making a phone with her hand, and shakes them back and forth.

“Copacetic.”

Abby lets the door fall shut behind her.

For what feels like hours, I stay completely still, paralyzed in the hypnotic grasp of the Man O War, my polyethylene bags sagging, all but deflated.

I’m floating. Drifting. A predator. No will of my own. No control of where I go. No control of what I destroy. The laws of physics and random chance command me: drawing me near; pulling me away. Humanoid, but genetically identical to the Man O War.