My dad, Poseidon, was standing knee-deep in the surf, wearing his typical

Bermuda shorts, beat-up cap, and a real subtle pink-and-green Tommy Bahama

shirt. He had a deep-sea fishing rod in his hands, and when he cast it the line

went way out — like halfway across Long Island Sound.

 

"Hey, Dad," I said. "What brings you here?"

 

He wi nk ed. "Never really got to talk in private on Olympus. I wanted to tha nk

you."

 

"Tha nk me? You came to the rescue."

 

"Yes, and I got my palace destroyed in the process, but you know — palaces can

be rebuilt. I've gotten so many thank-you cards from the other gods. Even Ares

wrote one, though I think Hera forced him to.

 

It's rather gratifying. So, tha nk you. I suppose even the gods can learn new

tricks."

 

The Sound began to boil. At the end of my dad's line, a huge green sea serpent

erupted from the water. It thrashed and fought, but Poseidon just sighed.

Holding his fishing pole with one hand, he whipped out his knife and cut the

line. The monster sa nk below the surface.