Late summer lay warm along the beach east of Point Grey. The tide had drawn back enough to leave a firm stretch of sand where footprints held their shape. Nets were strung between driftwood poles, cork floats colorful and bright against the glare. The village had come down together, carrying benches and bread and a jug filled with something stronger than any of them.

The bride stood where the wet sand darkened but did not sink. Her skirt was the same sturdy linen she worked in most days, only heavier at the seams. Down each side, narrow crescents of Clatterback plate had been stitched in overlapping rows, rubbed smooth by years of salt and hands. When she shifted her weight, they made a small series of dry clacks.

The groom had left his boots above the tide line. His jacket was cut from sailcloth gone too stiff for mast use, the cuffs edged with a few older plates, dulled and scratched pale.

The officiant stood barefoot before them. The surf folded in and out behind them.

“You will share winter stores. You will share nets. When one of you is tired, the other will row. The wind is kind today, so you may speak plainly. The one beside you is the only one who must hear.”

Farther downshore, beyond a low shoulder of sand, something struck with a hollow knock.

A few heads turned. Most did not.

“You will remember that the tide does not ask whether you are ready—”

Another knock. Then another, heavier.

The bride glanced east without meaning to. The plates at her seams answered as she shifted, a small scatter against the linen.

Spray lifted above the dune as the sound grew over it. Then something dark crested it.

The first of the Clatterback barls hauled into view, slate hide gleaming where the sun struck it. Overlapping plates slid and struck as the body heaved forward, knocking together with a dense, mineral clatter.

More followed.

Bodies pushed up from the surf in ungainly succession, colliding, settling, striking again. Pale undersides flashed before being swallowed by the next dark back. The air filled with the dry percussion of plate on plate, the deep rush of breath forced from heavy lungs.

The officiant raised their voice.

“—ready or not—”

A larger barl rolled sideways and struck two others at once. The clattering crash carried sharp across the sand. The sound layered, multiplied, pressed against ribs and teeth.

The words disappeared.

The nets behind the guests rattled in the wind. Sand trembled faintly under bare feet. Guests turned fully now, shading their eyes, squinting into the glare. The oldest fishermen just shook their heads.

The colony kept hauling. Slate backs. Pale, mineral-flecked plates. Each new body sliding up and striking the mass already ashore. Loosened scales broke under shifting weight and scattered across the beach in chalky fragments that caught the light.

The bride blinked into the sun. Then she laughed.

It escaped her, easy and bright, tossed into a salt wind that tore it thin. The plates along her skirt answered beneath it, a smaller echo of the greater clatter.

The groom looked at her, then at the barls, then back again, finally joining in her laughter.

Someone near the back clapped once and shouted something no one heard. The officiant watched the barls for a long moment, lips moving uselessly against the roar. Then they let their shoulders fall and lifted both hands in a small, helpless half-shrug that needed no translation.

The bride and groom did not wait. They kissed, plain as daylight. The seam plates along her skirt struck together as she shifted, bright, dry clacks swallowed immediately by the greater chorus. Hats lifted along the line of guests. Laughter broke and vanished in the same instant.

Downshore, the barls kept hauling.