There is a churning at the surface, a cavitation, a rending of the waters that spreads in all directions only to disperse in the waves. She rises to investigate.
A ship, a small one, all metal and paint and throbbing hum. They used to row, men did: they'd grunt in unison at the waterline, pulling themselves across the surface one stroke at a time. Then they'd stretched canvas across the sky and let the wind do their work for them. Clever men.
Now their ships cough and spit grime that settles on the water; she'd sink them, if she could.