The Littoral State
The carnival folk on the salt flats don't have last names, only tide-given ones like Scrimshaw and Jett. Finn, a townie hired for the summer, is learning their ways: how to anchor a Tilt-a-Whirl in mud and how to forget the life he was born into. But the land-locked world wants its children back.
EXT. CARNIVAL FLATS - DAY
A vast, windswept mudflat under a bruised grey sky. In the distance, the skeletal silhouettes of dormant carnival rides.
SOUND of constant, low wind; the cry of a lone GULL; the rhythmic, distant HUM of a generator.
FINN (17), thoughtful and observant but clumsy in his movements, fumbles with a pair of wire strippers, trying to peel insulation from a corroded copper wire that runs to a junction box. He’s fighting it.
SCRIMSHAW (60s), his face a roadmap of long summers and hard luck, watches him. He takes a drag from a hand-rolled cigarette.
SCRIMSHAW
> Not like that, Townie. You're fighting it. You can't fight the salt. You gotta work with it.
Scrimshaw takes the wire strippers from Finn. His fingers, gnarled with arthritis, move with an economical, practiced grace.
CLOSE ON SCRIMSHAW'S HANDS
He strips the wire in one clean motion.
SCRIMSHAW
> Everything out here is temporary. The rides, us, this mud. The trick is to make it beautiful while it lasts.
Finn watches, mesmerized.
FINN
> Back home...
He stops himself. A habit he’s trying to break.
Scrimshaw doesn’t look up from his work.
SCRIMSHAW
> Back home, you solder a wire and expect it to last forever. Land-locked thinking. Out here, we know the tide will win. The salt will win. So we use grease, we use tape, we make it good for the season. We build it to be taken apart.
He finishes cleaning the wire and hands Finn a roll of thick, greasy electrical tape.
SCRIMSHAW
> Your knot.
Finn takes the tape. He hesitates, then begins the complex twist and loop Scrimshaw taught him. A sailor's knot. A carny's knot. His fingers are more confident now.
He is shedding his townie skin.
A flash of RED AND BLUE LIGHT strobes silently against the sky.
Both Finn and Scrimshaw look up.
A POLICE CRUISER navigates the bumpy track leading to the flats. It stops, its tires sinking into the soft ground.
The passenger door opens. FINN'S FATHER (50s) gets out. He is a creature of pavement and lawn. Pressed trousers, clean shoes, a rigid posture. Utterly alien here. He crosses his arms, a portrait of disapproval.
Finn’s stomach goes cold.
Scrimshaw puts a light but firm hand on Finn’s arm.
SCRIMSHAW
> That'd be your anchor, I take it.
Finn just nods, unable to speak.
His father’s voice, thin against the wind, carries across the mud.
FINN'S FATHER (O.S.)
> Finnian! Get over here right now!
Finn doesn’t move. Scrimshaw doesn’t either. Two figures in a landscape of mud and steel.
FINN
> (quietly)
> He doesn't get it. He thinks you're all… grifters. He thinks I'm throwing my life away.
SCRIMSHAW
> Maybe you are. And maybe you're finding a new one. Depends on your definition of 'life'. His is about roots. Ours is about routes.
The driver's door of the cruiser opens. A big POLICEMAN (40s), uniform straining at the seams, gets out. He confers briefly with Finn's Father.
Then, together, they start walking across the mud. Their steps are careful, hesitant, a stark contrast to the easy, rolling gait of the carnies.
SCRIMSHAW
> (low)
> You don't have to choose yet, kid. You can go back with him. Finish school. No one will hold it against you. This life isn't for everyone.
But Finn sees the hard, unyielding set of his father's jaw. This is an ultimatum. The world of solid ground has come to claim him.
Finn looks from his approaching father's face—a map of a life already laid out—to Scrimshaw's weathered face beside him—a compass, offering only a direction.
A cool, damp breeze picks up off the sea. The first hint of the turning tide.
SOUND of the wind strengthening, the distant water stirring.
In the mud, the footprints of the day wait to be erased.
CLOSE ON FINN
Caught between two worlds. The choice hangs in the salt air.
A vast, windswept mudflat under a bruised grey sky. In the distance, the skeletal silhouettes of dormant carnival rides.
SOUND of constant, low wind; the cry of a lone GULL; the rhythmic, distant HUM of a generator.
FINN (17), thoughtful and observant but clumsy in his movements, fumbles with a pair of wire strippers, trying to peel insulation from a corroded copper wire that runs to a junction box. He’s fighting it.
SCRIMSHAW (60s), his face a roadmap of long summers and hard luck, watches him. He takes a drag from a hand-rolled cigarette.
SCRIMSHAW
> Not like that, Townie. You're fighting it. You can't fight the salt. You gotta work with it.
Scrimshaw takes the wire strippers from Finn. His fingers, gnarled with arthritis, move with an economical, practiced grace.
CLOSE ON SCRIMSHAW'S HANDS
He strips the wire in one clean motion.
SCRIMSHAW
> Everything out here is temporary. The rides, us, this mud. The trick is to make it beautiful while it lasts.
Finn watches, mesmerized.
FINN
> Back home...
He stops himself. A habit he’s trying to break.
Scrimshaw doesn’t look up from his work.
SCRIMSHAW
> Back home, you solder a wire and expect it to last forever. Land-locked thinking. Out here, we know the tide will win. The salt will win. So we use grease, we use tape, we make it good for the season. We build it to be taken apart.
He finishes cleaning the wire and hands Finn a roll of thick, greasy electrical tape.
SCRIMSHAW
> Your knot.
Finn takes the tape. He hesitates, then begins the complex twist and loop Scrimshaw taught him. A sailor's knot. A carny's knot. His fingers are more confident now.
He is shedding his townie skin.
A flash of RED AND BLUE LIGHT strobes silently against the sky.
Both Finn and Scrimshaw look up.
A POLICE CRUISER navigates the bumpy track leading to the flats. It stops, its tires sinking into the soft ground.
The passenger door opens. FINN'S FATHER (50s) gets out. He is a creature of pavement and lawn. Pressed trousers, clean shoes, a rigid posture. Utterly alien here. He crosses his arms, a portrait of disapproval.
Finn’s stomach goes cold.
Scrimshaw puts a light but firm hand on Finn’s arm.
SCRIMSHAW
> That'd be your anchor, I take it.
Finn just nods, unable to speak.
His father’s voice, thin against the wind, carries across the mud.
FINN'S FATHER (O.S.)
> Finnian! Get over here right now!
Finn doesn’t move. Scrimshaw doesn’t either. Two figures in a landscape of mud and steel.
FINN
> (quietly)
> He doesn't get it. He thinks you're all… grifters. He thinks I'm throwing my life away.
SCRIMSHAW
> Maybe you are. And maybe you're finding a new one. Depends on your definition of 'life'. His is about roots. Ours is about routes.
The driver's door of the cruiser opens. A big POLICEMAN (40s), uniform straining at the seams, gets out. He confers briefly with Finn's Father.
Then, together, they start walking across the mud. Their steps are careful, hesitant, a stark contrast to the easy, rolling gait of the carnies.
SCRIMSHAW
> (low)
> You don't have to choose yet, kid. You can go back with him. Finish school. No one will hold it against you. This life isn't for everyone.
But Finn sees the hard, unyielding set of his father's jaw. This is an ultimatum. The world of solid ground has come to claim him.
Finn looks from his approaching father's face—a map of a life already laid out—to Scrimshaw's weathered face beside him—a compass, offering only a direction.
A cool, damp breeze picks up off the sea. The first hint of the turning tide.
SOUND of the wind strengthening, the distant water stirring.
In the mud, the footprints of the day wait to be erased.
CLOSE ON FINN
Caught between two worlds. The choice hangs in the salt air.