Having grown up by the ocean, Ochako Uraraka supposed that she ought to have a fond appreciation for it, at the very least. Don't get it twisted, she had a lovely childhood by the sea, and often looked back at her younger memories with a kind smile, but the ocean itself has always given her the heebie-jeebies (so to speak).
The smell of the ocean, though, was something that she found a particular comfort in. Then again, it wasn't as if she got the chance to smell much else. Salt, with a hint of rot mixed with sheer warmth. The aroma was a near constant companion, and she didn't have many of those.
The ones that she did have, though, were true friends. There were only two of them, and that didn't bother her in the slightest. Izuku and Tsuyu were family to her, and she wouldn't have it any other way.
On the days that either of them were around, they would spend all day - from dusk till dawn - goofing about. More often than not, Izuku would end up soaked with sea water, which would inevitably lead to him being thoroughly coated in sand. Not that being coated in sand could be avoided of course, when one lived on the shore, regardless of how wet one may be.
Tsuyu would swim sometimes as well, but not nearly as much as Izuku did. She claimed that the salt water was too abrasive on her sensitive skin, and Ochako believed her. She had seen how the other girl's skin would become red and painful looking after spending too long in the ocean. The first few times that Ochako has seen it happen, she had been incredibly worried. Every time, though, Tsuyu had waved off her concern, saying that she would be fine after a few hours. Over time, Ochako had become desensitized to the sight. It wasn't that she didn't worry anymore, but she knew that her worry could be eased after she helped Tsuyu get comfortable and recover.
One would think that Tsuyu would stop swimming in the ocean, given the circumstances. Ochako knew though, that - even with the given consequences - she enjoyed swimming with Izuku.
Ochako wished that she could find joy in splashing around in the waves, but it was never to be that way. So, while Izuku and Tsuyu messed around in the waves, Ochako stayed on the shore. The deepest she ever went was up to her ankles.
The days that weren't spent with her friends (which were few and far between) were instead spent helping her parents with things around the house. There were things to be done, after all; she knew that life couldn't be all fun and games. That wasn't to say that she didn't enjoy 'chore days'. Her parents always made sure to have fun while working, singing songs and telling stories as they went about the day's tasks.
Ochako's favorite type of tales that her mother would tell were about the selkies that supposedly roamed the open seas as well as the shore. They were more cautionary tales - fables - than anything. Don't get too close to the shoreline at night (or you might be snatched by selkies). Don't approach strangers on the shoreline (or you might be snatched by selkies). Don't invite strange men into your home (they might be selkies). These lessons were always the end of an intricate storyline spun by her mother. If Ochako thought about it, though, these were just common sense rules wrapped in a fable-like shroud, but she didn't care. The fable-like nature of the tales was what made them exciting. And while Ochako loved these stories, she never truly believed in the mythical creatures that started in them.
Or at least she didn't. Not until something (or someone) started to leave things - presents? - on her windowsill while she slept.
It had started with - of all things - raw fish. She had woken up one summer morning to the sun streaming in through her open window and onto her face. This didn't immediately raise alarms in her mind, as it was summertime. There was rarely a night during this time of year where she didn't sleep with the window open. So, with this in mind, Ochako had rolled back over and attempted to go back to sleep-
Until she remembered that she had specifically closed and shuttered her window last night.
The only reason she had done so was because it had been spitting rain at the time she had been getting ready for beed the night before. Ochako rolled back over in her bed and had begun to think as she stared at her window.
She supposed that the wind could have blown open her shutters, but it had only been sprinkling rain. The wind wouldn't have gotten strong enough to blow open her locked shutters. With a furrowed brow, Ochako threw back her sheets (which were thin, so as to keep her from overheating) and walked over to investigate. What she found there was - curious, to say the least.
The shutters, when they had been installed by her father, had had a lock placed on the inside so that Ochako would feel safe at night (or so her parents said). The lock, though, had been broken clean off of the wooden base, leaving behind splintered craters. That alone would have curdled her stomach, had it been the only thing she found that morning.
There, on her open window's sill, had been a fish. A half dead, still twitching fish. The fish looked as if someone had taken a sharp object and raked three nasty lines down the poor ting's side. It's blood had already half-soaked into the wood on her sill. It would probably stain. Despite how she had been feeling about the whole situation, she couldn't help the hysterical laughter that bubbled up from her throat and spilled over her lips.
There was a fish - a bleeding, suffocating fish, sat on her window. The window, which had had the lock broken off during the night. And she had laughed.
She didn't laugh when a new, different bleeding and suffocating fish showed up on her window sill the morning after that.