A family vacation turns into a disaster. A merformer saves (Y/N), or did they imagine it?

(Y/N)'s P.O.V.
A two-week cruise with my family is (good/bad) because (reasons). I love how much a cruise ship has for people to do, then our stops to some islands. I'm glad we can go do our own thing all day after breakfast and meet for dinner. I have fun doing ( activity) most of the day. I can take it slow and enjoy an activity all day.

It's a pain sharing a cabin with (number of family members); glad I'm tired enough to drown out any snoring. That is until two in the morning when I hear singing. There's no way the walls are so thick I hear someone next door being weird singing at two in the morning. The window is open, but we're in the middle of the ocean. Would a fishing boat be out this far? Even so, would a fisherman be singing at two in the morning while fishing?

I am certain it's someone in either room on either side of this room when I hear the singing again. Shame it's rude to tell them to shut up. Maybe I can buy earplugs?

Rather than singing the third night, everyone is woken up by an alarm
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are caught in a storm. Please find a safe place until it passes," the captain announces.
This is a hurricane; no one is safe.
"WE'RE GOING TO BE LIKE THE PEOPLE ON THE TITANIC!' Someone yells.
Nice going, cause people to panic even more as we watch windows and doors get ripped off the walls leaving people to have to go outside and hold on to the ship's rails. The waves pick up as people run outside, resulting in a struggle to get to the trails. Some people thought to go turn their beds into rafts, but they don't know where they're going, so is that really the safer option? As I try to get to the rails, I'm hit with a flying table and fly right off the ship.
"(Y/N)!" My mother yells.
It doesn't matter if I know how to swim or not in these waves. One can only keep their head above water for so long. Even if this storm is twenty minutes before passing, I don't think I'll make it.

Smokescreen's P.O.V.
I hear people screaming on the ship. Someone didn't pay attention to the weather, and now people are going to die. As I listen closely, it seems only one person fell off the ship — so far — the person who thinks someone on the ship is singing at two in the morning.
I try to get to them before they tire out, but I'm too late. Still, there's time before they run out of air. I dive underwater, hoping to get to them. With difficulty, once I have this person, I get on the ship far from the others.

"Come on, wake up," I whisper.
Maybe my singing — whether they think it's beautiful or annoying — will wake them up.
When they finally wake up, they believe they are dreaming until the storm's wind reminds them what's going on.
"You're safe; what's your name?" I ask.
"(Y/N)."
"I am Smokescreen."
I do my best to keep (Y/N) warm until the storm passes.

(Y/N)'s P.O.V.
Smokescreen stays until the storm passes and until we hear a helicopter.
"It's either search and rescue or an air ambulance; you better go," I tell him.
He is about to kiss me, but he had less time than he thought and jumps overboard. I can't tell anyone what happened; they might think the table hit me hard or think I went crazy. It's a shame our cruise is cut short. On the other hand, I think my family will think I'm traumatized and never want to go on a cruise again, so there's an excuse to get back out to the ocean and find this merformer.