Superstition, by Renée K. Reeves

In the middle of a navigation lesson, the midshipman lowered his sextant. "Sometimes," he said, "I think the figurehead smiles at me."

The captain frowned. "Is that so?"

The boy nodded. "Her teeth are quite sharp, you know. And if her hair slips, I tuck it back behind her ears. "

The bosun shrugged when confronted. "It happens. Seawater is harsh; i's been months since we shellacked her."

The captain sipped cold coffee, consulted a chart. "Fix her before we cross the northern sea,” he finally said, “lest her sisters hear her sing.”