As it turns out the answer to Prince Tyrone’s question was icebergs, tips of undersea mountains, driftwood, the sunken hulks of ships which also had lookouts who asked that exact question in the past (and usually found an answer in the worst possible way,) coral reefs, in short a whole lot of things, none of which were considered beneficial to a ships hull. Tyrone stood at the pinnacle of the crows nest as it edged closer and closer to the water beneath. On reflection, he thought maybe he wasn’t quite the seafarer he thought he was. (At this I think it is safe to say several continents that had not yet being introduced to Tyrone’s idea of Civilised Society breathed a collective sigh of relief, or at least they would have if they had realised how close they came to some pillock with a flag and the IQ of a pickled herring getting ideas.)
His next thought was at least the water was warm as he swam around gathering floating wreckage (he may be a lousy seafarer but if there was one thing he was quite good at it was surviving, especially if the process involved screwing other people over.)
It took a little while to pull himself together, examine what was left of the ship, figure out that the other crew members were floundering about in the water in the water, leaderless, and finally as befitting a royal swing into action.
Traditionally given that he was the cause of the wreckage and all he should have rowed away in a jolly boat, but the ship in question didn’t have a jolly boat, it didn’t even have a miserable dinghy. Thus he was forced to improvise, throwing his mirror and a few other “essentials” into a ships locker that hadn’t gone to Davy Jones locker and clambering in. He dragged a barrel from the floating remains and lashed it to the rear before paddling away, with a deck plank.
Usually one would check for other survivors in the circumstances, but that wasn’t Tyrone’s style, “hmm there has to be land somewhere out here” he thought to himself, a sentiment many an adrift landlubber probably shared in the past before the discovery that what the ocean was, is in fact a very large amount of water. But landlubbers naval naivete notwithstanding, northward he sailed (or at least halfheartedly paddled) ignoring the irate shouts of his erstwhile crew mates in the distance.
Wannashowa gazed at the construction site beside “his” pond with shock. Gradually a tiny shrine was being built.
“Now we are in business it would appear your holiness” observed The Angel. "It would seem this shrine is dedicated to you."
Wannashowa gaped, unable to process that it seemed he had actual shrines, yet according to the formal tally only 3 worshippers? How the hell did that even work? Surely at least some miracles were expected. So Wannashowa pondered for a moment.
“Well that way lies extra worshippers, and right now I can use all the faith I can get if I ever want to get this mess sorted out, so I guess I’m in luck huh?”
“Indeed, so it would seem sir”.
“Listen, I can’t keep calling you The Angel, and hey you doesn’t have quite the right ring to it really, so let’s start from the beginning, you have a name?”
“Technically Sir I am an Archangel, with all due respect of course.” The Angel corrected with just a hint of rebuke in his tone. “To be precise I am The Archangel Adrian.”
“Well at least it fits” Wannashowa replied.
“Yes my father did insist, much to the dismay of my mother, her side of the family always used Milton.”
“Yes it did make family reunions somewhat confusing, but it also made categorising a breeze, But father had apparently sat through enough family reunions to insist.”
“Oh...... so what do I do now?”
“Well sir, a miracle granted unto a believer is considered somewhat traditional in the circumstances, and to avoid allegations of favouritism it is considered good form to not grant it to your high priestess.”
“A miracle? You do realise I have at present about as much divine power as a particularly religious potato right?”
“So sir, I advise that you start small.”
Colonel Mustard (ret) was in for a surprise, he had just started laying down the biscuits at the shrine (Not Madam Monchees of course, he wasn’t made of money,) and started morning prayer, when the miracle hit. Rain, blessed rain..... entirely localised in his rhubarb patch. His eyes beheld this miracle, as he glanced at the cut price biscuits in his hands, and the still somewhat dehydrated remainder of the garden with surprise. “Well I suppose you get what you pay for.”
Over the next few days the rain cloud no bigger than a small dog would appear directly over his blessed rhubarb (and after that much divinity granted rain they were indeed thoroughly blessed rhubarb.) A small crowd even gathered to witness what was quite possibly the smallest and most targeted miracle out there.
Some decided they even wanted in on the action, they started bringing biscuits to offer to the shrine, (one particularly well to do guest even brought a pack of Madam Monchees deluxe selection, that is to say Madam Monchees regular biscuits in smaller numbers in a bigger tin for a higher price. The tin of course would have kittens, or a heartwarming, and entirely fictional winter scene on it, they always do.) Eventually word spread and one or two hopeful gardeners started setting up their own little shrines in the hope they might get some rain of their own.
Some of the more bored idol carvers started sculpting tiny idealised god figures for these setups, but after a while gave up on that as they realised that ornamental garden frogs were cheaper, and apparently given that the humanoid figures kept turning into frogs no matter what they tried, maybe somewhat less blasphemous as well.
This eventually led to the collective agreement that the amphibian form was pleasing to Wannashowa, and since gardeners didn’t mind frogs (frogs eat moths and other enemies of gardeners the world over,) this led to rainwater barrels being placed beside the shrines, and given that the Princess herself was also a worshipper the serving of frogs legs becoming taboo.