Chasing at the Surface
a novel
by Sharon Mentyka
For my family,
who forever encouraged me to chase my dream
Text and illustrations © 2016 by Sharon Mentyka
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher.
The characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Mentyka, Sharon.
Title: Chasing at the surface : a novel / by Sharon Mentyka.
Description: Portland, Oregon : WestWinds Press, [2016] | Summary: In 1997, twelve-year-old Marisa Gage retreats into her shell when nineteen orcas, mothers and new calves, become trapped in an inlet near her home soon after Marisa’s whale-loving mother inexplicably left.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016013250 | ISBN 9781943328604 (pbk.)
Subjects: | CYAC: Whales—Fiction. | Mothers and daughters—Fiction. | Interpersonal relations—Fiction. | Family life—Washington (State)—Fiction. | Washington (State)—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.M53155 Ch 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016013250
Front cover images: top, girl with binoculars: © iStock/SashaFoxWalters; top, under the sea surface: © iStock/John Shepherd; bottom, orca: © iStock/Jon Helgason.
Edited by Michelle McCann
Designed by Vicki Knapton
Published by WestWinds Press®
An imprint of
P.O. Box 56118
Portland, Oregon 97238-6118
503-254-5591
www.graphicartsbooks.com
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Chasing at the Surface
“How inappropriate to call this planet Earth, when it is clearly Ocean.”
—ARTHUR C. CLARKE
Prologue
Some people thought they lost their way, others that they were chasing chum salmon. Whatever people said, looking back on it now, I know the whales came to Dyes Inlet for one reason—to help me.
It happened in October, when I was twelve years old. Nineteen killer whales came swimming into the inlet just like it was their home, except it wasn’t. The whole town went crazy, caught up in the excitement of having whales as neighbors.
The problem was they arrived not long after my mother packed up and left, slipping out in the night as quietly as the pod slipped in, so whale watching wasn’t exactly my priority right then. It took me a whole lot longer than most folks here in Port Washington to care about getting them home, but once I did, I couldn’t seem to stop.
And that changed everything.
Because without the whales, I would’ve been the one who was lost.
CHAPTER 1
Orca Day 1, October, 1997
The cool early morning air blowing across the inlet carries a sharp, tangy smell that pricks at my nostrils. I lean over the side of the boat and peer down. Below, the water swirls with tails, fins, and churning froth. I dip my hand in and drag it along the surface. It’s numbingly cold, just the way the fish like it.
It’s salmon season here in Dyes Inlet and the chum are running strong, hundreds of fish heading upstream to the creeks for their fall spawning. When you grow up on the shores of one of the watery fingers stretching out from Puget Sound, following the run becomes a yearly ritual. Good news if you like fishing for salmon. Bad if you’re bothered by the stink of the ones that die along the way.
A spray of cold saltwater hits my back. I watch as my best friend, Lena, ties off her line and hauls a hefty salmon into our boat. Her long hair covers her face as she works, lifting the fifteen-pound fish like it weighs nothing.
“It’s almost too easy,” she laughs. “They’re everywhere!”
The chum’s silvery shape, with its brilliant red and green stripes, flashes by as she thunks it down onto the deck. It flaps around my feet, mouth opening and closing, until finally it shudders and quiets.
Alongside, the water ripples and another wriggles by close enough for me to reach out and touch. “Marisa … grab it!” Lena shouts, pointing.
I lean over to make a feeble attempt and miss. “Too bad,” I say, settling back in the boat. “More for you, I guess.”
Lena gives me a look. We’ve been fishing together too long. She knows I can do this.
I ignore her. My heart’s not into catching fish right now and it’s a relief not to pretend. Instead, I close my eyes and try to relax, letting the splashing sound of fish traveling upstream fill my ears. Pretty soon our rowboat starts to rock and I hear Lena flip her line into the water again. Chum won’t chase a lure, but with dozens of them passing by every minute, it doesn’t matter. During salmon season, the slow sport of fishing becomes a chase.
When I glance up and across the water, I spot a long line of black boats, cruising toward the small bay at the mouth of Chico Creek. But … something’s not right; they’re traveling way too fast. Reaching for my pack, I rummage around for the binoculars.
“Uh … this doesn’t make sense,” I whisper, peering through the lenses.
“What?” Lena swivels around to look.
I blink and try to focus. I check again and a strange queasy feeling starts crawling around inside my stomach.
Whales shouldn’t be here, not in an enclosed inlet.
“Marisa?”
“Those aren’t boats out there,” I tell her. “They’re orcas.…”
“What? No way!” Lena grabs for the binoculars and scans across the water. “Oh my gosh, you’re right! There must be a dozen … no, more. Hey,” she whispers, leaning in close, “let’s chase after them.”
“Chase them?”
“Yeah, why not? C’mon, when was the last time you saw this many killer whales?”
And in a flash, she’s off and running with one of her crazy ideas.
The last time I saw killer whales? Hmmm, good question.
Mom had tried to plan our annual summer trip to see the whales. But I kept putting her off. Since she left, I’ve racked my brain, trying to remember what I was doing then that seemed more important.
I straighten up and shake my head no. But before I can protest, Lena lowers her oars into the water again and starts rowing—fast, with big sweeping strokes. The sudden movement makes my stomach feel worse. Quickly, she maneuvers our boat a full 180 degrees, and next thing, we’re headed straight toward the pod.
“Wait … Lena … no.…”
She really means to chase them, and she’s a good enough fisherwoman to do it.
“Calm down,” she laughs, not bothering to even glance my w
ay. “I can do this.”
I stay rooted to my seat and try to focus on the pile of dead salmon lying in the bottom of the boat. Lena’s rowing hard now, trying to move us across the inlet to reach the swimming whales. But the October wind is strong and our little rowboat’s not made for racing.
“C’mon!” she yells. “Get over here and help!”
For half a second, I consider grabbing the oars and starting to row, but in the opposite direction—away from the whales and back to shore. But I don’t. Instead, I grip the sides of the boat and watch, frozen in place. We’re almost three-quarters across the width of the inlet now and the water is eerily quiet. The whales are all bunched up now near the western shoreline. Even from forty feet away, I can see babies tucked in close to their mothers, the group packed so tightly together they form a solid line, making it hard to see where one whale stops and another begins.
Lena stops rowing. As we watch, the pod begins to dive and surface, one by one. Each time one whale comes up it faces a different direction. The biggest sends a great plume of water up into the air—pfoosh—and I feel the cool mist rain down on my face.
Suddenly, dangerously close, two whales breach, jumping high up from the water’s surface. Our little boat pitches and rocks.
“Whoaa!” Lena yells, laughing.
But I’m not paying attention. Because as the water settles the smaller of the two whales has risen to the surface, his flank facing me. Our eyes lock. A chill runs through me and I shiver. Looking into his round, black eye feels like falling backward, into the deepest water, the most hidden place inside me.
“Marisa? You okay?”
I can’t answer. It’s like I’m hypnotized by that eye. Then, just before the little whale slips deeper under the water, I see it—a round spot of black just above the white patch encircling his eye. I know that marking. But … it couldn’t be. What are the chances he’d be here now, with Mom gone?
I panic and force myself to look away from the churning water. Crawling forward, I fumble to get the oars in position, banging them against the side of the boat.
“Let’s go … now,” I tell Lena.
“Wait.…” she says, distracted. “I think they’re breaking up.”
I can feel her indecision. She doesn’t want to let them go. I stand halfway up, but she puts one hand up to stop me.
“No, forget it. Sit,” she orders, her voice quiet with disappointment. “They must be heading out.”
Grabbing the oars, she guides them back into the oarlocks. A long minute passes, then she shakes her head. “I don’t get it, Marisa.” She flicks her wet hair back over her shoulders. “I thought you were so hot on these whales.”
She wouldn’t get it, of course. She doesn’t remember the connection. I open my mouth, but have no clue where or how to begin. I just shake my head.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, you’ll explain later. It’s always later.”
We sit in silence, seesawing on the settling water, until finally Lena reaches for the oars. I realize I’ve been holding my breath and now, I allow myself to finally exhale. My body tingles as fresh blood rushes in. I’m still trying to shake off the eerie sensation I felt, staring into the whale’s eye. I’m suddenly mad at myself for freezing like that, not paying closer attention to his other markings, to be really sure.
“Too bad,” I hear Lena say, “we probably could have caught up with at least some of them before they left. Don’t you think?” Her voice is wistful.
Two months ago, I would have agreed. Now, I’ve learned you can’t stop anybody from leaving, not if they really want to go. As Lena maneuvers our boat smoothly back to shore, it dawns on me that there is something that would have kept Mom here in the inlet, kept her home.
The whales. I’m sure of it.
If only they decided to visit before she left.
CHAPTER 2
By the time we haul our rowboat up onto the gravel beach at the Tracyton launch, a crowd is already gathered there, buzzing about the whale sighting. I steady myself as we walk up the concrete ramp, then hang back while Lena stows our gear.
Dyes Inlet is narrow here—it’s easy to see clear across to the other side where the Olympic Mountains rise up behind the tree line. Little towns sit scattered all along the shore but Tracyton is the one with the killer views. It only takes me a second to spot a few whales again, swimming just off the far shore. Plumes of water rise up off the surface as they blow.
Nearby, a couple of boats are already prepping to head out.
“Whoa!” one guy yells to his buddies. “One just came clear out of the water and rolled back down on his side.”
“It’s called breaching,” I mumble, turning my back to the inlet. I can’t stop wondering. Could it really have been him, our whale, here in the inlet? Maybe I’m just missing Mom so much, I imagined it.
“… the salmon were schooled up in the shallows,” I hear Lena explaining. “Maybe that’s where the orcas were headed.”
The crowd is growing larger by the minute.
“How close did you get?” someone asks.
“We could see them fine from where we were,” I say quickly.
“Kids have more smarts than you,” another man says and they all laugh.
Lena gives me a look, then smiles. I fake a smile back.
We walk in silence up the steep incline and pull our bikes out from behind the bushes. In the narrow street, the flow of people streaming down to see the whales is so thick we have to weave back and forth, back and forth, to avoid them. Just like salmon, swimming upstream.
––––
Once we’re past the crowd, we split up and I ride home fast, my legs pumping hard on the pedals, my head swirling with everything that’s just happened. Lena might be way more easygoing than me, but in all the ways that matter, we’re alike. We think about and care about the same things. Meeting her was one of the luckiest things that ever happened to me. But since Mom left—it’s like there’s this wall between us. My life totally changed and hers stayed the same. Talking about even the simplest things feels hard now.
I make the slow turn into the marina. The sharp smell of the inlet hits me and I remember again first visiting here almost five months ago, when school let out for the summer. Dad had heard about a houseboat that might be coming available and he wanted to check it out, “just for fun.”
Dad loves Dyes Inlet. More than loves it really, he lives in awe of it. So we all took a walk here one evening, over from the house we rented on East Sixteenth Street. I didn’t think much about it at the time. I was busy planning my three-month stretch of freedom that lay ahead. I sure never thought that the marina would wind up being my new “home.”
Then two months later Mom left, and we actually moved, like it had all been planned. I was so angry I didn’t speak to Dad for a week after.
I can remember exactly when everything started to change. It was just before school started up again in September, about a week before Mom’s birthday. We’d spent the day fishing on the inlet but it was a disaster. Dad had tried a million ways, trying to get Mom to talk or even just smile at one of his jokes. Nothing had worked.
That night, I couldn’t fall asleep. It was late and I’d made it halfway down the stairs when I heard them in the kitchen, talking. Dad’s voice was muffled; I couldn’t make out his words. At first I thought it was because he was afraid of waking me, until I heard Mom.
“Danny, don’t. It’s not your fault. Oh, Danno. Honey, it’ll be okay.”
I crouched there on the stairs, waiting for Dad to answer. Instead, the sounds coming from him got louder. He was crying. Crying! I’d never seen Dad cry, and it scared me, hearing it now. Mom’s footsteps echoed across the tiled floor.
There was a long, long pause and I could tell they were hugging.
“I haven’t been brave, Dan. I buried things, important things, willed them to just go away. And I dragged you into it, too.”
“It was my decision, Abbe,” Dad said. “Whatev
er it is, I love you.”
“I know,” she sniffled. “I love you too. And M. So much. It’s just … I need some time to figure out so much.…” Then—“Oh, Danno—,” Mom started to cry, “I’ve done such a terrible job mothering.”
The surprise of her words took my breath away. And listening there, on the stairs, I felt a new kind of scared and it wasn’t because of the crying.
––––
In the fading light, I roll down the steep embankment, passing a few people without saying hello. I’ve since decided that Dad moved us here because without Mom’s salary at the hospital, it’s cheap. Nothing more than a bunch of run-down floats hooked up to rotting pilings and bobbing on the tides. Peeling green paint and dying potted plants everywhere.
“Hey, sweetie,” Dad greets me, squinting against the setting sun. “How goes it?”
He’s sitting on the warped planks of the houseboat’s outer deck, tying up some newspapers with twine. I step over the rope fence and try to slide quickly past, avoiding his worried eyes. But he gets up and follows me inside anyway, trailing behind like a pet. That just makes me even sadder, reminding me of another casualty of Mom’s leaving, my lost cat, Blackberry.
“Hungry?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks,” I lie. My backpack hits the floor with a thud. “I’ve got tons of homework.” I start down the tiny hall and almost make it to my room.
“Did you stop at the PO on the way home?”
I shake my head no again and keep walking.
“O-kaaaaay,” Dad says, stretching out the word. “Well, come on out later if you change your mind about dinner … or want to talk.”
Without turning, I nod and push the door closed, wishing for the umpteenth time that I wasn’t an only child. I throw myself down on my narrow bed, the houseboat swaying with the sudden movement, and stare up at the ceiling.
Talk. That’s all Dad wants to do now, but it feels too late to talk.
Mom tried to talk too, that night before she left. She came into my room and switched on the light, but I was furious. I jumped out of bed and flicked it back off. I didn’t want to look at her, or hear anything she had to say. So we had our last conversation in the dark. Only it wasn’t a conversation really, it was more like a fight.
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