After what feels like an eternity, Muncher blows and dives. Immediately I scan the water beyond the bridge, waiting for him to surface next to Marina. Where is he? I can’t tell … he’s been submerged for so long.
Then I see him, and my heart leaps into my throat. He’s circling—still in the inlet! It looks like he’s resting, almost drifting on the surface. In a trance, I watch Muncher circling … circling … circling. It seems to last forever, until at last, Muncher sends up a big blow. I watch in horror as his mother, Marina, swims under the bridge to join him—back into the inlet.
CHAPTER 26
I stand in the raft, staring, frozen. What just happened? I can’t believe it! Not again.
We have to do something, quickly. Now. The other whales are farther out now, behind me, in Sinclair Inlet, but once they notice Marina and Muncher are missing, they might come back.
“We need to go get them!” I shout to Kevin, but immediately he shakes his head.
“We’ve gotta stay right here,” he shouts back. “We need to block any from returning!”
I stare at him, not understanding.
“Come on, we’ll take you,” a voice says, startling me. I turn to see one of the young men, one of the drummers, in the canoe. His voice is impossibly soft but somehow I can hear his words loud and clear. He nods, and I know he’s beckoning me over. Without hesitation, I grab the extra paddle lying on the raft’s floor, and using it for leverage, I leap across the water into the front of his canoe.
“Marisa! What in blazes—” I hear Kevin shout behind me, but it’s too late.
“We’re the fastest paddlers,” the soft-spoken drummer announces, smiling, as his companions begin to pull with their paddles.
We make extraordinary time. In less than a minute, we’re back under the bridge and fifty yards into the inlet, close to where Marina and Muncher silently circle.
They see us.
“Look how beautiful they are,” the drummer says. He beats out five slow, steady beats on his drum.
Marina is heading straight for our canoe now. Does she recognize me from our meeting in the fog when she led me to safety? Does she know I’m trying to help? She’s so focused on Muncher I hope she doesn’t think I’m threatening him. I have to get her attention, make her watch me, instead of Muncher, convince her that we both want the same thing.
I swivel around. The current and tides are still moving fast; I can feel its pull on our canoe. Orcas ride the tides, surf a vessel’s wake sometimes. It’s now or never.
I pick up my paddle, and with all my strength, bring it down hard on the surface of the water—slap—slap—slap. At the same time, I concentrate, willing Marina to read my mind. The paddle is heavy, and my arms start to ache, but I keep it up, until finally, Marina brings up her fin and slaps the water in reply.
Once. Twice. On the third slap Muncher joins in.
Soon the three of us are slapping happily away. A minute later, Muncher sends a spout of fine steam into the air, and follows up with a long, shrill whistle, Ooooooooeeeeeee!
“A good omen,” the young drummer says. Without turning to look, I can tell he’s smiling. He brings a small, silver whistle to his lips and answers the call. Ooooooooeeeeeee!
The paddlers begin to stroke, pulling the canoe back toward the bridge, speeding us along. I take a quick peek over my shoulder and see Marina and Muncher alongside. They’re following us! They understood!
In unison, they blow—pfooosh—pfoosh—pfoosh—at least six in a row, maybe more, short and fast, and ending with one long breath. In the canoe, I take a deep breath too, inhaling wholeness and change, and exhaling everything that’s been holding me back, keeping me stuck.
Five powerful strokes later, we pass under the bridge and out of the inlet, the last whales cruising behind us in our wake.
––––
Kevin does a final check to be sure all the whales have passed through. Just to be safe, the canoe floats parallel to the bridge, Kevin sets his raft dead center under the bridge deck, and Grace does the same with the motorboat. We’re not taking any chances.
Out in Rich Passage, we can see the entire pod moving through the water fast now, at super high speed. It’s called porpoising. Their bodies arch above the surface, then dip down below so quickly that it looks like they’re barely touching the water.
Kevin laughs. “I think they just found dinner!”
“Man! They’re chowing down!” Harris yells. “The inlet must be cleaned out.”
Watching, I don’t even try to find the words to express what I’m feeling. In the chill water of the inlet, a deep warmth fills me when I see Muncher and his mother swim over to rejoin their group. Side by side they roll and breach, eating, playing, enjoying their new freedom. We stay until the whole pod is far out of sight, well past the Port Washington waterfront and far out into Sinclair Inlet.
Kevin is just about to turn us fully around when L57, Faith, swims back toward us. His huge six-foot fin arches high out of the water before he dives, surfacing one last time a few yards away. Then, with a wave of his dorsal fin, he’s gone.
“Good-bye,” I whisper to the still-churning water.
I miss them already.
CHAPTER 27
Thursday morning breaks gray and hazy over the steely water of the inlet. I wake early, restless after yesterday’s excitement of escorting the whales out under the bridge on their way home. Piling sweaters on, I wander down the dock. There’s a clear view of the Narrows and the channel beyond and I sit on the damp wood of the dock, hugging my knees in the cool morning air. Above, a hawk wheels in a circle, scanning for breakfast.
The water is calm, with hardly a ripple across the surface. For close to four weeks, I’ve gotten used to seeing the whales here every day. It became so easy to forget they really belonged somewhere else. Now that they’re gone, the inlet seems empty without them.
In the distance, the Warren Avenue Bridge is humming again with traffic. I’m sure of it even though I’m not close enough to hear. How odd that it turned out to be a bridge that blocked the orcas from leaving. Bridges are supposed to connect, but they can separate and divide, too. I guess it all depends on your perspective, and which side you’re on.
––––
At school, classes seem like an interruption of one long conversation. Except for science, where it’s always okay to talk about whales.
“My guess is if they visit again, there won’t be quite as much reason to worry—” Mr. O’Connor is saying. He’s interrupted by a knock on the door and Kevin and Naomi walk in carrying four large boxes of donuts.
“Lunchtime!” Kevin announces and the class goes wild.
“We just want to say thank you for all the help y’all have provided these four weeks,” he says, walking among the desks offering the contents of the open boxes. “You should feel very proud of yourselves.” He stops near my desk, smiles, and offers me a glazed donut. I take a bite and it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.
Later in the hallway, Naomi reaches out and gives Harris, Lena, and Grace each a big hug. When it’s my turn, she holds on a second longer.
“Thank you so much,” she whispers.
It feels good. Belonging again.
“Hey, listen,” she says, her voice brighter, “anytime you guys want to come up to the islands, you have a place to stay.” She raises her voice over our yelps of excitement, “And you have to come visit L Pod, so no excuses!”
“You, young man,” I overhear Kevin say to Harris, “have quite an eye for the camera. You should pursue that.”
Harris beams and pumps Kevin’s hand. “Thanks, man. I already am.”
“Enough already,” Lena kids him, tugging on Harris’s arm. “He’s gonna get a big head.”
“Science to the rescue!” Mr. O’Connor shouts, breaking up the crowd. “I’m escorting them to the ferry. Scatter! Scatter!”
As we wave our last good-byes, Lena turns to me.
“Coming to Ga
rlic Jim’s?”
I shake my head. “I think I’m going to head home. I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do.”
She smiles and gives me a hug. “You’re just lucky I’m not so worried about you anymore. I’ll call later.”
I bike the long way home, not wanting to give up my view of the inlet just yet. It rained hard last night, but now the roads are dry and I glide out on my usual route. Except this time, when I pass the high school field, I turn right and head north instead of south.
Tracyton Boulevard is almost empty. I catch glimpses of the inlet sparkling through openings between the trees, still water with no boats in sight. I slow when I reach the place where the road curves and intersects the Clear Creek Trail. Veering south, I skirt the town of Silverdale, skidding my bike to a stop at the mouth of Chico Creek. The water is green and slimy at the edge and smells like rotting fish. The chum run still has a couple more weeks to go but most of the returning salmon have done their duty. They’re back home, to the place where they were spawned, to lay their eggs and begin the cycle of life again.
On a whim, I pull out my water bottle and dip it into the cold murky water of the creek. It fills halfway with grit and slime, and I screw the lid back on and replace it on my bike bracket. The whales are on their way home, and I suddenly want something they’ve touched, something to remind me of their thirty-day visit. Circling the whale-less inlet, I renew my resolve to be like Muncher—to trust.
It takes me about an hour to reach Veneta Street and the marina. I’m tired and thirsty but haven’t felt this peaceful in a long time. I push against the door of the houseboat. It opens easily.
“Dad?” I call, stepping inside.
“Right here.” Dad walks into the kitchen, carrying a cup of tea and a newspaper. I move toward him and give him a hug.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I reassure him, and it’s true. “I’m just going to miss them, I think.”
Dad stares at me, silent, but I see his eyebrows go up.
“What?”
Dad hands me a slip of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. “Mom asked if you’d call her back.” He smiles. “She says she has some good news.”
I take the scrap of paper and fold my palm over it. Then Dad opens a drawer under the kitchen counter and pulls out a thick stack of mail, held together with a wide rubber band.
“I think you might want these, too,” he says, holding them out toward me.
“What are they?” I pull off the band, frowning. All the letters are in Mom’s handwriting, addressed to me but mailed to Dad at the Mud Bay Kayak address. “Wait … how did Mom know?”
“She suspected you’d tossed her first few letters, so she sent all the rest to me, to hold them for you until you were ready.” He grins. “When your mother sets her mind on something, there’s no stopping her. Kind of like somebody else I know and love.”
“Thanks, Dad … for everything. I love you.” I walk to my room and shut the door as quietly as I can.
––––
Clicking on the radio, I tune in to my favorite alternative rock station and climb up on my bed. At first, I get that familiar feeling of dread, thinking of what the letters might contain, but it doesn’t last. Everything is different now—the whole mood of what I’m about to do has changed.
Sitting cross-legged, I cradle the stack in my lap. Some of the envelopes are thin, others bulging fat. I have to smile. Mom trusted me. She knew I’d want these eventually, and I’m so grateful to have them now. Spread out on my bed in chronological order, they make me think of the photos of the whales in Kevin’s van.
Slowly, I count them.
Twenty letters, more than I thought. Twenty. Almost as many days as the whales had been in the inlet.
I open all the envelopes at once and lay the letters out, smoothing the sheets of paper on my bed. Eager, I reach for one with an early date. I scan it quickly and move on to the next. My heart is filling quickly with so much emotion that it feels close to bursting.
Slow down. Slow down. But I can’t. I skim them all, jumping around the paragraphs, not understanding everything, but absorbing the most important bits. When I finish one, I reach immediately for the next, like a starving person who’s finally been offered a plate of food.
… I hope my letters will help you understand, at least a little. It’s really important for me to be completely honest with you, but first I needed to be honest with myself.…
… M, you have a brother. I am so sorry it’s taken me so long to tell you about him. It’s a long story, one that I made your father swear never to ask me about.…
I made lots of mistakes. I was seventeen, living in a house with my parents but really, I was all alone. I was so confused, hurting, no one I could talk to.… Two months later I found out I was pregnant.…
… I was a total mess. I knew there was no way I could take care of a baby. I thought maybe it would be better to just end the pregnancy right then and there. But when I walked out toward the bay I saw a pod of humpbacks. I don’t know why, but watching them gave me hope. I decided to have the baby and give it up for adoption. So in a way, the whales are responsible for Ben being here today.…
… I’ve finally met Ben, your brother! I made it through the whole first meeting without totally losing it. He’s a wonderful, wonderful young man. I’m so in awe of his accomplishments, grace and courage. M, you’re going to LOVE him when you meet.…
… I’ll be home soon, sweetie. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. But, maybe with your help, I’ll wind up free—on the other side.
It takes me close to two hours to make my way through all of them. When I’m finally finished, I’m exhausted, exhilarated and weepy all at the same time. A whole new chapter has been added to my life. I have an older brother! He’s well and happy, and best of all he’s forgiven my mother. And so have I.
So much has changed since she left. I’ve learned so much. About myself, about Mom and the importance of family, about what it means to be connected. Slowly a new feeling fills me.
I’m proud of her.
I understand now that she needed to leave to save herself. But she didn’t leave me alone. Somehow she sent the whales to me. They came when I needed them, I know that in my heart. And I’m stronger now, the way she wanted me to be. I have mut … the courage to believe, to trust, and to fight for what I want and make it happen.
Next summer, when the whales follow the salmon run again, I’ll be thirteen. It feels as if a whole new world is opening up.
The day is gone. The window near my bed is slightly open and the sounds of nighttime on the inlet drift in toward me—the soothing splash of slow water, the drone of a ship’s horn. Through the smudged glass, the small, bright orb of the moon is beginning its rise over the inlet. I rouse myself and rummage around the cluttered bed until I find what I’m looking for. In the time it takes me to punch in the ten-digit number scribbled on the slip of paper Dad gave me, the moon climbs in the sky to fill the frame of my tiny window, illuminating the water of the inlet and the dim outline of the Warren Avenue Bridge in the distance.
The ringing, faraway but insistent, reaches deep down inside me, bringing with it a whole new set of feelings. In the dim light of the houseboat, I hear more in that ringing than I could ever have imagined. I hear the sound of ferries and foghorns; the drum beats of the Coast Salish tribes; and the reassuring whistle of a mother whale summoning her wayward calf. I listen and seem to hear clearly the sound of courage, the sound of choosing to love, choosing to take control of your life.
Finally, the ringing stops.
“Hello?”
“Mom! It’s me! I have SO much to tell you. But first, remember the whale watching trip you’ve been wanting to plan? Next spring, when the whales come home, I think we should all go.” And there in the dark, I close my eyes and take that leap of faith. “You, me, Dad … and Ben.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Chasing at the Surface is a novel, a
nd its characters and situations are fictional, although some place-names have been borrowed and much of the genealogy and science behind the study of killer whales is authentic. What is perhaps most interesting is that the backstory for this book is based on a true event.
The actual story goes like this. In the fall of 1997, nineteen Southern Resident killer whales (SRKW), members of L-25 sub-pod, paid an unexpected and unusual visit to Dyes Inlet, a small estuary in Puget Sound, near Seattle, Washington. Most experts believe they were following a run of chum salmon or maybe they were just curious, as killer whales can be. Either way, their thirty-day visit was unforgettable for anyone who had the chance to observe these highly social animals up close.
When I decided I wanted to create a story to share the special excitement of that experience almost twenty years ago, I read all I could about the actual event, spoke to whale researchers, journalists, and community residents, and visited Dyes Inlet many times. Much of what I learned became part of this book.
But as fiction authors often do, I took some liberties in my story, adjusting timelines, changing settings, and creating a slantwise version of the geography of the inlet. In this book, SoundKeeper is loosely based on the Soundwatch Boater Education Program at the Whale Museum in Friday Harbor, Washington (www.whalemuseum.org) who work to prevent vessel disturbance to killer whales and other marine wildlife in the Salish Sea. While the pod genealogy chart shows the actual whales that visited Dyes Inlet, some small details have been changed. For example, in real life Muncher is a girl!
When I finished my research and began writing, something interesting happened. My story moved beyond a retelling of the specifics of the actual event. Other themes and connections began to emerge, and the mystery of why the whales stayed in the inlet for so long became much more central. To me, that is the beauty of storytelling. The factual events of the orcas visit became the framework for a story that explores loss, courage, faith, and what it means to call a place home.
J, K, and L pods still frequent the inland waterways of Washington State and the boundary waters between the United States and Canada every spring through fall. In the winter months, they have been spotted as far south as central California.
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