by Mara Purl
She remembered that late-summer coupling, a spectacle of war as the Male fought for her . . . a dream of unity as she accepted him. His size—foretold by the duration of his clicks— seemed overwhelming as he drew near. Yet, as his gargantuan member cleverly sought her, she opened in ways she’d never known, his length sliding into hers . . . a harmony of depth.
He’d gone his own way, then, to travel the planet, strong, free, solitary. Sometimes she could sense his presence, eyeing her, probing with his sounds.
Out there. Not far.
Her own journeys . . . fifteen long months of plying the oceans with her pod while the fetus grew, and now the group enjoyed coastal waters where temperatures were milder, and where shallower ledges might trap prey.
Food . . . more food . . . eating for two.
The thought of food began to waken her from her rest, and she roused, slowly bending to aim her head downward. Her delicate phonic lips articulated clicks, the sound bouncing off an internal air sac before resonating through her brain-pool—the liquid cloud of spermaceti. The clicks pulsed through the delicate sheaves of fatty tissue that focused the sounds into a narrow beam.
Now, like a powerful beacon, the amplified clicks shot through her snout to penetrate the darkening water below her, a searchlight of sound that returned to her a clear picture: the depths and all its creatures revealed.
Dragonfish. Too far. Toothfish. Too small. Resting more important.
She returned to her logging—tail drifting downward, head rotating upward—until she hung suspended just below the surface, rejoining her family group.
All here. All well. Rest more.
Comfort and companionship swirled through the gentle waves like the light that played through the surface water, its lenses bending the rays, printing bright patterns on the long blue-black bodies.
The thirteen-member pod already had two young ones, three-year-olds who ventured away bravely only to missile back to their mothers for protection from orcas and sharks— the predators they had yet to outgrow. And the five juveniles would, during their decade of puberty, learn the ways of the great whales—males departing to join brothers, uncles and fathers; females staying with mothers, aunts and sisters. Then, if they met no whalers, they would continue to grow during fifty of their 80- to 100-year span.
The pod began to stir. Another mother, to suckle her calf, swam with him just below the surface. The baby performed a bout of peduncle diving: maneuvering his body beneath hers, pressing his blowhole to her genital area, then opening his mouth to accept squirts of milk. After each swallow, he surfaced for another breath.
A month from now, the Female’s own calf would be born— eyes open, senses alert, and able to swim at once, following its mother and eager for the milk she would squirt from both nipples.
Now the soon-to-be mother pushed lazily to the surface and opened her blowhole to inhale a deep, refreshing breath.
Hunt soon. Feed the child within.
Miranda drove her green Mustang to the end of Harbor Boulevard, turned left onto Embarcadero and parked in the small lot tucked between road and water alongside To-Morro-Today. Of the possible excursion outfits offering whale watching in the region, this one had been recommended for its smaller boats and experienced owner, a Captain Wallace. Novices usually didn’t choose these charters, tending to get seasick in these lighter craft that bobbed with every wave. The motion doesn’t bother me . . . and I’d rather be with a smaller, more experienced group. Besides, I liked the name of his boat. She chuckled at the play on words he’d chosen for his craft: the Seatacean.
Having made the short half-hour drive from Milford-Haven in good time, she paused for a moment to gaze out at the glassy water until her attention was drawn by a flock of pelicans propelling themselves low across the sky like a flying necklace.
The Morro Bay National Estuary and Harbor was one of California’s thriving ecosystems: a spawning ground, a marine nursery, a place for recreation and educational programs, and a commercial fishing harbor. So different from Milford-Haven because we have no waterfront—just a cozy beach for walking . . . hunting for shells and stones. Despite this basic difference, the towns were similar in other ways—each with permanent residents who tended to be artists and artisans, shop-keepers and restauranteurs; and each overflowing with tourists from Memorial Day through Labor Day. But now, in November, she’d expect to find mostly the locals, or those with second homes.
For today’s outing, she’d left her painting supplies at home and brought the assortment of photographic equipment she used for her wildlife excursions.
She loved to paint “live” whenever possible. But she could just imagine her paint tubes and brushes skittering across the boat’s deck! With all this camera gear, I feel more like a photographer than an artist. But I’ll come home with great images to paint. Just wish I knew more about waterproofing.
She’d eyed a waterproof camera, but couldn’t justify the expense. So, to keep safe her 35mm Nikon N90, she’d bought a waterproof sleeve that would protect the delicate controls on the body of the device. Of course, there’s nothing much I can do to protect the lenses from spray. Just have to be extra careful.
Knowing how cold it could get out on open water, she’d also added a marine component to her usual outdoor adventure clothing. She’d worn layers: for her upper body, she wore a tank top, long-sleeved T-shirt and her evergreen zippered fleece; on her lower body she wore lightweight thermal long johns under a well-worn pair of jeans. Her feet were laced into non-slip shoes, and from the back seat, she grabbed the Gore-Tex waterproof jacket she’d received as a member of the Planet Peace crew. In a duffle she’d packed sun block, a baseball cap, and a thermos filled with hot tea.
Hoisting her duffle and camera bag, she locked the Mustang and walked to the dock, then glanced at each boat’s name as she passed the long series of slips. She spotted the Seatacean and watched a sturdy-looking middle-aged man in a captain’s cap as he squinted up at two other embarking passengers. Helping the couple aboard, he glanced over at her as she arrived.
The man’s face split into a welcoming grin. “Miranda Jones?”
“That’s me.” She returned the smile.
“Your reputation precedes you,” he proclaimed, his deep voice resonating. “Heard you crewed on a big voyage. Might press you into service.”
Miranda laughed. “Happy to oblige. Permission to come aboard?”
“You bet.” He extended a beefy hand to help her maneuver across the short gangplank and down the two steps onto the aft deck. “Eric Wallace,” he offered, releasing her hand.
“Good to meet you. And thanks for adding me to your group.”
He nodded. “I’m a fan of yours, just so you know. Bought one of your paintings from Finders up in Milford-Haven.”
“Really?” Miranda could feel herself flush with pleasure. “Which one?”
“Open the Gate—the Golden Gate, with the fog. . . .”
“Looking toward Marin. I remember. I did that one a few years ago.”
“Well, it’s a beauty. Just like its creator.”
Now she could sense a real blush heat her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said quietly. She glanced around, trying to think of a graceful way to escape.
Captain Wallace eased her discomfort by changing the subject. “We’ve got a very small group today.”
Miranda smiled. “I kinda like that idea. Means more focus on the whales, more access to the rail for photography.”
“Exactly. The other folks seem nice enough. A middle-aged couple on vacation—but they’re well-traveled. And the other couple are locals from Santa Maria.”
Just then a shrieking laugh erupted from the far side of the boat. Wincing at the sound, Miranda glanced toward the foredeck where she caught a glimpse of something bright green. Lime. No . . . it can’t be her.
Last August, while Miranda’d been painting outdoors at the Rosencrantz Café and Guildenstern Garden in Milford-Haven, an obnoxious woman had
stood over her shoulder, critiquing her work—suggesting she should keep studying until she got it right—until her embarrassed husband dragged her away. She was wearing that exact shade of neon. But why would she be here?
Bringing her gaze back to Captain Wallace’s face, she saw the skin around his eyes crinkle as he suppressed a laugh. “Yeah, she’s a bit . . . exuberant. Let’s hope she doesn’t scare off the cetaceans with that high-pitched laugh.”
Miranda giggled.
“Hope I didn’t speak out of turn. You don’t know her, do you?”
“I hope not. I mean . . . she couldn’t be the person I’d thought of.”
“Got it. Well, we’ll be getting under way after the two crew members and I finish running through our safety checks. You’ll find a life jacket stowed in that long locker over there. Hope you’ve still got your sea legs.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Miranda gave him her biggest smile, eager for the day’s adventure to begin.
Will Marks placed his gear in the back, and slipped into the driver’s seat of his silver Porsche 911 and inserted the key. When he turned it, he allowed himself a moment just to enjoy the engine’s purr. Kinduv absurd to drive there. I could’ve ridden my bike down to the dock. But I’m getting a late start. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the Off the Charts boat dock.
He hadn’t slept well. How could I, after that argument? He’d been dating Randi Raines since July—not exactly a long-distance relationship, as she lived three hours south at the top end of the Los Angeles sprawl, where she held down a high-pressure job as a radio talk-show host. But seeing each other did require a fair amount of driving.
He’d enticed her to come up from the smog of Simi Valley for the weekend with the promise of fresh ocean air and virtually no traffic—just two of the advantages offered by the Central Coast.
Arriving exhausted—and late—Friday night, she had mumbled an apology about missing their dinner, crawled under the covers next to him and fallen into a solid sleep.
Saturday morning was great. Fun between the sheets. Randi’d brought some sort of massage oil with her. She awakened him by kneading out the knots in his back, rolfing his butt muscles till he groaned, then sliding her own well-greased body along his.
He’d felt her small, well-shaped breasts flatten against his back, her nipples hard pearls that pressed into his sinews. When he couldn’t stand it any more, he grabbed her arm to hold her in place while he flipped over. Then she rode him, her athletic gyrations sending him over the edge while that radio-voice of hers loudly announced her own satisfaction. That was a helluva romp.
With all the oil on their skin, they’d needed extra time in the shower to scrub it off, and that’d led to another hot, slippery skirmish.
They’d finally escaped the bedroom suite and managed to get some clothes on. Afterward, the two had enjoyed huge platters of fried seafood for lunch. They’d planned on dinner and a movie that night. Sunday morning she was scheduled to drive back to L.A. to beat the afternoon traffic. That worked for him, as he’d promised to go boating with the guys.
But last night’s plans had begun to unravel during dinner. Why does it always have to be the same damn argument? By now, he could almost recite it by rote.
It’d started—after her second glass of wine—with her needling him again about moving to the city. “Why stay in this backwater,” she asked, “working at some shipping company when you could have a real job in Los Angeles?”
“I have a real job,” he reminded her, pushing away his salad. “I’m Vice President of the company.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” she persisted. “What does it really mean to be V.P. of some dinky boat company?”
Will felt the acid pouring into his stomach and the heat rising up his neck. Managing to keep his voice low, he intoned though clenched teeth, “I’m an officer at a shipping firm that delivers cargo all over the Pacific Rim.”
“Oh, yeah?” Nearby patrons turned their heads, which she ignored. “Then why are you spending half your weekend going out on some stupid rented boat with two other losers?”
He paid the check before she could order the third glass of wine she wanted—though she made sure to open a new bottle when they got back to his place. At that point, her arguments subtly morphed into sexual taunts, delivered during a private floorshow while Randi flung off articles of clothing.
She wriggled out of her jacket. “This is why you spent all the time and money getting an MBA?” Off came the skirt. “To live in Fish Town, U.S.A.?” Her sweater sailed across the room toward him. The whole time, a smile pulled at her lips . . . one that never reached her eyes.
Despite her performance, she’d passed out the moment they hit the sheets. Then, in the dark before dawn, she’d gathered her belongings and left. They had no actual plans to see each other again; they’d broken up several times over the past five weeks. But for some reason, she always came back. And, for some reason, he always allowed it.
Will suddenly remembered the three-hour lunch he’d had last month with Zack Calvin, a business associate who was becoming a friend. As their conversation had drifted from professional topics to personal ones, Zack made an oblique reference to a woman he dated. Something about “intense but not necessarily wholesome.” That about sums things up for me, too.
Now, as he turned into the parking lot, sunlight smacked the front window of Will’s Porsche as if to slap him from his reverie. He glanced at the dashboard clock, peered into the rearview mirror, then stepped out of his car, pulling after him a duffle in which he’d loaded a ball cap and a rain slicker—just in case the weather changed, or they kicked up a lot of spray. He also grabbed the small cooler containing the selection of sandwiches he’d pre-ordered, delivered this morning from Pacific Café.
His feelings about the toxic evening seemed to hang at the edges of his mind like a fog bank. As if to wave it away, he swung the duffle over one shoulder then hoisted the cooler. Maybe being out on the water with the guys will help clear my head. I can sure use it. As he walked away from his car, he listened for the chirp that meant his doors were locked.
Jacob felt the powerful engines of the Manta Dance burbling at the stern, but kept a tight rein on the throttles here in the smooth, protected harbor. Ahead the two rubble-mound-and-revetment breakwaters marked the estuary’s mouth, and he aligned the boat between the red and green channel markers that indicated safe passage.
Improvements had only been put in last year: a deepened, expanded entrance, and a sand trap just inside the harbor entrance structures. Still, with the sand bar and frequent larger swells, the Coast Guard considered Morro Bay’s harbor entryway one of the most dangerous in the country.
Jacob monitored his timing to cross the bar, Ed beside him in the wheelhouse and Will hanging onto the rail with his face in the breeze, neither of them apparently aware of the potential danger.
With his demeanor calm, Jacob pressed outward into the open sea, barely containing his impatience until he could churn the water into a frothy wake that would lift the boat high in the water and thrust it across a shining sea.
Miranda staggered slightly against the motion of the Seatacean as she made her way forward. Finding a spray-slicked bench, she settled in her favorite spot on the foredeck, thrilled to have the tang of saltwater and kelp in her nostrils.
The air temperature had been about fifty degrees when she’d left home this morning, but had already risen ten degrees, with another ten-degree rise predicted—on land. Still chilly on the water, though, especially with wind from our forward momentum. And I don’t know if it’ll stay sunny . . . there’s a lot of moisture in the air. We might get some clouds.
After a careful scan of the water’s polished surface, Miranda unpacked her camera, clicked her lens into place and snapped a few shots of the receding shoreline. Looks like our visibility is about fifteen miles today . . . plenty for spotting flukes and flippers.
One of the two couples on board made their w
ay forward to stand at the rail beside her, so she lowered her camera and introduced herself.
“We’re the McCutcheons,” the husband said, reaching out one hand while he clung to the rail with the other. “From Spokane, Washington.”
“Joanne and Joe,” his wife added, smiling at her.
“Have you been whale watching before?” Miranda asked.
Joanne’s face brightened. “We were on a cruise up to Alaska and we saw some orcas in Prince William Sound.”
“Oh, it must’ve been beautiful!”
“It was,” Joanne said. “But we’re hoping to see some of the larger species today.”
An almost wistful expression came over Joe’s face. “It’d sure be something to see a Blue Whale. Largest creature on Earth.”
“It would,” Miranda began, “but they’re so rare. They were hunted for a century, almost to extinction, down to something like less than one percent of their original population.”
A grimace tightened Joe’s face as Joanne’s brow creased with a frown.
“Now that they’re no longer being hunted, scientists are waiting to see whether their numbers will begin to climb. If they ever do, they’d like it along the Central and Southern California coast, where they’d find krill . . . if the pollution isn’t too toxic.”
“Oh, dear,” Joanne moaned. “What’s happening to our poor planet?”
Miranda forced a smile. These are good people. I don’t want to make them feel helpless. “The good news is we’re waking up—and probably just in time.”
She glanced around, noticing the other couple hadn’t come to the forward deck. Just then, the onboard speakers suddenly hummed into life and she looked up into the wheelhouse window where she could see Captain Wallace at his station. She’d hoped he might be a tour host who’d offer narration, as she sensed he was the kind of person who loved his subject and made a point of educating himself so he could give his passengers more than just a superficial experience.