by Mara Purl
She heard the Captain’s amplified voice. After introducing himself and welcoming everyone on board, he began. “Throughout the 1980s and early 1990s, the practice of whale watching has been spreading throughout the world. These trips are now available in about eighty countries with as many as eight million participants. This is good news for humans, because it means lots of fun . . . and lots of money for tour guides like me.” He paused here, allowing time for the laughter he must’ve known would ripple through his small audience. “It’s also good for cetaceans, because it means we’re enjoying them more and killing them less.” Miranda noted the seriousness of his tone. “To be more specific, we hope this means commercial whaling won’t resume on the scale it was once practiced, since it nearly wiped some species off the planet.”
I knew he was a kindred soul. Great he’s letting people know about all this every time he does a tour.
“I know most of you brought cameras,” he continued. “And I imagine you’ll have a chance to get some memorable shots. But I also want to encourage you to put down your cameras for part of the trip. Why? Because you need to experience the whales you see today one-on-one. You need to see them . . . and let them see you.”
Miranda reflected on this for a moment. He’s exactly right. If we’re lucky enough to get close, we want to see and be seen, feel and be felt.
“Every whale has distinguishing marks, which might be scars, or patterns of barnacles, a notch missing from a fluke. Look for these; notice the details. And try listening too. You won’t hear them sing, but you will hear them breathe. I’ll be back with you in a few minutes.”
As the speakers fell silent, the air seemed to fill with the motor’s thrumming and the swish of the boat through the water.
“Hmm,” Miranda heard Joe McCutcheon say to his wife. “Good presentation. I’m learning something today.”
“Marvelous. Glad we’re here, Love.”
Miranda smiled at the comfort and intimacy these two people shared. Maybe I’ll have a relationship like that one day . . . mutual interests and respect . . . fun . . . tenderness.
The next moment, her reverie was broken by the strident complaints of the third woman on board. “If I’d known how cold it was gonna be on this so-called adventure of yours, I’d have dressed for the occasion.” The woman appeared as she made her way to the foredeck, her bright green slicker flapping.
Miranda stood frozen in disbelief. No. It can’t be. Not here.
Now the woman’s husband appeared, his lips pursed. “I did pack the extra fleece for you, dear.”
“Orange? You expect me to wear orange?” she screeched. “I’ll look like a roadside hazard sign. No, thank you very much!” She yanked again at the lime-colored shell that flapped unrelentingly at her neck.
How is it possible? Lime Woman . . . aboard the same vessel as I am? If I’d known for sure it was her before we left the dock, I might’ve disembarked. Now, however, she was stuck with her. They all were. The only good news is that she doesn’t recognize me . . . at least, not yet.
Miranda lifted the hood attached to her own jacket and faced starboard, away from the couple she now thought of as “the Greens.” The speakers crackled again and the captain went on. “Gray whales’ major migration begins in October when they begin departing the Arctic, and they can be seen along the California coast during November. Here along the Central Coast we generally see the largest numbers later in December, but we expect to see some today moving south for the winter. They’ll be heading for Baja California in Mexico, to the warm waters of their breeding and nursery lagoons.”
Miranda bent her knees slightly, riding the gentle swells as the narration continued. “If we’re real lucky, we might catch a glimpse of humpbacks. They like to hang out near the Channel Islands south of here, but they like Big Sur too, north of our position. You’ll know right away if it’s a humpback, because when they breach, they shoot out of the water at about a 45- degree angle.”
Joanne McCutcheon turned to Miranda. “Do you think we’ll hear them sing?”
“Not likely. The males do sing long, complicated patterns, but only in their mating grounds.”
“We’ll have to buy the album!” Joe McCutcheon added.
“You can, actually,” Miranda chimed in. “Dr. Roger Payne recorded it. It’s called Songs of the Humpback Whale.”
“What happens if they can’t hear each other?” Joanne asked.
As if in answer to Joanne’s question, the captain said: “Whales are acoustic creatures. And ambient noise—made by all ships, but especially the big commercial craft in the shipping lanes—is doubling every decade. A lot of scientists are worried this reduces the hearing range for the whales, and it may be putting a lot of stress on them that we have no way to measure.”
The sobering thought seemed to hang over the small group of passengers for a moment as they kept their eyes on the water.
Then another whine rose from the port side of the deck. “Eeyeu . . . I don’t feel so well.”
Oh, no! Why would someone who gets seasick come on a voyage? I suppose that’s unkind. Maybe she didn’t realize.
“But, dear, why didn’t you take the Dramamine I gave you?”
“It’d make me sleepy. I didn’t want to sleep through the whole experience. Otherwise, why would I—eeyeu . . . ”
Miranda recognized what Lime Woman’s discomfort signified. “Joanne and Joe, perhaps we should move to the aft deck? I’ll tell the captain along the way.”
“Indeed,” Joe mumbled, ushering his wife away from the unpleasant retching sounds now coming from the port side.
But the captain had already dispatched one of his two male crew members, who now hurried forward with a bucket and clean rags in hand.
Well, Miranda thought, maybe the worst is over. Who knows, Mrs. Lime might even be quiet for a while. One could only hope.
Ed felt the tensions of the past week begin to slide past him, slick as the gray water slipping past the boat’s scuppers.
He’d been looking forward to this—time with the guys, time on the water. There was so little to look forward to these days. He knew he’d feel better when he had a drink or two. He meant to make the most of this day off.
To that end, he’d offered to bring the beverages for the outing, and his plan had been to bring enough beer to take the edge off a tough week . . . a tough year . . . a tough life.
He knew things hadn’t been easy for Jacob either, though for an entirely different reason. At least ol’ Jake found the love of his life and lived with her for a good long while. His marriage to Cece was the real deal. Still, to have lost her had obviously taken a toll.
Earlier in the week, Ed had found time to make a run to his favorite liquor store where the owner treated regular customers like him well. Joe’d made a recommendation that instead of his usual beer, Ed treat himself and his friends to something from a new California brewery right here in the Central Coast. Gold Stud Ale, he’d called it.
Ed had laughed out loud, thinking about the tools of his trade. “Sounds like hardware.”
Well, yes, it would be a little hard, Joe’d said, mentioning that ale might be a little stronger than beer.
“Guess that makes it a good way to get hammered.”
At that, Joe had guffawed.
Wasn’t a bad line, but when I tried it again on Jacob and Will, they didn’t find it especially funny.
With Jacob at the helm, they’d cleared the harbor safely and headed northwest. Their plan was a round trip that’d take them to Piedras Blancas peninsula, finding a nice spot for lunch before heading home.
But as they progressed, they were in for a rougher ride than expected. Ed couldn’t tell how much of it was the light chop that’d come up with the breeze, or whether it was the speed at which Jacob insisted on traveling.
It’s not like we have some deadline or even a destination. But the guy just won’t slow down. The Manta Dance is a beautiful craft. Hope she stays that way after the
pounding Jacob’s been giving her . . . and us.
Now the boat slapped the water hard, jarring his backbone and practically rattling his teeth. He glanced over to see Will jack-knifing his knees in an effort to ride the bucking-bronco motion of the craft.
“Let’s slow down!” he called to Jacob over the noise of the engine.
But his friend, their pilot-for-the-day, merely gave him a weird smile and never touched the controls.
Ed waited several minutes, watching the shoreline recede as they continued north. By then, Will was clenching his teeth.
“Hey!” Ed called.
When Jacob glanced around, Ed used the flat of his hand to cut through the air across his throat. “Cut the engine!”
With a sour expression, Jacob finally throttled back until their Sea Ray began to lower itself and settle into the waves.
“Let’s stop early for lunch,” Ed suggested. “Knock back a coupla brews. Maybe by the time we’re done, the water’ll be smooth again.”
Jacob didn’t seem convinced as he let the anchor chain unfurl. But Will was obviously relieved as he went for his small cooler of sandwiches. Meanwhile, Ed snapped open his larger cooler of ale and handed a chilled bottle to each of his companions, passing around the opener.
When the opener came back around, he grabbed his own dark brown bottle by its slippery neck; felt the metal cap give way under the pressure of the angled church-key; heard the hiss as hoppy gasses escaped their enclosure. He raised the cool glass cylinder to his lips and felt the kick as the bitter brew slammed into the delicate hollow of his mouth.
Synapses began to cross-connect, the circuitry’s misfires fooling him into that temporary suspension he hungered for. Now, he thought. Now the million anxieties will start to sink below the waves.
Jacob cast a worried glance northward as their boat tugged at anchor. According to the charts, it was twenty-nine nautical miles from Morro to Piedras.
He glanced at the LORAN-C receiver bolted to the wide, flat dashboard. During the brief training he’d gone through after buying his boat, Jacob had been a diligent student. He’d learned to use the LORAN—an acronym pulled from LOng RAnge Navigation—the standard land-based navigation system that used low frequency signals transmitted by radio beacons and picked up by a receiver unit. A primary station was paired separately with two secondary stations. The time difference between the first and second would identify one curve of a hyperbolic line; the other pairing would identify a second line, with its intersection determining a geographic point in relation to the three stations. These curves came to be referred to as time difference—or TD—lines.
A numbers man, Jacob enjoyed interpreting the data. On his chart of the Central Coast, he’d drawn a ladder of lines, angling off the Piedras Blancas point and tracing down the coastline, noting the demarcations in ascending numerals for one line, descending for the other. His methodical approach served him well and gave him a fairly accurate reading of where they were.
We’ve been floating out here for a good two hours. According to Ed, we only traveled about ten of those sea-miles, and I guess we’re about opposite a town called Milford-Haven. But the weather’s shifting. Maybe we’re in for a storm. If so, we’d be safer a little farther north at San Simeon. At least there’s a small bight there, and a point to protect us from the wind. What if we get stuck out here and can’t find our way back?
He knew next to nothing about weather. In California, what was there to know? Yet, he could swear the moisture in the air had increased considerably since four hours ago, when he and his two friends had embarked. He squinted, hoping he’d see something more clearly . . . maybe a storm cloud. But all he saw was a hazing of the line between sky and sea.
And the air isn’t the only thing that’s grown hazy around here. Those two have been sucking down that ale like it’s going out of style.
Earlier this morning Jacob had been relieved when Ed—late as usual—finally arrived. He’d traipsed down the dock hefting a huge cooler. Watching Ed approach, Jacob decided his friend would need help hoisting the unwieldy thing on board.
As Jacob had stepped from the dock back aboard, he’d nearly fallen when his foot slipped and landed on a protrusion of some kind in the flooring. When he looked down, he saw careful circles cut out of the carpeting, but these revealed post sockets designed to receive the legs of a removable table. Maybe that’s what I stepped on . . . either that, or one of the concealed holes drilled here and there to allow cables and wires to pass through. Jacob had quickly regained his balance, and Ed had stowed his oversized container in the kitchen. I should call it the galley. Can’t keep the boat language in my head.
That cooler turned out to be filled only with alcoholic drinks—no sodas and only three waters. Worrisome, but what could I say? Not my place to tell a man what to do . . . so long as everyone stays safe, I guess.
When they’d started, the sea had been flat as a window-pane. Jacob had nearly drooled at the prospect of slicing through the water like a glass cutter. But the chop had come up shortly after they’d reached open water, giving them such an uncomfortable ride that Ed had called a halt. Will, who’d looked a little green around the gills, had readily agreed. So, here they were, bobbing in the chop, buffeted by gusts of wind.
A noise caught Jacob’s attention. Some kind of clicking . . . can’t be the engine—it’s turned off. Maybe an electric pump of some kind? But first it’s slow, then it’s fast, then silent. Well, if it happens again, I guess I’ll ask Ed . . . if he’s still compos mentis by then. “Three sheets to the wind.” I’m afraid my companions give new meaning to the phrase.
The Female turned herself slowly, tuning in to the clicking message that resounded toward her.
Him. Near. Joy.
Rolling her weightless girth in his direction, she offered him the panorama of her gravid womb.
Fulfilled . . . alive . . . readying.
His streaming clangs arced through the water, the deep sounds a reminder of his penetrating power. Then his rapid-fire clicks struck the immensity of her belly, delicate probings that stroked the pinked, pulsing membranes of her uterus . . . the personal echo-location for which she’d yearned and waited.
He perceives. He knows. He feels. Mine. His. Ours.
An ultrasound picture now forming in his mind would reveal to him what she, herself, longed to see . . . the gender and weight, the position and snugness, the press toward delivery.
It came, then, the sound-image she’d carry always, a perfection of perpetuation, his next gift to his mate. She rolled again, catching sight of him.
Close. Breathing soon.
She fixed a tender eye on his for a lingering moment, then swam a circle around his length, sharing the deep joy only they would know.
Miranda stood alone, one hand on the rail, the other holding her camera. She and the other passengers had enjoyed a brief flurry of activity an hour or so earlier: a small group of grays flicking their tails and exhaling noisily. She’d snapped some photos, delighted to be near, though not able to see more than a sliding back ridge or a spouting spray as it showed above the surface.
But since the grays had continued on their way south, things had been shifting. The weather was turning, for one thing—a low bank of clouds gathering to the north. For another, the sea had grown choppy, further unsettling Mrs. “Green” and discouraging even the McCutcheons.
There was something else, though . . . something far below the waves . . . a churning . . . or a presence. Could be another pod below us that won’t surface for a while. But I feel as if someone’s watching me. She whipped her head around to see if her observer might be human, and she could catch someone’s furtive gaze. But there was no one in view. The McCutcheons were inside with Captain Wallace, the “Greens” at the stern where Mrs. Lime was nibbling on plain soda crackers and sipping ginger ale provided by the crew.
Guess I’m imagining things. It’d been like this sometimes on her long Planet Peace voyage—hours of e
ndless water that encouraged her and her crewmates to imagine the lives of the whales they’d come to save. They used to talk about how the largest brain on the planet—eight thousand cubic centimeters, compared to their own at about thirteen hundred—lived not on land but in the ocean, traveling the global waters from one end to the other.
A series of clicks echoed somewhere below the boat. What was that? Sounded like . . . but it couldn’t be. She swept her gaze carefully across the waves, trying to glimpse movement she could distinguish from the undulating water.
Cachalot—the alternate word for sperm whale—rose in her mind. She had to be careful, now, not to imagine, careful not to let her subjective eagerness get in the way of objective observation. A sudden blast of salt spray jetted forward at a low angle—not the high angle of the baleen species.
She ran inside and Captain Wallace turned to look at her.
“You don’t think . . . it’s not possible that. . . .”
“What is it, Miranda? Did you see something?”
“Yes . . . and heard something too. Something big’s out there, I’d say. Ever heard of a sperm whale in coastal waters?”
“No, can’t say I have. Grays and humpbacks. And sometimes blues. Now those are huge animals, and they do like to feed along the coastal trenches. But they don’t breach like the humpbacks do. You might’ve caught a glimpse and not been able to identify the species.”
“True.” She pondered for a moment, squinting out the window. “But that wouldn’t explain the angle of the spray, nor what I heard. You’re not having any kind of engine trouble, right? Your boat’s not making some unusual sound?”
“No, everything’s ship-shape.”
“Well, I heard clicks.”
“Dolphins.”
“Deeper, louder clicks.”
Miranda and the captain stared at each other for a moment.
“It’d be rare,” he began. “Very rare.”