When Whales Watch

by Mara Purl

  Mrs. Lime, though still screaming, now sounded hoarse. The other passengers rushed out to the rail, and Miranda heard Joanne exclaim, “Oh, my God! That boat would’ve hit us!” Joe held her close, the two of them watching as the whale powered away.

  She’s right . . . the male did save us, even if it was unintentional. What he meant to do was save his family . . . and he did.

  Miranda’s attention was drawn back to the Captain, now, as he whipped his own wheel to port, no longer making for Morro Bay, but following the wake of the still-speeding cruiser.

  “There’s gotta be something wrong,” he gritted as if answering her unspoken question. “Looks like they’ve lost control. Only safe thing now would be beaching her at San Simeon.”

  Miranda realized he was right. That cove would be the only sandy area along this stretch of the coast. “Could that work? Stop the boat without them crashing?”

  “Anybody’s guess,” he replied with a grim expression. “Whatever happens, maybe we can help.”

  Will balanced himself on the heaving deck as the Manta sped across the choppy water. He struggled with the second length of rope, lashing Ed’s still-sleeping body to cleats Will hoped would hold him in place. He’d already done the same for Jacob.

  Lord knows, I’m no expert with mariners’ knots. Just hope this works. He hoped that with the padding provided by life jackets and cushions, and secured in place, his friends wouldn’t suffer any devastating injuries.

  The whale had punched a hole in their side, but so far the scuppers were handling whatever water they were taking on. The whale hit us off course enough that we’re gonna hit that beach up ahead. Sure as hell beats the alternative. No idea how bad the impact will be.

  His friends as secure as he could make them, he clutched at the rail and pulled himself up to see how much time he had before bracing himself for the collision. My God, we’re close! He grabbed up the last piece of rope.

  Streaming through ever-shallower water, the boat began to lose speed until its propellers caught at water’s edge, spewing sand high into the air, tipping the craft violently to starboard before it scraped to a halt. Will, having managed to lash himself to two portside cleats, was now dangling—but still breathing.

  Inhale. Exhale. Ooh, that hurt. Maybe a broken rib. But I made it.

  He looked anxiously at his companions. Jacob moved his hand . . . Ed groaned. Thank God. They’re alive. We all made it.

  He twisted his neck for a glimpse of beach. Mercifully, it was empty. Their crash-landing hadn’t endangered anyone on shore. When he returned his gaze to the ocean, he saw a whale-watching boat heading toward the Manta. Gotta be the one we nearly hit. So grateful all those people are safe.

  In the distance, he could hear the sound of a siren.

  Miranda placed a steaming mug of tea on the kitchen counter in her friend Shelly’s house, then walked to the front door to retrieve this week’s edition of the Milford-Haven News.

  She didn’t subscribe to the paper herself, but today, could hardly wait to see what further news might be reported about the remarkable events that’d befallen the Central Coast over the weekend.

  WHALE OF A LANDING, said the bold headline. Miranda chuckled and spread the paper on the counter to see the photo of three wet, bedraggled but smiling men sitting between the open rear doors of an ambulance. She began to read the article by Emily Wilkins.

  Monday, December 2, 1996

  Morro Bay, California

  Jacob Rosenfeld, Ed Stone and Will Marks set out last Sunday morning on a day’s excursion aboard Rosenfeld’s cabin cruiser, the Manta Dance. But things didn’t go exactly as planned. First wind, then fog, caused the group to alter their plans. Ultimately, the elements turned out to be the least of their worries.

  The article went on to describe the eventful day-trip, which had gone from bad to worse. Carbon monoxide had flooded the cabin, rendering two of the men unconscious.

  Inspectors are still going over the boat, but so far their investigation has revealed a lose leading to the exhaust manifold. The engine room apparently filled with exhaust, which eventually leaked into the cabin that enclosed two of the men. With the boat set on auto-pilot, two men unconscious, and the third man suffering seasickness at the stern, the Manta Dance sped toward the Seatacean until knocked off course by the attacking sperm whale.

  “The whale hit the starboard side of the cabin,” Inspector John O’Rourke reported. “That’s where the throttles, radio, wheel—all the boat’s essential equipment is located. It was damaged so badly that the one conscious passenger couldn’t do anything to stop the boat or correct its course. But the Sea Ray Sundancer is a very solid craft. Fortunately, the men in the cabin were thrown from their seats and not seriously injured.”

  What a nightmare! They really were lucky to survive . . . though some of us know it wasn’t really luck.

  Miranda skipped over to a sidebar Emily had written describing the whale-watching trip, headlined WHALE WATCHES OUT FOR WHALE WATCHERS. Miranda shook her head at the headline—funny, but uncannily accurate.

  A smaller photo featured Captain Wallace, herself, and the other passengers. She couldn’t help but groan when she read the quotation from a Mrs. Ezmeralda Worthington, realizing at once this could only be the famous “Mrs. Lime.”

  “It was foolhardy and reckless to keep a group of people out on the water once the conditions got bad. And then he didn’t take us back right away after that monster attacked the other boat! I’m surprised that captain hasn’t lost his license.”

  Veteran Captain Eric Wallace has received numerous commendations for helping fellow mariners. He was praised by his other passengers, Mr. and Mrs. McCutcheon of Spokane, Washington, who were on vacation in Morro Bay. “It was incredible to see what that whale did,” said Mrs. McCutcheon. “But Captain Wallace kept a level head through the whole trip. We were with him 100 percent when he went to help the men who crashed on the beach. We saw a lot of heroism that day.”

  Artist Miranda Jones, also a whale-watching passenger, had previously been a crew member on a six-week ocean voyage to save whales with the Planet Peace organization. “I was amazed to see sperm whales in coastal waters,” she remarked. “It’s very rare. When the male rammed the speeding boat, he was following his instincts to protect his family group. But he also protected all of us on the Seatacean, because we were directly in the path of the oncoming vessel, too.”

  Miranda pushed aside her discomfort at being in the newspaper and thought about the captain—sharing his regard for cetaceans . . . his mastery at sea, his calm under pressure. We’re friends, now. He even said I should call him Eric. I’m sure I’ll go on another trip with him and his crew.

  She took a sip of tea, and returned her attention to the main article about the cabin cruiser. After describing the minor injuries the three men had suffered, and the not-so-minor damage to the private boat, the reporter had a few final questions for the men.

  When asked about the adventure, Manta Dance owner Jacob Rosenfeld, a local accountant, remarked, “As the boat’s owner, I should have been better prepared. And I should learn more about marine safety. While my boat gets repaired, I plan to study.”

  Morro Bay business owner Ed Stone said, “I’m more grateful than I can say to Will. There’s no question I wouldn’t have made it without his help. This was a real wake-up call. I’m going to be doing a few things differently in my life.”

  After paramedics had rendered assistance to the three men—and before transporting them to the local hospital for a final check—several were overheard commending Will Marks, Vice President of Clarke Shipping in Morro Bay.

  “I’m no hero,” Marks protested. “I just did what anyone would do in my predicament. I did learn something, though. There was as much intelligence out in the water as there was on our boat. Maybe more. I’ll never forget what that whale did. He saved us all.”

  Return soon to . . .

  Milford-Haven!

  Coming i
n

  October 2012 . . .

  Mara Purl’s

  Where the Heart Lives

  Book Two

  in the exciting Milford-Haven saga

  Enjoy the following Preview

  from the book . . .

  Prologue

  Senior Deputy Delmar Johnson, startled at a tapping sound, darted a look around his shadowed office.

  Just the rain . . . or the wind. There it was again. Like someone’s knocking to get in. His scalp prickling, he pushed back from his desk. Remaining seated, he interlaced his long fingers and reached overhead to stretch his back.

  Still, he couldn’t shake his feeling of foreboding. Highway 1 stretched past his window, a slick ribbon of asphalt devoid of traffic. He’d stayed in his office long enough that now it was dark outside. Daylight hours had grown short, and December rains doused the Central Coast much of the day—again.

  Television journalist Christine Christian was still listed as a missing person. Hate to think of anyone stuck out in this weather . . . living . . . or dead. Plenty of people in the “Missing” files. Seven weeks, now, and no one seems to know what’s happened to the popular broadcaster.

  According to the satellite station where she had a contract, Christian had planned to drive north to the Bay Area to do seismic research for a few days. Then she’d been scheduled to fly to Tokyo from the local airport. That makes sense . . . study earthquakes in San Francisco, and in Japan. She’d never made her flight, however, and never turned up anywhere else.

  When her boss reported her missing, the sheriff ’s department had checked her Santa Maria condo, but found nothing amiss, and her rent paid for months in advance. Her car wasn’t at her residence and hadn’t been discovered at the airport.

  Though there were no real leads, Del did have a police sketch of an unnamed man who’d visited Sally’s Restaurant in Milford-Haven. Owner Sally O’Mally herself had seen and talked to this guy, who’d said at the time he was looking for the journalist. But circulation of both that sketch and Christine’s photograph, had yielded nothing further, at which point the case had been filed away. Officially, Del had let it go. Yet something about the case wouldn’t let go of him.

  Why does a successful journalist—on her way to what sounds like an exciting trip—suddenly fall off the radar? According to the DMV, she owned a black Ford Explorer. If, instead of taking the more usual 101, she drove Highway 1 . . . all those treacherous curves along the coast . . . that black car of hers could be hidden at the bottom of some steep ravine or even submerged in a rocky cove. Might take us months to locate it.

  On the other hand, she wouldn’t be the first person who’d decided to slip away from a job—or from a relationship.

  There’d been nothing new for weeks. But now the cold case could be warming up. Today’s call wasn’t a break exactly, but at least it could be a starting point.

  Mr. Joseph Calvin—a wealthy icon of Santa Barbara society—had reported a connection with the journalist, but had asked that Captain Sandoval oversee the matter personally.

  Sandoval had assigned Detective Dexter. And for some reason, Dex wants me in on the interview with him. And he said not to be in uniform. Apparently, Calvin had called to explain that—though he didn’t feel he had any actual information relevant to Ms. Christian’s disappearance—he did know her, and thought it likely he’d seen her close to the time she must’ve gone missing. He’d added that he’d like to keep his cooperation as discreet as possible. Otherwise, the press would probably have their typical field day, which would not only be unpleasant for him, but might also harm their investigation.

  Dex had placed the call and discovered that the earliest time Mr. Calvin could be available was this evening. Though he’d be at a charity function, he’d cut it short and return to his residence for a ten p.m. meeting with Dexter and Johnson.

  Time to hit the road. Del wondered what it’d be like for a bastion of white society to be questioned in his home late at night, especially with one white officer, and one black. You never know how someone will feel about race until you get past the first veneer of manners.

  Del pulled on his all-weather jacket and headed outside. Making sure the building was locked, he pressed his vehicle’s keyless entry remote, its mechanical chirp still an uncommon sound on the Central Coast. One of the perks of being a member of the Special Problems Unit was access to four-by-four vehicles. The Suburban coughed into activity and, a few moments later, settled into a deep, growling purr as it gathered speed.

  For the moment, this stretch of Highway 1 appeared safe and clear. But the mean streets of his own childhood in South Central L.A. sometimes rose out of the dark to haunt him. If a car backfired, he always first assumed it was a gunshot, his body reflexively tensing, his senses coming to full alert. Even after twenty-six months on the Central Coast, he hadn’t yet unlearned those inner-city reactions. Perhaps, he thought as the Suburban ate up the miles, I never will. Indeed, perhaps I never should.

  Though he still had much to learn about his new area, he’d been spending some of his free time browsing local libraries. The San Luis Obispo County Library system turned out to have several branches along the north-south route Del routinely traveled, each with its own distinct character. The hub was in SLO—thanks to a 1905 grant from Andrew Carnegie that established the first library in the county. One of his favorite branches was the Morro Bay, with its colorful murals; another was in the town of Cambria just south of Milford-Haven—

  far too cozy, now, for its small-but-committed-to-reading population.

  His reading varied widely from studies of the local architecture and landscaping to its political history, surprisingly rich in multicultural lore that held a particular appeal for Del. And though Santa Barbara now occupied its own county to the south, the indigenous people who’d lived here first had seen it as one land, nestled against the coastal range. Through the centuries, it seemed new arrivals were always eager to confiscate its assets and claim its spectacular terrain for their own: first the Spanish; then the Mexicans; ultimately, the Americans.

  Where I’m heading tonight was in the thick of it at one time. Interesting that’s where my meeting is. The story he’d read had resonated powerfully: betrayal and dislocation, if not actual slavery. In the 1880s, the Indian Agent Thomas Hope was put in charge of protecting the Chumash who lived high on the mountains overlooking the ocean in their Kashwa Reservation. Instead, he evicted them. Today it’s known as the Hope Ranch.

  Del rolled his shoulders and blew out an exhalation. He’d kept his radio on low volume. Now, halfway to his destination, he heard, “Twenty-four-Z-four.”

  “Zebra-four,” he answered quickly. He’d been the last to join the four-person SPU, and that had given him the number “four.”

  “Ten-twenty-one as soon as possible.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Ten-twenty-one meant “call base” on a closed line and twenty-four was the number for the main station at San Luis. Del used his cell phone to dial the number. Who needs to talk with me privately without using the radio?

  “Dispatch,” the sheriff ’s office answered.

  “This is Delmar Johnson.”

  “I’ll put you through.”

  The night sped by outside the Suburban, and Del watched the road. Zebra was the code name for the SPU. Well, the old adage says “When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.” He chuckled to himself. That works for the usual cases. But we catch the special problems. He got serious as his superior came back on the line.

  “Dex here. Sorry to give you such short notice, but you’ll have to handle the Calvin interview on your own.”

  “Oh?”

  “I know, irregular procedure, but we’re short-handed tonight, and I’m still tied up at a situation over on the I-5. No way I can get to Santa Barbara in time.”

  “Should I cancel? Explain to Mr. Calvin that we could see him tomorrow?”

  “No. I don’t know what’s so urgent, but
the word came down from Sandoval that we should speak to Calvin tonight. The man’ll probably be impressed by a suit ringing his doorbell so quickly after he volunteered to meet with us.”

  Del glanced at his sleeve. Damn. Not wearing a suit. “Anything in particular I should ask him?”

  “No, you know what to do. Standard stuff. You have good instincts. Fill me in first thing tomorrow.”

  “Will do.” Del closed his cell phone and kept his foot steady on the accelerator. Mr. Calvin was in for a little surprise this evening. One officer, not two—the black one—and in casual clothes, as though I’m dropping by for a chat.

  Del was eager to gauge his response. You can tell a lot about a guy by his first reaction to the unexpected.

  * * * * *

  Delmar Johnson lowered the window of his SUV, inhaling as the aromas of damp eucalyptus and wood-smoke wafted in.

  He brushed aside the long tendrils of an enthusiastic ivy plant to find the security button outside the gates of the Calvin estate. Calma, a carefully aged metal sign declared. Del had found the place easily, despite the long upward climb along a narrow road etched into the side of the mountain. Some people call these hills. But just because the Santa Ynez Range starts at sea level doesn’t mean these aren’t true mountains. And these twisting lanes bordered with lush plantings and high walls must conceal sumptuous estates. He’d have preferred seeing the scenery in golden afternoon sunlight, but even at night—with uplights illuminating the towering trees—the area was beautiful.

  “Yes,” squawked the speaker on the ivy-covered wall.