Hushed

by Joanne Macgregor

  I’m sick as a dog, but I don’t dare go up on deck. Peeping out the porthole, I see how we ride up one side of a high swell and plunge down into the deep trough on the other, and my stomach heaves. I can hear the storm outside — the crash of towering waves smashing violently against the hull, the wind howling like a monster in torment.

  I could so use some steady earth beneath my freezing feet right now. And some warm sunshine on my face.

  We’re all spending the day preparing for our first mission, because yesterday we located the Japanese whaling factory ship, the Koshitsu. From now on, we’ll be sticking closer to it than a callosity on a Southern Right’s head.

  The Koshitsu is a big and ugly ship, with the word “RESEARCH” neatly stencilled on its grey hull, and “RESEARCH ACTIVITY PURSUANT TO INTERNATIONAL WHALING CONVENTION” on the back above the very slipway where whale carcasses are hauled up to be butchered in the on-board processing factory.

  The whalers claim they’re researching dietary habits, but what they’re doing is not for science, it’s for profit. Legally, no whale killed for “lethal research” can go to waste, so the meat gets sold on the open market and winds up on dinner plates, restaurant menus, and has even been found in sushi in California. It’s big business. Captain Murphy says one whale will sell for between a quarter and one million dollars, and the Japanese alone have a permit to take about a thousand whales this season — mostly Antarctic Minkies and some Fin Whales, with the occasional Humpback if they can get it. They’re prohibited from whaling in the Southern Ocean Sanctuary, but they do it anyway.

  Libby has seen whales being killed. She says the grenade harpoons often miss the spine and don’t get an instant kill. It can take up to an hour after the grenade explodes for the whale to die, and all the while it thrashes about in agony, getting shot repeatedly by high-powered rifles. Sometimes the whale is dragged backwards by its tail until it drowns.

  We all know what the whaler really is: a floating abattoir. A death ship.

  Our goal is to wreak such financial damage and operational havoc, that it makes it unprofitable for them to continue. As soon as the weather allows, we’ll do an interception. In the meantime, we’re planning our strategy for the assault and stocking our arsenal with homemade bombs — of the stink and slippery variety.

  The disgusting smell hits me before I even enter the common room. Actually, “disgusting” doesn’t even begin to describe the nauseating stench. It’s like a blend of vomit, dog doo and rotten drains.

  Some of the crew, wearing eye goggles and masks over their mouths and noses, are hard at work filling dozens of glass bottles with a disgusting-smelling substance.

  “What is that?” I ask Libby, who works with the practised hand of long experience.

  “Putrefied butter. It’s non-toxic, but high in butyric acid — that’s what causes the smell, and the smell’s what does the damage.”

  “We try to lob these onto the deck and slipway of the whaler,” Mike tells me. “When the bottle shatters, the muck spreads on the deck, and it sticks around for a really long time. Makes their work conditions deeply unpleasant. And even better, if the whale meat touches the stuff, it gets contaminated and it can’t be sold. Cool, ay?”

  Gagging at the smell, I volunteer for the other task — scooping a white powder called Methocel into brown paper bags, rolling them up, and securing them with tape. Pete, the second mate who is another plain-spoken Aussie and, at fifty, the second-oldest person on board, explains that the packages explode when they hit the deck, scattering the powder everywhere. When it comes into contact with water, the result is a deck-coating substance so slippery that it becomes nearly impossible to walk and go about the daily business of hauling in and hacking up whales.

  “Slippery as roo-poo, mate. I love it when it sends them arse over tit,” Pete says.

  That afternoon, I get a twenty-minute slot on the Net and start by checking the reaction to my Christmas blog post. In amongst all the well-wishing comments from supporters around the world, as well as the occasional troll calling me a bunny-hugging eco-terrorist who should wash my stinky, hippie ass, eat a cow, and then die, is one that makes my insides leap — in a happy, thoroughly un-seasick kind of way.

  Alabama_Hog (December, 25)

  You go, girl! If anyone can save endangered creatures and other helpless beasts, it’s you. Merry Christmas, Romy. :)

  It’s him — I know it is. It’s got to be.

  I curse the fact that we get such infrequent access to the Net. His comment has been up for two weeks without my knowing about it. I type an immediate reply:

  Romy (January, 8)

  Thank you, Alabama_Hog, kind of you to say so. We welcome all supporters, even hogs and those who wear mullets. :)

  I stare at the screen for a full minute, grinning wider than a great white, and then I check the Rusher sites.

  Rehearsals begin for Broadway revival of Equus

  Movie megastar Logan Rush yesterday sat down between rehearsal sessions with veteran of the stage, Sir Nicholas Dwyer, to talk about their roles in the latest Broadway production of Peter Shaffer’s classic Equus.

  Rush will be playing the part of Alan Strang — an apparently mild-mannered young man who savagely attacks six horses with a metal stake. Dwyer plays the psychiatrist who investigates the inner demons which lead the boy to commit the atrocity.

  “I’ve done several films now,” said Rush at the Paladium Theater today, “but I’m a novice on the stage, so I’m extremely fortunate to be working with such an experienced and talented cast.”

  When asked about his feelings regarding the infamous nude scenes in the play, Rush quipped: “I guess I’m going to be asked about that in every interview from now on? Let’s just say the play will be a challenge to me on many levels. But I’m excited by the opportunity to test myself as an actor, and to grow my craft.”

  Many in the showbiz community have dismissed the casting of Logan Rush in the play as a moneymaking ploy to pull in Rush’s enormous fan base, but Dwyer disagrees: “I’ve been highly impressed with what I’ve seen of Logan’s ability so far, and I believe he has only just begun to tap his talent. People are going to be surprised.”

  An assistant director agreed. “Guy can act, you’ll see.”

  Theatre-goers will be able to judge for themselves when Equus premieres at the Paladium on February first.

  I am so proud of him. So. Freaking. Proud.

  Quickly, before I run out of my allotted time, I type a note to Logan — his personal email address is still burned in my brain. I apologise again for reading his letter and snooping into his past. I tell him how impressed and excited I am about all his amazing news, adding, “Finally you’re saving a creature that was endangered — yourself.” I share a little about what my life’s like on board the Syrenka, and tell him that I’m finally learning the value of a good pair of shoes, because mine aren’t. I can imagine him smiling when he reads that. I end by wishing him a happy New Year, hesitating over how to sign off. I settle for, “Romy xoxo.”

  I hit send, and when I rise from the computer, my heart is lighter than seafoam on a cresting wave.

  Chapter 40

  Contact

  Two days later, the sea is finally calm enough for us to tackle the whalers. At mid-morning Captain Murphy draws the Syrenka in close to the Koshitsu, and we lower the inflatable dinghy and its small crew into the ocean.

  They race off towards the whaler, loaded with stink- and slippery-bombs, and dressed in orange protective suits, helmets, gloves and goggles. I can clearly make Tiny — a six-foot-three good-looking American giant of an ex-marine — limbering up on board the dinghy, rolling his shoulders and windmilling his long arms around in sweeping circles. Though he doesn’t hold a patch to another tall, good-looking American of my acquaintance, he once played college football, and Mike says he has a killer throwing arm. A short figure, who I reckon must be Libby, flings her arms wide open in what looks like I-must-I-must-improve-m
y-bust warm-ups.

  Up on the whaler, a line of crew members now holds up large printed signs.

  Animal research

  We conduct marine mammal research

  Scientific enquiry vessel

  We add to scientific knowledge

  Irate, I hurl myself below deck to the common room and with a fat, black marker make signs of my own on the back of some old Syrenka posters and banners. I race back on deck, hand out the signs, and we hold them up facing the Koshitsu.

  We speak for the whales.

  We watch, we witness, we tell!

  We won’t stop until you do!

  Our dinghy, looking small and vulnerable, zooms alongside the monstrous factory ship, bouncing over the Koshitsu’s swelling wake, trying to match its speed.

  “Warning. Warning. You are too close!” a loud female voice sounds out from the whaling ship’s speakers.

  Then all hell breaks loose.

  Tiny, Libby, and the rest of the dinghy crew hurl their bombs up onto the whaler. Every time a puff of white powder signals a slippery-bomb hitting its deck, those of us watching from the Syrenka cheer loudly. But soon the whaling crew fires up their powerful water cannons and aims them at the small boat below.

  “They’re going to crash!” I yell, as the dinghy zigzags at top speed, trying to avoid the pummelling force of the jets.

  I watch in horror as two of the Koshitsu crew lean over their rails to drop objects down onto the dinghy below them. Grappling hooks! One bounces off Tiny’s helmeted head and flies into Pete’s leg, leaving a long gash. Another hits the outboard motor, and the dinghy slows, then stops, marooned. The whalers take full advantage of this, directing all cannons onto the helpless crew as they crouch in the small boat below.

  To rescue the crew and retrieve the boat, we have to pull up alongside the dinghy. For heart-stopping minutes, the Syrenka and the Koshitsu are abreast of each other, closer than I would have thought possible without colliding, or without squashing the small dinghy on the water between us.

  Some of our crew climb as high as they can on the superstructure of our ship and launch the remaining bottles and packages towards the Koshitsu. I don’t kid myself that I’m strong enough to get one onto their deck, so I make myself useful passing the filled bottles to the pitchers.

  But then the whalers lift their cannons from the dinghy, turn them towards the Syrenka, and aim them directly at us. At me.

  A blast of water punches my gut and flips me over (arse over tit, as Pete would say). I skitter across the deck, smash into something hard and sharp, and bang my head. Lights pop behind my eyes, and I space out.

  An hour later, I exit the doctor’s room, holding one hand gingerly to the golf ball-sized lump on the back of my head, and the other to my left side. Libby and Mike are waiting outside to check I’m okay.

  “Well? Will you live?” Libby asks.

  “What did the doc say?” Mike asks.

  “She reckons I cracked a rib.”

  They make me show them the bruise, which is the size of a dinner plate and the colour of squashed mulberries.

  Libby whistles appreciatively, gives my ribs a none-too-gentle prod, and when I don’t die, declares, “No worries, mate, you’ll be apples.”

  Mike gives them a gentle stroke and volunteers to give me a “therapeutic massage.” I’m beginning to think he has the hots for me. I decline, because his are the wrong hands. What wouldn’t I give for a (very gentle) hug from the right hands, right now. I wish I could take a long, hot, soaking bath, but I’ll have to settle for getting some pain meds down my throat and rubbing anti-inflammatory gel onto my ribs.

  What a day. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. And I’m too sore to try do either.

  The final score of the Syrenka-Koshitsu face-off? Five-one to the whalers, I reckon. In addition to my ribs, Pete’s leg, and assorted bumps and bruises all round, the dinghy is out of commission and something blew in our ship’s main engine. And in the meantime, the Koshitsu has slipped away, though we landed some good missiles, so hopefully they’ll be spending the next while scrubbing and cleaning their ship, rather than whaling.

  The Syrenka is limping to Fremantle for repairs and replacements, and we’ll stock up on fresh food and fuel at the same time. The captain has put out an appeal for donations to repair the dinghy, as well as to purchase supplies and fuel — I hope Australia comes through for us.

  That afternoon, Captain Murphy gives me an extra slot on the computer.

  “I posted on the blog about the assault on you. So perhaps you better send your family a reassuring note,” he tells me.

  I email my folks and Zeb, telling them not to worry, that it’s not as bad as it may look. Though it freakingly-well is. My ribs hurt like a sweet-suffering swan in a ditch. I can’t yawn, laugh, cough, hiccup, sigh, sit, climb stairs, or lie down without wanting to whimper.

  I read Captain Murphy’s official account of the mission on the blog and see that in addition to posting some gruesome photos of my side, he’s “upgraded” my probably fractured rib to “several broken ribs.” I’m sometimes uncomfortable with the slant put on our version of events, and I guess I could object to being used as an exhibit in the propaganda war, but when I think about what gets done to those gorgeous creatures I saw playing in the ocean, I figure I can probably live with the spin. Hey, all’s fair in love and war, right? And this is war — a whale war.

  I wish I’d put up a better fight in the love war.

  I should have taken that line-and-love-stealing bitch Britney on headfirst. I should have stood up to Cilla, should have found my voice even if it lost me my job. Instead of trying to change Logan, I should have focussed more on trying to change me. And I should have fought for us.

  I should have spoken up for us. I lost my voice, then I found it enough to say no, to protest against what I didn’t want. But now I know that’s not enough. You also need to speak up for what’s right, for what you do want.

  I sigh and scroll down to read through the comments to the Captain’s blog. There’s already a crapstorm of reaction. Some comes from the usual trolls — this time lamenting that the grappling hooks didn’t crack open our heads — but most slate the whalers and applaud our efforts.

  One comment, though, means more to me than all the rest.

  Alabama_Hog (January, 10)

  Now I’m angry.

  Romy, are you okay? Does it hurt?

  I reply:

  Romy (January, 10)

  Only when I breathe. Miss you.

  Chapter 41

  Gifts

  Nine days later, exhausted from the journey through wild seas and rough weather, we drop anchor in the port of Fremantle, just outside Perth, Australia. The crew smiles and waves at the small crowd of cheering supporters holding welcome banners and posters, and at the contingent of press with cameras and microphones at the ready. But what catches every eye on the Syrenka is the brand-new fast-boat resting on a trailer on the pier.

  It’s a Gemini hard-bottom inflatable — a long, sleek, black craft with powerful twin outboard motors, dual consoles, and six jockey seats. Wrapped around its middle is a giant-sized, red ribbon tied in a bow.

  “Well stone the crows!” Libby says. “Somebody came through for us, big time.”

  Some of the Aussie members of our crew have family and friends waiting to meet them, but the rest of us make straight for the fast-boat as soon as we disembark. My legs feel odd, and I list to starboard as I walk. It’s like the ground is swaying beneath my feet and sucking at me with double its usual gravity.

  “Need an arm until you find your land legs?” Mike offers.

  “I’ll manage, thanks.” I follow the gang to the new boat.

  “This is military grade,” Tiny says, stroking an appreciative hand over the aluminium keel protector.

  Captain Murphy laughs in glee when he spies a length of thick blue nylon rope threaded at intervals with red buoys lying in the bottom of the boat, though I don’t unde
rstand what’s so amazing about a rope. The Captain plucks a card off the wide ribbon, and I swear there’s a tear in his eye as he reads the message aloud.

  “To the captain and crew of the brave Syrenka, I salute your efforts to protect our planet and its creatures. I hope this helps in your war against whalers. I only wish I could be there to shake your hands in person.”

  “Who’s it from?” Tiny asks.

  “It’s just signed, ‘Best Wishes, L.R.’”

  “What? What?” I say. It comes out way too loud, but everyone else is exclaiming in delight and too busy checking out the fast-boat to notice that my jaw is on the floor. Could it possibly be from him?

  “Awesome, man!”

  “I wonder who this L.R. is.”

  “We’ll be able to run rings around them in this!”

  “What shall we name her?”

  “It’s already got a name,” says Libby, popping up from the other side of the boat. “Come see.”

  We all walk around to the other side of the inflatable to read the name written in large white script: “Romying Free.”

  I grin so widely it feels like my face might crack. It is from him.

  “Roaming Free?” says Tiny. “It’s a good name, but they’ve spelled it wrong.”

  “Perhaps it’s a pun, named it after someone special.” Libby fixes me with a suspicious stare. “Anything you want to tell us, Romy?”

  I’m saved from answering when a man in the uniform of a courier company approaches our group and says he has a package for Ms Romy Morgan of the Syrenka crew.

  I claim the parcel, find a quiet spot away from the crew, tear open the wrapping, and peep inside the box. Lying on the top of the contents are two envelopes — letters from my folks and Zeb. I’ll read them later. Under a layer of pale pink tissue paper stamped bio-degradable, is a pair of comfortable, sturdy, undeniably inelegant technical deck-shoes — boots, really — in my size. The laces of one are threaded through a note in Logan’s handwriting: “I can’t recommend the right shoes highly enough.” Ha!