by Beth Orsoff
"This is one animal eating another to survive," Ethan shot back when I pointed out the dichotomy. "Not one animal destroying another’s habitat so it can drive a bigger SUV."
I was in no mood for a lecture on the evils of modern society, so I left them to their bloodlust and ventured outside. Even the bright spot in the clouds that I’d assumed hid the sun had disappeared. The sky was now a solid wall of gray seeping down into a black sea. The gloomy weather was even more depressing than hanging around with Ethan. I decided to head back inside when Ethan stepped out onto the deck.
"What’s that?" I asked, pointing to the purple plastic crossbow in his hand.
"Target practice," he said, handing it to me along with a handful of yellow arrows with suction cups for tips.
"You’re joking, right?"
"You don’t think you need it?"
I couldn’t deny that I did. "Where did you even get this thing?" I asked, examining the toy gun. It was half the size and weight of a real crossbow, but it still wouldn’t have fit inside Ethan’s bag.
"Patti," he replied. "Apparently Joe’s almost as bad a shot as you are." Then he pulled a black marker out of his pocket and drew an unrecognizable blob on the side of the ship.
"Is that supposed to be a walrus?" He hadn’t even gotten the shape right.
"Use your imagination. Anywhere on the backside is fine, just stay away from the head." Then he walked me halfway down the deck and pushed me down on one knee. "When you’ve made three in a row, come and get me."
"Where are you going to be?"
"Taking a nap."
I didn’t have to practice for long. Of course, it’s a lot easier to hit a target when it’s not moving.
An hour later we were out on the water again. It was the same drill as before, except this time when Ethan popped open my pincers, a hunk of gray walrus hide fell out. He added a few drops of clear liquid with an eyedropper, and within seconds the water in the container turned blue.
"Congratulations." He smiled. "You just tagged your first bull."
I felt like I should be passing out cigars. "What now?" I beamed.
"Now we do it again." He turned to Mac, who nodded and started the engine.
"That’s it? We just shoot them and move on?" After all the buildup, it felt a bit anti-climactic.
"I guess tagging walruses in the Arctic can’t compare to the excitement of yakking on the phone all day."
It did seem absurd when he said it.
As Mac piloted us to the next herd, we entered what looked like a floating asteroid field. Our dinghy was suddenly surrounded by plates of ice that ranged in size from just a few inches to ten feet in diameter. Yet despite the difference in size, every one of them had a translucent center ringed by a ridge of opaque white.
"Pancake ice," Ethan said, as I marveled at the unearthly vision. "The wind and the waves cause the particles of slush that float on the surface to collide with each other. The crystals bond and form these pads of ice."
"Can you walk on them?"
"Some of the thicker ones maybe, but I wouldn’t recommend it."
I didn’t intend to, although they beckoned like a path across the sea. The sight was so bizarre, I pulled out Jill’s video camera and started shooting. It didn’t take me long to realize how boring it would be to watch nothing but pads of floating ice, so I turned the camera on Ethan. "Explain again why we’re tagging the walruses."
He responded with a sigh.
"C’mon, Ethan, I’ve kept up my end of the bargain, you need to keep up yours."
"I suppose," he said, and leaned back against the side of the boat. "What do you want to know?"
What I really wanted to know was how his son died and what happened to his ex-wife, but I said, "Let’s start with the purpose of the tagging program."
He sighed again but said, "Since the walruses spend so much of their time underwater, it’s impossible to obtain an accurate population count solely from thermal scanners and aerial photography. That’s why we developed the satellite tags."
"I know that part. What I meant was why are we counting them? What’s the purpose?"
Bored Ethan disappeared, replaced by Angry Ethan. "The ability to accurately track population trends is a crucial requirement for the conservation and protection of any species. In the case of the Pacific walrus, it’s even more critical because we know their habitat is being destroyed. So to answer your question, the purpose is to garner irrefutable proof that even the bozos in Washington can’t ignore."
"Proof of what exactly?"
"Proof that the unprecedented retreat of the sea ice is decimating their population."
"And if it is?"
"There’s no if, Sydney. It’s a fact. All legitimate scientists agree. Only the shills for the oil industry claim there’s some dispute. But we still need empirical data for them to be protected under the Endangered Species Act."
I lowered the camera since this part of the Q&A would surely not be making it into the documentary. "Ethan, I know you feel really strongly about this. But honestly, if there were a few less walruses in the world, would it really make that big of a difference? I mean, it’s not like they do a whole hell of a lot." From what I’d seen, their day revolved around eating, sleeping, and for the unlucky few, providing a meal for a passing polar bear.
Ethan shook his head again and threw his hands in the air. "I don’t know why I bother."
"What? It’s a legitimate question. Not everyone in the world loves walruses. In fact, I bet most people would happily sacrifice a few if it meant saving ten cents a gallon on gas."
"Sydney, why don’t you do us all a favor. When the ship docks in Barrow, take the next flight back to L.A."
"You know I can’t. We still have to shoot the documentary."
"Forget the documentary. It’s a lost cause."
"If it’s a lost cause, then why are we even up here?"
"I didn’t say protecting the walruses were a lost cause, just your documentary."
He’d voiced my worst fear and I couldn’t help thinking what if he’s right? Somehow I managed to keep my voice steady as I asked, "Why would you say that?"
"Because with you at the helm, it’s guaranteed to fail."
Chapter 37
My fear quickly morphed into anger. I fantasized about throwing Ethan overboard. Instead I threw Jill’s camera into the plastic bag and strode to the front of the boat.
I didn’t need Ethan’s support, or his approval. What the hell did he know about producing a documentary? Less than me, I’d bet. And he sure as hell knew a lot less than me about promoting one. He should be thanking me for taking on his stupid cause, not criticizing me because I dared to ask him one simple question.
I stomped back to where he was sitting and said, "You owe me an apology."
He didn’t even set down his binoculars.
"Wouldn’t you agree?" I said, a little louder this time.
"Obviously not," he replied, still scanning the horizon.
"Trust me, you do. What you said earlier was completely unjustified. Not to mention downright mean."
He didn’t lower his binoculars, but he did at least turn away from them to glance in my direction. "And what did I say that you think warrants an apology?"
"That the documentary was guaranteed to fail because of me." He didn’t deny it. He just shrugged his shoulders before he turned his attention back to the sea.
I reached down and pulled the binoculars out of his hands, but they were attached to a cord around his neck, so they just slapped against his chest. "Don’t forget, it wasn’t my idea for me to come here, it was yours. I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do, including crawling across the ice for two hours waiting for some stupid walrus to show us its backside. I think I’ve earned a little respect."
"This has nothing to do with respect. I just don’t think you have any understanding of what we’re trying to accomplish here."
"Well duh! Why do you think I agreed to
come? It sure as hell wasn’t for your sparkling personality. I want this documentary to be a success, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes, even if it means spending a week working for you."
"Why?"
"What do you mean, why? You think I should want it to fail?"
"No, I mean why are you even making this film? You obviously know nothing about walruses and clearly have no interest in them, so why do this?"
"Because Blake wanted a cause."
"What?"
"Blake wanted a cause," I said again, but it was clear from Ethan’s expression that further explanation would be necessary. "Blake McKinley, the actor I work for who’s going to be the voice and face of this documentary, thinks celebrities should use their status to support worthy causes. He picked the walrus."
"Why? There are plenty of other causes that are higher profile. Genocide, world hunger, cancer research—"
"They’re all taken by other celebrities. Blake likes to be unique."
What started out as a chuckle ended up with Ethan doubled over with laughter.
"I really don’t see what’s so funny."
"I’m sure you don’t," he said, as he leaned back to catch his breath.
"What does it matter why he wants to help," I said, trying to keep my anger in check, "the outcome’s the same. It raises awareness of the issue, brings in much-needed donations to the Save the Walrus Foundation, and Blake gets to feel like he’s making a positive contribution to the world. Everybody wins. What’s wrong with that?"
"What do you get out of it?" he said, suddenly serious again.
"I get to make my client happy and keep my job."
"And?"
"Isn’t that enough?"
He tried to stare me down with those piercing blue eyes but I refused to be cowed.
"I suppose," he finally said.
"Good." I picked up the camcorder and pointed it at him. "Now will you please explain," I pressed the pause button, "nicely and in laymen’s terms," I admonished before I hit record again, "the importance of keeping the walrus population steady."
This time he didn’t argue. "In simplest terms, it’s important because any significant decrease in the walrus population will cause the rest of the ocean ecosystem to suffer too."
"How?"
"They’re interrelated." He leaned forward and started gesturing with his hands. "Think of the walrus as a kind of underwater earthworm. It dives down to the bottom of the ocean to search for clams and other bivalves hiding in the sediment. It does this by blowing jets of water out its nose, which stirs up the ocean floor. When a walrus finds a clam it doesn’t eat it whole, it holds it in its jaws and sucks the meat out then discards the shell. All of this activity—the blowing and sucking and spitting—churns up massive amounts of nutrients, which keeps the rest of the ocean healthy. Without the walrus’s scavenging, other organisms wouldn’t survive."
I stopped recording and looked up. "Is that true?"
"Of course it’s true. Stirring up nutrients is an important function. What do you think would happen to all the organisms that feed off the plankton if the walrus disappeared?"
"I have no idea." I didn’t even know what plankton was, although I was envisioning something in the pond scum family.
"They would die, and so would the walrus."
"Wouldn’t that just mean more clams for the rest of us?"
"No, it would mean no clams for the rest of us because the clams feed off the plankton, and the walrus feed off the clams."
"So we’re back to that whole circle of life thing again?"
"Exactly!"
I almost said "Just like The Lion King," but stopped myself in time.
After tagging two more walruses, we returned to the Centaurian. Ethan went directly to the bridge to talk to Captain Roberts while I headed to the galley for something warm to drink. Patti had had the same idea and had already brewed a fresh pot of coffee.
"I have a favor to ask," she said, pulling a bag of Oreos out of a cabinet.
"Shoot," I said, while I searched the shelves above the sink for a clean coffee cup.
"Would it be possible for you to send me something autographed by Blake McKinley? Kristy’s birthday is next month, and I know she would love that."
"Sure." I had stacks of Blake’s headshots back in L.A. "I’ll have him write her a personal note." I’d have to compose it of course, but Blake would sign.
"That’d be great," she said, and set the bag of cookies in the center of the table.
I hadn’t planned on snacking before dinner. But I hadn’t planned on questioning Patti about Ethan’s son either. Sometimes fate intervenes.
"Can I ask you something?" I said, as I grabbed a cookie and sat down across from her.
"Of course," she replied, and dunked her Oreo into her cup.
"Do you know what happened to Ethan’s son?"
She froze. At first the only movement at the table was the coffee dripping from her cookie into her cup. Finally she looked up and said, "He told you about Marcus?"
"He didn’t mean to. It sort of slipped out."
I waited while she chewed the wet Oreo and washed it down with a swallow of coffee, then said, "What do you want to know?"
Everything. But I’d start small. "How did it happen?"
"An accident. A tragedy, really."
"Ethan was driving?"
She shook her head. "Not a car accident." She grabbed another Oreo from the bag, but this one she didn’t dunk. She split it open and picked at the cream filling with her finger while she explained. "Ethan always loved sailing. He crewed every summer during college and finally bought himself a used sailboat a few years after Marcus was born. Marcus was very much a daddy’s boy. If daddy was a sailor, then Marcus wanted to be one too."
"So it was a boating accident?"
Patti nodded. "They got caught in a squall and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard found them the next day, but Marcus was already gone."
I shuddered. I couldn’t even imagine it, nor did I want to.
"It was a long time ago," Patti said, finally looking up at me with moist eyes. "Marcus was only six when he died."
My stomach clenched and I could feel myself tearing up. "And his wife?"
She shook her head. "She wasn’t with them. Lily always hated the water. Even more so now. Joe and I still run into her from time to time."
"And she blamed Ethan for the accident?" It would be easy to understand.
Patti nodded. "It didn’t matter though, he blamed himself more. We all tried to convince him there was nothing he could’ve done to save Marcus, but that’s not an easy concept for a person to accept, especially not one like Ethan."
She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose while I surreptitiously wiped my eyes on the back of my hand. "So have I satisfied your curiosity?" she asked, when we’d both recovered our composure.
I gave her an embarrassed smile. I knew how nosy I was being, even for me. "Just one more question. Is that how he got the scar on his stomach?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "Why, I don’t know, Ms. Sydney," she said, deepening her southern accent as she tried to suppress her grin. "I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that scar. Where did you say it was again?"
"Never mind! And it’s not what you’re thinking," I added, before her imagination really took hold. "I walked in on him when he was getting dressed."
"I wasn’t thinking anything." But her amused smile told me otherwise.
Chapter 38
I returned to the cabin just long enough to lose the ugly jumpsuits and retrieve my laptop and satellite phone. I assumed with a window that stretched the length of one wall, I’d be able to latch onto a satellite signal from the lounge. But no matter where I placed the antenna, the indicator light stubbornly refused to turn green. After I’d tried every inch of it, I finally accepted that if I wanted internet access, there was only one place to go.
"Isn’t it a little cool for sunbathing?" I asked, as I stepped
out onto the deck and discovered Joe lounging in a lawn chair, albeit wrapped in a parka.
"Whale watching," he said, and lifted up the binoculars I hadn’t seen hanging around his neck.
"Where?" I scanned the horizon, but all I could see was ice.
"They come and go. You have to be patient."
Patience wasn’t my strong suit, but I could multitask. "Where’d you get the chair?"
"Storage closet around back."
Joe held my computer and phone for me while I went to retrieve one for myself. "Nice set-up you got here," he said when I returned. "What are you paying? A dollar, dollar-fifty per minute?"
"Flat rate plan," I said, and unfolded my chair next to his.
"Smart. The ship has internet access, but it’s pricey, so I’ve been holding off."
"You’re welcome to use mine if you want."
"Thanks, I might take you up on that." He scanned the horizon again, but apparently the whales were in hiding because he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "If only I had a cold beer, this would be perfect."
If the sun was shining and it was forty degrees warmer maybe, but the beer sounded good. "I could go get us some."
He shook his head. "No alcohol allowed aboard ship."
That explained why Ethan had been on the wagon since we’d arrived. This was the longest I’d seen him go without a drink.
"So what exactly do publicists do?" Joe asked, as we waited for my laptop to boot up. "When you’re not tagging walruses, I mean."
"We get publicity for our clients. Preferably the good kind. If it’s not good, then we do damage control."
Joe nodded as if he understood. "How exactly do you go about getting the good kind? Do you write the articles in all those celebrity magazines?"
I had to laugh. How much easier my life would be if that was how it worked. "No, we don’t write the stories, we just pitch them to the editors and journalists and hope they print what we want them to instead of what we don’t. There’s also a fair amount of hand holding with the celebrity clients."
"You mean ordinary people in L.A. have publicists too?"
"Corporations mostly, and not just in L.A. As my boss always says, ‘The actors add the glamour, but it’s the corporate clients who pay the bills.’"