On Whale Island

by Daniel Hays

  This is a tiny boat, just fifteen feet long, and me, quite drunk by now, and we’re ready for any seas, any Cape Horn voyage. (Nietzsche comes to mind: “One can endure to live in a meaningless world because one organizes a small portion of it oneself.”) This is bliss for me; it gets no better. Ah wait, it does. Bear is with me. We have been together since he was twelve days old. He likes the plywood decking too, and is asleep in a cuddle knot right now with me, his ear tips trembling with his every heartbeat. When I stand up and grab the outboard for support, he’s at the bow, tongue and tail wagging in the wind and eager for whatever adventure we can fall into.

  DAY 322

  Today it rained just when we were running out of water—we have have made it all year with our own rainwater system and I am filled with pride as if I controlled the weather. Heavier rain as the day goes on. . . . Years ago, when I sailed my small boat for a year using only a sextant for navigation, the same “luck” followed me. I was able to catch enough of a glimpse of the sun on all but three days out of 312, enough sun to work out my position on the globe. What rules these phenomena? Or is it merely interpretations that order it so?

  DAY 334—JUNE

  We saw a whale! It was maybe forty feet long and swam just two hundred feet from our porch. Its back fin had a bizarre upside-down-zucchini look to it, so I think that it was a common blackfish. As usual I was reaching for my guidebook, and missed its second surfacing.

  Stephan finished school today, and I wonder what he has learned. I have regurgitated many a morsel into that gullet—has any of it become the child? I tried to teach him about thinking, not facts. I don’t think he learned much from the schoolbooks, and that is okay. Truthfully, they were a distraction. I wanted him to read great literature, for books are good friends. I did not want to taint reading by associating it with school, which already is in the category of “work” for him.

  Right now he is engrossed with Little Big Man, a terrific book I first read only last week. Other books he has devoured this year include Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer, The Brothers K, all of Vonnegut, lots of science fiction and fantasy, In the Shadow of Man, The Giver, The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove and Practical Demonkeeping by Chris Moore, We the Living, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, the whole Shōgun series (four books at twelve hundred pages each), the Foundation trilogy, and even several editions of the World Weekly News! (Sometimes feeding the hunger is better than worrying about nutrition.)

  And these are just some. He read thirty-two other books.

  When I am feeling especially hopeless about being a good dad I think of Stephan’s passion for books. Did I “give” him that? Can I take some credit, or do I need to pass it off to the books themselves, the passions of their authors?

  I know I encouraged it, and yes, I will take a little credit here. I am proud of him.

  Cupcakes are the universally understood reward for completing a year of education. Stephan and Wendy bake up a batch and I retrieve a hidden can of vanilla icing I’ve been saving for today. Wendy insists it must be properly stirred; then she and Stephan lick the knife clean. Stephan points out that they forgot to spread it on the cupcakes. They do that, then lick the knife clean. Wendy notices there is leftover icing, and spreads more on the cupcakes. Then she and Stephan lick the spoon clean.

  DAY 343

  The alarm speaks, Wendy and I roll over. It’s four-fifteen and the sky’s just light enough to show some red. Wendy puts water on to heat; I wake up Stephan.

  Yesterday as I passed Peter’s fish trap, Stephan and I noticed odd ripples lined up on the surface, and not by the wind. I turned into Peter’s small harbor and yelled the news. He didn’t believe me, but hell, I’m from New York. I understand.

  Warm clothes and two mugs of coffee slammed down. Wendy goes back to sleep and Stephan and I are off in our boat as the sun’s drearily rising into the gray. At Peter’s wharf we meet up with all the guys. Four boats, eight people.

  Grunt, haul, moan, complain, and pull. Stephan pulls as hard as anyone. After half an hour we see swirls and a two-foot-diameter whirlpool begins on the far side of the net. We see green and blue. Mackerel, and lots.

  Two hours later and Peter’s boat is full. The fish are level with the lower deck rail: two and a half by sixteen by twenty feet of solid fish—twenty-seven thousand pounds. That is six and a quarter cords of spasmodically wiggling fish, like a huge tub of Jell-O giving birth to four hundred thousand worms! Even at today’s low market price of seventy-five cents per pound, that’s a good haul.

  Stephan and I return home triumphantly covered in fish scales. We burst into the house and give Wendy a great big bear hug. She almost wiggles out, but having spent the last three hours with things wiggling and trying to get away, Stephan and I hang on tight. Finally she gives up and laughs with us. Abby begins licking the scales off Stephan.

  We all take showers and I fall asleep on the floor listening to a Verdi CD. I can just hear Stephan’s headphones downstairs; Queen, I think. The dogs, as if they too fished, collapse on and around me, exhausted. Wendy smiles.

  DAY 344

  The ants are back. They wander about the house, helping themselves to the food the dogs miss. I don’t mind that. But sometimes during a meal it begins raining pieces of insulation and sawdust from the roof, just a drizzle, yet annoying because it’s my house and their eating means I have less of my house. So, I sprayed Raid in the cracks on the ceiling. Then it hailed writhing ant bodies for a few days, and that was more annoying, because although ants have a pleasing lemon-drop flavor, these were poisoned. In town I buy a new and improved ant-killer poison. It is a “slow-acting poison” you feed them, which “they bring back to the nest to feed their larvae.” Now when I see an ant I run after it and hold the tube upside down, like a baby bottle, and nurse out a drop, and the ant stands up on his hind legs and holds the nipple like a child and sucks in the poison. Then I must watch and follow him back to the nest so that any of the twelve other feet in the house do not on purpose or accidentally kill him. It takes about five minutes per ant, and so far I’ve lovingly fed and protected maybe seven of them. I neglected one for just a moment on his way home, and I heard a loud stomp and a cry of “Die, you essence of evil!” from my adorable wife. The only unethical part of this, the part I feel bad about, is that I don’t have to experience the killing of baby ants. I know I’m doing it, but I am too comfortably safe. I should suffer a little.

  Wendy

  I want to get back to civilization bad. I have no women to sit and have coffee and talk over my day with, or to complain with and strategize on how I can do better. I miss walking out my door and going for a jog or hiking up the mountains with my dogs. I miss yard-saling.

  DAY 347

  Stephan says, “Shit,” his first out-loud curse ever. Wendy cries. I take him outside for a brief lecture: “Not in front of your mother.”

  DAY 350

  I sat down today and came up with a partial list of what we consumed or produced this year. These things were all imported to our island—except for the wood, the fits, and the water (we made or collected those here).

  –peanut butter, 21 lbs.

  –coffee, 28 lbs.

  –flour, 110 lbs.

  –onions, 80 lbs. of white, 140 lbs. of red

  –toilet paper, 0.2 miles

  –baked beans, 62 cans

  –corn, 88 cans

  –water, 2,000 gallons

  –ketchup, 4 gallons

  –Parmesan cheese, 18 lbs.

  –cabbage, 30 heads

  –soy sauce, 4 gallons

  –beer, 96 bottles; 2 bottles of gin, 3 of vodka, 5 of tequila, and 12 of rum

  –chocolates, 12 lbs.

  –wood, 4.9 cords

  –dog food, 600 lbs.

  –laundry, 3.5 cords

  –propane, 380 lbs. total (1.04 lbs. daily)

  –duct tape, between 300 and 400 feet

  –dust, approximately three big garbage bags worth
generated: 60% dog hair, 20% sawdust, 5% scraps of food, 5% body detritus, 9% parts of things that went boink or tinkle when I tried taking them apart, 1% disintegrated house from the ants

  –ammunition, 120 12-gauge shells (two ducks killed)

  –.30-30 rounds, about 100 (no kills but several broken rocks)

  –paper towels, 0.4 miles

  –Prozac, 0.6 lbs.

  –aspirin, 2.2 lbs.

  –Q-Tips, 400

  –kerosene, 20 gallons

  –1-inch-diameter candles, 250 feet

  –socks: worn out, 22 pairs; lost to Abby, 23 pairs (maybe sprouting in the woods by now)

  –Monopoly, 47 games played

  –electricity: in one year we used the equivalent of one electric stove with its broiler and all four burners going for one hour

  –outboard-engine gas, 150 gallons

  –tar, 10 gallons

  –assorted glue, 4 lbs.

  Major fits:

  I’m leaving. (4)

  I’m dying. (7)

  You make my life hell. (16)

  What the hell am I doing here? (15)

  I have no life. (44)

  We’re out of chocolate! (1) (And it was so awful I will be sure never to let it happen again.)

  DAY 355

  Today is cleaning day. Wendy is up at five a.m. In pathetic protest I lie in bed till an ammonia stink lifts me awake. I hide under the table, pretty well sheltered from her storm. Rags fly about; dust has no chance to settle.

  My favorite cleaning technique can be done only on windy days. With doors closed I sweep frantically for five minutes, starting up high and working down. The idea is to stir up all the dirt. When the air reaches its saturation point, I quickly open all the doors and windows, and everything is sucked or blown out (the distinction depends on which door you open last). Needless to say, this is not Wendy’s preferred cleaning technique; I am sent to the porch, and just in time to have a rug beat on me. I climb down onto the dirt and the window-washing water (vinegar, ammonia, and soap) hits me in the back.

  Then, with a squeaky-clean home and therefore ready for Judgment Day, we saunter around the island in our underwear.

  Ducks! The eiders have released their babies, and sometimes two or three families will team up. Bald eagles are their number one enemy. We see six parents and twenty-two ducklets together right now. The little ones try to dive, disappearing beneath the surface for only the briefest moment, because they are too buoyant, or their paddle feet are not strong enough yet. Then they boink out, squirted from the sea like pinched watermelon seeds. They look surprised to be on the surface again.

  I’m content here, and I’m watching the seasons go by and I want to stay forever this simple. I can hear an outboard, Kingsland’s foghorn, the bell buoy off Weed Harbor, a high note of wind in the trees, a distant surf. The house shudders in the wind, small gusts shaking the glass globe in the lamp. A birdsong, another deeper background wind noise, some specific waves.

  I could never listen this completely before. I have stood in our harbor and heard water being dragged through seaweed, a jellyfish turning over, a ripple being reflected off a rock. Just for these new sounds in my life I want to stay here forever.

  DAY 356

  Lobstering with Peter the other day I was struck by something about human nature. There’s a small wire cage in each trap that he stuffs with mackerel or whatever he’s baiting with that day, but when he catches a live fish he’ll use it. What he does is hold it in both hands, then in one strong motion tears it almost in half, folds it, and stuffs it in the cage. There is no flapping—it’s as instant a death as you could want, and that is what struck me. I want to die as firmly for a purpose as the fish. The hands are experienced and the grip sure, solid, fatherly. There is no joy, no sadness or anger, just motion, purpose, and focus. To die in those hands you would not be alone; you would flow into Peter.

  Then I thought of Peter’s role out here in this wilderness, his closeness to life and dying, his hands-on participation. He barely finished high school; he rarely reads a book. And yet I would trust myself in his strong hands without pause. In his life there is no need for fax machines or decaf. His life is intertwined with these waters, this piece of Nova Scotia coastline. He’s been here his whole life and in those forty years has been as dependable as any tree to grow, lobster to hunt, or duck to fly. He walks between points directly. Yet when he is in his boat you will see him take the longer route, pause to feel the wind blow on his face, catch the sun’s reflection on the water, watch the way a wave breaks. He may not be comparing what he sees to something Homer describes; he’s experiencing it firsthand. He cannot explain God—he would not try. He is too close. If I were suddenly in Peter’s inner world I’d be screaming, “I’m here, this is it! Oh wow, where is my camera? Quick, a pen, I gotta save this!” But Peter was never so far away that arriving was a big deal.

  One thing I love about Peter is his ineptness ashore. His wife and three daughters, the house, the well, the money, the mortgage, calculating pounds of fish into dollars—he does all these with a shrug. He’s tried to master them, can’t, knows it, and no longer frets about it. If there was an old Victorian painting of him and his family he would be apart, looking uncomfortable and perhaps gazing downhill, toward his boat. When I’ve sat in his living room, no two minutes have gone by without his looking through binoculars toward the sea.

  I will never forget hunting with this man. We separated to meet at a ravine over a hill. I was immediately lost, and half an hour later was noisily clinging to the top of a tree, looking over miles and huge distances of bog and spruce forest. Then suddenly, just fifty feet away, there was Peter, his face smiling appearing from a clump of alder. What struck me was his quiet. Though wearing a bright orange vest he was invisible to my panicked eye. It was as if he hadn’t walked to meet me there but was at home the whole time. Only I in my panic perceived the concept of somewhere else, being lost. Peter lives found.

  DAY 358

  When I worked as a counselor there was a visualization process I would do with kids to help them turn negative memories into positive learnings. I have done it so often that I was not surprised to wake up this morning having dreamt this process. I was Stephan’s negative memory.

  In my dream, something was not right with Stephan. I had to fix him, as if he were the problem. His image was projected onto a big and far away movie screen at a drive-in theater. The image was muddled, unfocused, and imperfect. The screen slowly inflated into a huge balloon and began to float up. As I watched, the image on the balloon changed from murky Stephan into me, also muddled and imperfect. The balloon continued to rise, and suddenly my image clarified into an old an cynical man. I thought to myself that that old man had nothing to offer, that he should just keep on floating so that the next generation could enjoy their lives without this old man’s baggage to burden them. I started to cry as the balloon floated up, away from me.

  Then the balloon popped, exploding into thousands and thousands of tiny parts, which fluttered down toward the earth. As they fell through the clouds, they became snow.

  The snow fell toward the earth. Then Stephan was there, and in childlike glee, he raised his hands and jumped as the snow settled around him. He laughed.

  Slowly dawn began, dark blue turning to steel blue and then warm blue. The sun appeared. Stephan watched the colors shift as the snow began to melt around him. The ground roiled with growth, and I saw grass and trees climbing upward. Stephan held his arms out, bathing in the luscious morning light. An apple tree grew up before him, its flowers pink, and Stephan reached out to touch it. He was smiling.

  I woke up.

  DAY 359

  Stephan and I are walking and jumping around the island—my favorite and only sport of this year. I like to go from rock to rock building up speed, so that pretty soon there’s no thought, just a motion trance of momentum and balance . . . and then I notice that I’ve been repeating a mantra woven into my bliss: “A
sprinkle a day helps keeps the odor away . . .” Oh, wouldn’t some advertising executive be overjoyed to know that his “work” is still being sung by a baby boomer twenty years later? Meanwhile Stephan is landing on every other rock with a cry of “Got milk?” What a pair we are.

  During breakfast Stephan said he never wanted to leave the island. Wendy said, “But what about your friends in Idaho?” and he replied, “Mom, out here there are no people to have to be with, no large city problems, no civilization. I love it!”

  The look Wendy gave me almost caused the toast I was bringing to my mouth to burst into flame. “Hmm, I wonder who he got that from?” she asked. I began to reply something about him being a free thinker, but she cut me off with a “Shut up” and a small grin. I nodded my “Yes, dear.”

  And I am proud! Real puffy-chest strutting material. I want to call my dad and tell him that at least something from me is going to survive for another generation. Doesn’t this make me immortal? And just wait until Stephan gets older and can add his own flavor to this! Maybe he will live out here with a wild woman and raise wolves.

  Now would be a good time to die, I think to myself.

  DAY 360

  Our walks around the island are becoming sad for me—how can such a wonderful daily event be coming to an end? I feel the heaviness of an awful momentum, an inevitability. We’ll have to go back.