by Ros Baxter
We were to stay about 100 yards from the other boat, close enough to film but not so close as to be at any risk ourselves. The two dinghies were attached by this long line, so that if the crew of the other boat got into any trouble, their craft could be retrieved.
I must admit, I felt this surge of impressed pride as I watched their boat skim bravely up to the hull of the whaling boat. I felt, you know, breathy and tummy-fluttery, like how I felt when watching those athletes who run the 100m sprint at the Olympics — surreptitiously, because I really hate the whole concept of the Olympics, but can’t resist tuning in for that event because it’s when you most see human beings in this raw state of nature.
I was madly taking digital pictures as they drew alongside in the early light, tethered the craft and threw a specially constructed rope ladder attached to a grappling hook up over the side. Like clever little crabs, they started clambering up the edge, and were almost at the top when it all went horribly wrong.
Two other men wearing strange little caps and brandishing what looked to be guns appeared at the top of the ladder and hauled the activists the rest of the way up. As they reached the top, the whalers dragged them roughly on board and out of sight. Just before they disappeared from view, one of our guys — who I knew to be this earnest veterinary student from Seattle — turned his face to us and I captured him with my camera in vivid color in that moment, with this look on his face that was part resolve, part horrified terror.
He looked incredibly young. And scared.
I felt sick, but not as sick as I was going to feel a few minutes later.
Our guys seemed unsure what to do at this point.
I just sat there, shocked, still snapping off pictures of the hull and the empty deck as the guys on my boat tried to establish radio contact with the crew of the other dinghy.
The driver of our dinghy — not sure if driver is the right word, but it seems a little grand to call him the captain — re-initiated radio contact with the Rainbow Serpent in a frantic effort to decide what to do next. The cameraman, who was pale and shaken, was still running commentary for the live CNN feed.
‘They seem to have been taken on board by men wielding weapons… We have no radio contact. We’ve seen no sign of the boarding crew since they were taken away several minutes ago… Oh, hang on…’
Then the most incredible thing happened. Well, series of things, really. The same two sailors who had dragged the crew of the first dinghy on-board the whaling boat reappeared, and made their way down the rope ladder into the first dinghy. Like watching a mime in slow motion, we saw them find the lead attached to our dinghy, confer hastily, and then begin to pull it in towards them.
Oh my God, they were trying to capture us too.
Well, more accurately, they were probably trying to get our equipment. Our driver — still doesn’t seem like the right word — started to gun our engine to prevent us being pulled in like hapless fish on the end of some sportsman’s line. But, of course, the useless thing didn’t work, did it. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t help starting to laugh maniacally — I always get kind of hysterical at moments of crisis — and said ‘Okay, who forgot to fill up before we left?’ even though I knew it wasn’t really appropriate.
You know how really brave people, when they get awards for courage and stuff, always talk about how, in the moment of crisis and courage, they just sort of developed this tunnel vision. Their whole perspective narrowed down into what had to be done and they just didn’t think of anything else.
Well, it wasn’t like that for me at all, not that I’m pretending I was brave.
I was absolutely terrified.
And above all, I just really needed to wee.
I kept thinking maybe they just want to talk, explain what they’re doing up there with our friends.
But as we came closer, it was pretty clear from the looks on their faces that they meant business. Whatever the hell that means. Let me clarify. They had guns. Well, gun thingies. I know now that they were harpoon guns, but the difference is academic when it’s the first time anyone has pointed any kind of stick-shaped weapon at you.
Anyway, as they reeled us in, my brain started creaking agonisingly into gear. Like Rainman, counting and ordering things when stressed, I started to list off to myself all the reasons why they would not, could not, kill us.
One: we are American. I’ve always hated it how, in movies, people yell out ‘don’t shoot, we’re American’ whenever they get into trouble. I’ve always thought that was the last thing you’d want to be shouting if you didn’t want someone to blow your head off — let’s face it, we don’t have a lot of credibility in lots of parts of the world.
But I couldn’t have cared less at that moment.
I would have screamed ‘we’re American’ from the rooftops of the world if I thought it would mean I wasn’t about to get shot. And I suddenly realized why people yell that. Because, actually, the US does have a reputation for getting pretty pissed when people needlessly kill our citizens. You know, second only to the Israelis. For the first time ever, I actually wished I was Israeli. Maybe I could shout ‘don’t mess with me, didn’t you see Munich?’ or ‘I’m from Mossad’.
Two: the Japanese are actually a really cultured, civilized people. They dress really beautifully and conduct all those ancient ceremonies and drink tea and stuff. Yeah, yeah, it’s all coming back to me now. A really gentle, cultured people. Well, you know, apart from butchering whales and war crimes and stuff. And I’m sure I read somewhere they have a pacifist constitution. You know, after the war. I guess being incinerated from a mile high might wake you up to the horrors of violence somewhat.
So there is no way this type of people could hurt us. Me especially. A woman and all. I’m sure there’s some code against it. And look, while it would be unfortunate and clearly distressing if they killed my comrades in arms, just please God don’t let them kill me.
Three: I am sure there is some kind of Geneva Convention against randomly killing people at sea. Something about pirates or offering safe haven on the high seas. Or something. Or maybe I’m just getting the whole thing completely mixed up. And come to think of it, isn’t there some treaty about whales too? Oh hell.
Looking back, I think the most awful thing about being reeled in like a paralysed fish was the indignity. I know, I know. There was the terror of being killed, and admittedly that was pretty awful, but it was actually kind of worse to be dragged across the ocean the hundred yards or so towards the other dinghy and have a few critical seconds to contemplate the fate awaiting the other end. It was just so…lame. It made me feel like a kid who has been called home for dinner and, tardy to come, been dragged home by the ear in front of all the other kids. Even worse, it didn’t occur to any of us to untether ourselves. We just sat there like those surprised-looking clowns at funfairs. I guess we really are obedient little souls. Or maybe we just all respond predictably when confronted with guns. Because as soon as we reached the other boats and the sailors started ordering us to get on board their dinghy, we complied.
The sailors were speaking Japanese — well, I assumed it was Japanese, it sounded a lot like what the iron chefs yell at the helpers in Kitchen Stadium, but I digress. Their meaning was pretty clear, as they motioned with their weapons and yelled at us.
The cameraman from our group had ranking authority for the operation, even though, as the protestors had explained to me several times, they were a collective, so there were no leaders at all, really. ‘Just a group of equal comrades’.
Nevertheless, as soon as we were aboard the second craft, the cameraman started blabbering to the two sailors. Senselessly. In English. Stuff about human rights, theft, unlawful deprivation of liberty. I could tell it was annoying the sailors, even though they couldn’t understand a word of it. And it was then that I realized how young our captors really were, and I had this sudden realization that they were actually pretty scared too.
Great, just what we need. Scared
kids with guns.
For some reason, everything about this whole escapade was starting to remind me of those old war films. You know, Bridge Over The River Whatever. Or Escape from Insert-Name-of-German-War-Camp. I think it was because the whole thing was kind of slapstick, and I always thought those movies had that kind of quality to them. Maybe it was the wooden acting or the dodgy sets or whatever. Anyway, if it had been one of those films, this is the bit where the obligatory dumb-woman-along-for-the-ride would have started blabbering hysterically. You know, just after she twisted her ankle and before she kissed the hero. And someone would have slapped her. You know, because that’s what you do to stupid women. But I guess this isn’t the time for a feminist diatribe.
Anyway, because we weren’t in a war movie and he wasn’t a stupid woman, I didn’t slap the blabbering cameraman — even though my nerves were so frayed that I really, really wanted to. I just silenced him with a look, a finger to my lips, and a whispered ‘shhh, they can’t understand a word you’re saying.’ As if to reinforce my point, the sailors waved their guns threateningly, and he went pale and looked like he was about to faint. But he shut up. Thankfully. The sailors looked at me gratefully and I saw them exchange a look, the significance of which I didn’t fully get until we were on board and they took us to their Captain.
All five of us were lined up in front of the Captain like naughty school-children sent to the headmaster’s office. And all I could think was oh no, not the underwear again. You know what’s weird? How life comes full circle. ’Cause there we were, at the end of my journey, and what am I wearing under all this cold-weather stuff? A thong. Okay, so not red lace, but a thong nevertheless. Something about seeing Wayne again had really brought out the woman in me, and I’d traded in my grandma underwear for some girly pieces. Which totally does not explain why the hell I brought them to the Southern Ocean.
Standing there, I had the strangest feeling that the five of us had simply pulled some harmless little prank, like spray-painting the principal’s car back in Junior High, and we’d be rapped across the knuckles and sent back to our classes any time soon.
The Captain had clearly been waiting for us, but maybe we’d taken a little longer than he’d expected to arrive, because as we were ushered in, I noticed him hastily stuffing a book back into his drawer. I wondered idly what he had been reading. He was such a stern, imposing, hard-faced, straight-backed guy, but I could have sworn the book had a pink cover. Probably something about tea and kimonos, I figured.
As we stood there in front of him, he took a few moments to look us over silently, drumming his fingers against his beautiful timber desk. Taking his time. Savoring the moment. Like the SS Commander in a war movie.
‘So, I understand you are the ringleader of this little outfit,’ the Captain purred in perfect Oxford English, looking directly at me.
Aha, so that was what that look between the two sailors had been all about. God, this is the second time I’ve been called the ringleader. Maybe I really am leadership material. Maybe I should run for Congress.
Anyway, I started to protest when two things happened.
Firstly, all of the guys from the operation started blabbering in unison about how there really were no leaders, and one activist was as good as the others. Cowards.
The other thing was that the Captain started to laugh, an arrogant, sneering sound.
‘Oh, this is typical,’ he scoffed. ‘Only Americans would put a woman in charge of something like this. No wonder it has been such a…’ He paused elegantly and then articulated each syllable of his next word beautifully, ‘dis-as-ter’.
All my protests died on my lips. ‘In the flesh,’ I replied.
‘Humph,’ he humphed. He curled his lip, and seemed kind of annoyed that I wasn’t cowering in my boots. Actually, I guess he just wasn’t a good read of non-Japanese faces, because I really was.
‘Well,’ he began again. ‘It seems that as you have violated the integrity of my ship, I will need to keep you here until I get you all safely back to harbor. Of course,’ he smiled toothily and really did look kind of like the villain in a bad film now, ‘I will need to confiscate your camera and technical equipment. To ensure there is no disruption to the rest of the crew.’
I suddenly remembered that I was sure I’d read somewhere that captains of boats have all sorts of weird and wonderful rights and powers. Like I’m pretty sure they can marry people. Maybe they can actually execute people who get in their way too. He kind of looked like he wanted to. I was about to protest loudly at the confiscation of equipment when he started speaking again.
‘Oh, but I am sorry.’ He sounded really kind of posh now. Where the hell did this guy go to school? Eton? ‘Forgive me, I have been a little hasty. I have not introduced myself. My name is Captain Hirohito Ichigawa.’ He bowed a little. ‘But you may simply call me Captain.’
It’s really kind of weird how, faced with someone being polite, I find it hard to be rude in return. Even when they have ordered their weapon-wielding henchmen to drag you and your comrades bodily across the open ocean like a tin of sardines, insulted your gender — and your country, come to think of it — and announced that they are going to steal thousands of dollars worth of technical equipment. All so they can butcher the world’s largest and most amazing mammals free from the intervention of a bunch of do-gooders.
Even then I find it hard to be rude in return.
Even when I should be.
It’s like some kind of disability. For example, I’ve had shop assistants be downright unhelpful — you know the kind, standing there filing their nails and chatting to their rude shop assistant pals while you’re desperately looking for help to find something. And as long as they use a really nice, polite voice as they say ‘oh I am sorry, I don’t think we have your size in stock’ — without even looking up from their nails or checking any kind of computerized inventory system — I always feel obliged to mumble a polite ‘oh, okay then, sorry for interrupting’ before loping off cursing them and my own pathetic nature.
So, now, because the Captain — he was already El Capitan in my head — was using this polite voice and introducing himself, I didn’t feel I could tell him to get lost with his whale-butchering mates and get his greasy little blubber-bloodied hands off our things. So, instead, I started to introduce myself too. I consoled myself by thinking that maybe this was the path to opening up a useful dialogue.
‘Save your breath, Miss,’ El Capitan hissed. Oh boy, can I misread a situation. ‘I am not interested in the names of criminals, trespassers and saboteurs. I simply brought you here to tell you that you will be kept upstairs on deck, restrained, until we can get you to the nearest port. We will not be returning you to your friends to wreak more havoc on our commercial business.’ He drew in a deep breath and continued. ‘You will be provided with the same rations as the crew, but do not expect silver service. I guarantee you will not be mistreated while I am in command, but understand this: you are detainees here.’
I was furious. Tied up? My urgent need to pee intensified.
I tried to channel Emmy. She was never polite to shop assistants, or anyone else, come to think of it, regardless of how sweetly they talked to her. And her take-no-prisoners approach seemed to yield great results. They fawned over her like she was Madonna. And they didn’t even know who she really was. In the few seconds before I spoke, I was mentally rehearsing what I was going to say, and how I was going to say it. Something like ‘now look here you little megalomaniac…’
But before I could kick off, he spoke again.
‘Oh,’ he intoned in his really quite beautiful voice. ‘I forgot to mention. You, Miss.’ He motioned towards me. ‘You may use the facilities in my private quarters when you require the bathroom. The rest of you…’ His gaze swept over the four others with whom I had been taken. ‘You can avail yourselves of the open ocean, like the animals you are.’
Now, if we really were in that war movie I kept visualizing, this would
be the bit where I, the feisty heroine, would have spat in his snide little face and refused his ungracious offer, preferring to side with my men — my God, in my mind I already was the leader of this whole thing — but in reality the thought of peeing in uncomfortable circumstances had been bad enough on board the Rainbow Serpent, with friendly co-travellers willing to look the other way. The thought of doing so on-board a foreign ship, where men with weapons would probably be watching, was more than I could bear.
So instead I blabbed a pathetically grateful ‘thank you, thank you’ before bolting over to the door El Capitan indicated with a careless wave of his fingers. I swear I peed for at least two minutes straight before all the fear, anxiety and hysteria pee was out. When I emerged I was hustled up to the deck with the others. But not before I warned El Capitan:
‘Er, sometimes I need to use the bathroom quite often when I’m nervous, so…’
He turned pink and cast his face down, but inclined his head in assent. ‘Simply advise the guard when you require the facility and he will escort you down here. A lady…’ he looked me up and down as though clearly unconvinced that the label should be applied to me, ‘must not be denied her ablution.’
And that was it. We were dismissed.
The crew hustled us up onto deck, where we were bound and directed to where we could sit on the floor. We were under some shelter, and had some rush mats to sit on, although it was all pretty basic. The four guys were bound back-to-back with some shipping rope, and I had my hands tied behind my back slightly away from the others. The guys each had two sailors to watch them, and I had one guy to watch me. Typical. Why am I never considered a serious threat? I suppose, if I’m honest, I had bigger things to worry about right then. But in retrospect, it’s annoying, you know.
Anyway, as it turned out, it was quite useful. At first, the other crewmembers and I had been calling out a frantic conversation to each other, trying to offer some solace and support and, most of all, to work out what the hell was happening, and what was going to happen. Of course, none of us had a clue. We guessed that the rest of the crew back on-board the Rainbow Serpent had seen us being taken prisoner. We assumed that they had re-established the connection with CNN, and had also radioed the relevant authorities for help. But who the hell were the relevant authorities?