Jurassic Waters

by E. Coulombe

  “I'm ready,” was all that Lono said.

  Dale gunned the engine; Lono concentrated on his breath, slowing it, focusing. He narrowed his attention to just the wave, blocking all thoughts, breathing even more slowly as Dale brought the jet-ski around to the front of the wave. Now, Lono told himself. He stood up, gained his balance, and strapped his feet into the special footings on top of the big board.

  The wave picked up speed, hitting fifty miles an hour. Dale drove straight towards the outside edge of the rising swell, and then gunned it with Lono still holding on to the tow rope. He spun the ski around, using the centrifugal force to whip Lono into the zone. Lono let go of the rope as he felt the board soar underneath him, picked up by the rush of the building wave.

  Then he started the drop. He couldn't think, he couldn't feel; all he could do was try with everything he had to keep his balance, zinging over the water at eighty-miles-per hour. Every ripple felt like a rock smacking the underside of the board--like it was solid underneath.

  He saw Dale on the jet-ski ahead. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his nightmare– the lip of the wave curling over his head.

  Dammit, man, don't want to go pipeline on this monster. He cut left as hard as he could, with the wave momentarily suspended above him, but then ….

  Twenty tons of water curled over his body. The wind howled through the empty tube and the wall crashed down on the front end of his board. The board snapped instantly. His feet came out of the stirrups as he catapulted forward head-first, like an acrobat free-flying through the air, thrown thirty feet in front of the swell before he landed in the massive wave.

  He curled in a ball and tumbled like a rag doll. Over and over the wave threw him, wrenching at him with its massive power, yanking his arms away from his body. He pulled them back in, tucking them tight around his legs. He held his breath and prayed. Hold it, he thought, hold it like Laird. Don't panic. Let it toss you, let it take you. Just wait. He knew if he tried to swim against the force he would quickly lose oxygen and drown.

  When he thought he couldn't go another second without air, the wave released him and he swam through the foam, not knowing which way was up, just hoping he had it right because he had no air left if he didn't.

  Finally he surfaced, gasping in a lungful of air. He turned to see if another wave was coming. Something just wasn't right, but he wasn't sure what it was. Then, when the next swell carried him up, he realized what it was: he was headed straight into the cliffs, straight into the booming sound of gigantic waves smacking against the rock wall.

  He dove back into the crest of the next oncoming wave. He fought to come up just in time to see another breaker coming straight at him. He stroked as hard as he could to get out to sea, but he was losing the fight, and now was just inches away from the deadly rocks.

  He heard the whining buzz of the jet-ski before he saw it. In an instant, Dale was on top of him, ready to gun it the second Lono grabbed hold of the tow board. But Dale was too late. The ski slammed against the rock face, front end first, the power of the wave twisting the metal as if it were made of clay. Dale jumped off just in time. Lono grabbed Dale’s arm and pulled him away from the rocks. They swam as hard as they could towards the open water.

  “Shit, man!” Dale slapped the water and spun round. “Something just took a bite out of my arm!” He held it up and saw blood. “We're not gonna make it, Lono. The waves are too fucking big!”

  “We gotta go under the cliff!” Lono yelled, as he pointed at the wall. “There's a cave. Follow me.”

  They were too close now; either they were going under the cliff or into it on the next wave. The water started to rise. Lono took Dale's hand, waited one second. Rising. One more second. Higher. “Now!” he shouted, and together they dove down just as the wave crested over them. Without a mask, the saltwater stung Lono's eyes, making it hard to see; but he could make out the wall ahead, and he rode the current into it, praying that luck would guide them towards the cave entrance. Where the fuck was that damn hole?

  At last he found the dark cut in the wall and pulled Dale in behind him. The current shot them through a long tunnel, and kicking like mad they came up gasping for air in a small, poorly-lit cavern. Light could only enter through the water, which filtered out the reds and greens, leaving it an eerie aquamarine that changed the tan skin color of the boys to a sickly pale green. The water level inside the cave changed with each incoming wave, making it difficult for the boys to get a handhold. Finally, Lono was able to wedge his feet onto a ledge and pull himself up above the high-water level. He reached down and pulled Dale up beside him. They sat for a moment, stunned by what had just happened, and then started whooping and hollering. They screamed at the ceiling overhead, both of them, completely amazed they were still alive!

  Chapter Seventeen

  George lay down beneath a tree and rested, exhausted from his struggle. He awoke to the beep of his watch alarm, surprised to see that the ocean now appeared completely calm. What an idyllic scene, he thought, barely able to believe that he had nearly drowned an hour earlier. He stood up and walked the shore, mulling over his earlier misadventure.

  I’d like to catch one of those odd creatures and show it to Andrew…he should see it, he thought. Jellyfish don't swim. Rogue wave be damned; he wanted to see that creature again. When the water receded from the upper pools, he resumed his search, but this time he kept one eye on the ocean. He sure as hell didn't feel like sticking his hand down into the water again. Searching the shore for a stick, his keen eye spotted a place in the sand untouched by the rogue wave but strangely disturbed. As he approached, he noticed an oval-shaped pattern etched in the sand, and it seemed vaguely familiar. Where have I seen that before, he wondered.

  The impression was a half a meter in length, and dozens of fine lines radiated outward from the center. He spotted a second one just a few feet away, then another. What in the hell? Could the strange jellyfish have made this? Dammit, I've seen this pattern before, but where?

  George stopped dead in his tracks as recognition dawned. “No way!” he shouted out loud. “An Ediacaran? Impossible! This looks like a goddamn Ediacaran. But that's Pre-Cambrian!” he was still shouting aloud. “Pre,” he screamed at the sea. “Do you hear me? I said pre as in before. Pre-Cambrian! Extinct for six hundred million years! What in the hell have I found?”

  Calm yourself, get a grip.

  It had been one heck of a day. He sat down next to the sand impression and examined it in his methodical way. Fossils of thousands of these odd creatures had been uncovered in different parts of the world, he recalled. They were the oldest known animals ever found on earth, and they remained as much a mystery today as they were when first discovered. And the greatest mystery of all was--what had become of them?

  “Well I can answer that question now,” George laughed out loud. “They all went to Nakoa!” Excited beyond the point of thinking clearly, he started running down the beach. He couldn't remember what he was looking for, but then realized he had left the sand cast behind and quickly ran back. Get it together, man, he told himself, this is no time to blow it. He stopped at the pool to slow himself down, but instead, when he glanced into the water, he saw that jellyfish-like thing again and felt like his head would explode.

  “Are you a goddamn Ediacaran? Oh my God! Oh shit! I've got to have you!”

  Okay, I need something to catch it with…but while I'm frittering around looking for a container it'll just take off… “Don’t move,” he said to the creature, but as if in response, the creature started propelling itself back toward the surf.

  “Hand be damned, I'm having you!” George yelled, leaning over and reaching into the water reflexively. Strangely enough, the other fish darted away, but the Ediacaran thing swam straight towards his hand.

  “Got it!” he shouted, closing his hand around the slime. “Whoa! Wait a minute!” He felt a sucking-stinging sensation on his palm. He shook his hand to free it, but the creature wou
ldn't let go.

  “Get the fuck off me!” he shouted as it started to squeeze. The panic rising in his chest, he grabbed the nearest loose coral chunk and scraped the thing off. Without thinking, he threw it back in the pool.

  He sat down for a moment and recalled how McMenamin had described a Garden of Ediacarans, where they lived peaceably in the oceans, collecting sunlight and dissolved nutrients. Ha, George thought, as he nursed his hand. That's exactly why extrapolation of behavior from dead rock impressions is so damn dangerous.

  “Calm down, George,” he whispered to himself, “get it together here and don't blow this.” He didn't want to mess with the organism again, but he needed to collect it. It was a remarkable discovery, and nobody would believe him without the evidence.

  He could at least show the sand casting. He examined it more closely. The creature must have been thrown up on the beach by the first rogue wave, and was crawling back to the water's edge when the second wave picked it up again. Fortunately, the wave fell short and didn't wash away the impression the creature had made in the sand.

  He found a piece of driftwood weathered to the shape of a small spade and very carefully, with his paleontologist's skilled hands, dug a large circle around the cast. He cut deep into the sand. He didn't it want it to be disturbed when he lifted the sand, and yet it had to be an amount of sand that, lacking any kind of tarp, he could lift in his arms. He looked around. Farther up the beach and away from the shore he spotted a small clump of banana trees. Maybe there's some way I can interweave those leaves, he thought. If I could get two or three of them to stick together, I could move this cast onto them and drag it up the shore.

  He kept an eye on the ocean while he worked. The waves appeared to have diminished, so maybe he'd be lucky and get the organism before the tide came in. He sprinted up the hill and ripped at the large banana leaves. Finding it too hard to pull them off he ran back to his pack to get his machete. With a few deft cuts he piled up five leaves. He ran back to the water and wet the leaves thoroughly. They stuck together, creating a makeshift stretcher.

  Digs fall apart on the edges, he thought, need to wet this. He rummaged along the shore and soon found a large piece of plastic debris for carrying water, which he gently sprinkled over the cast.

  Suddenly a spray of water drenched his back. What? Oh, shit! He looked up. The wave had broken on the reef just behind him.

  Oh, shit, the next one’ll come right in here, he thought. He knew it would completely erase his fossil. Careful no longer, he cut a swathe through the sand underneath the casting, slid a large leaf half way under, and using his free left arm and the machete in his right hand he lifted the cast.

  The wave crested just behind him as he ran up the beach, his arms full of the cast. He turned to see the receding waters carrying his banana boat out to sea. Well, that was smart, he kicked himself. Taking baby steps, he carried the cast across the remaining sand up to the tree line. As he stood there wondering what in the hell to do with this treasure in his arms, he looked back at what had been a sandy beach with several Ediacaran casts and a series of tidal pools in lava rock. Now it was only a flat sea.

  Crushed and exhausted, he almost felt like opening his arms and letting the cast disappear as well. But he didn’t do that. Instead he found a level, smooth surface of pine needles protected by surrounding ironwood trees and he lay his precious cargo down. He plopped on the ground next to it.

  He may have lost the creature, but he did have this trace fossil as proof, and if there was one creature, there’d be more, he thought. He’d get help. His department head would back him up--even higher they’d back him. He imagined old Blakely himself, the Head of Faculty of Arts and Sciences, flying to Hawaii and organizing a press regalia featuring George talking via satellite with Matt Lowry on the Today Show.

  “And what about the University of Hawaii!” He screamed out loud, “they'll put an army on this beachhead, and they’ll search until they’ve found it!”

  George lay back on the pine needles and gazed at his drying sand casting, dreaming of his illustrious future and for the moment at least, completely forgetting about his promise to Grant—that he would collect no samples.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Andrew directed Kerri down the sidewalk and across Kealakekua Avenue. “Mutations don’t just happen, they are directed. That's a certainty,” he said. “I knew your results were correct even before I read of your work. You just verified it for me. What I want to do is isolate the mutatorsome, make a few modifications to it, and use it in another organism.”

  Kerri came to an abrupt halt. Andrew pulled her the rest of the way across the street. “You mean you want to stress other organisms, such as a…”

  “Flatworm,” Andrew helped.

  “Then watch it respond to the stress by mutating in some direction that will allow it to survive?”

  “Exactly.”

  “To see it become a …what?”

  “I don't really know. A good guess would be the next organism in our ancestral line.”

  “Do you really think this can be done?” She followed Andrew's lead again as they continued heading east along the avenue. She finally found her wording. “As long as organisms are mortal they're stressed, and then they die. They don't all mutate.”

  “Right. And wrong,” Andrew answered. “They don't all mutate. And individuals do die, but the species doesn't, at least not most of the time. It evolves. But how? We don't really know, do we? Sometimes the original species continues to exist alongside the new one. Sometimes it doesn't--it goes extinct. In either case, stress applied on a species-wide level triggers a change, and one of the organisms, or maybe more than one, mutates into another structure to adapt to the altered environment.”

  Kerri tried to speak, but Andrew wasn't finished. “I believe that a cascading series of genetic changes starts with just one initial change, and then it snowballs until the DNA has created something very different. So I'm looking for that initial event. And I want to find a way to facilitate that snowballing process, to trigger it, and then push it forward, so I can see, almost immediately, the new form.” He paused. “And actually, I think I've found it.”

  A car horn blasted on the avenue nearby. Kerri jumped. It was her turn to speak, but her words came out slowly, haltingly.

  “Okay, if -- if -- stress induces mutations, say the classic example of the giraffe stretching its neck to reach the higher leaves...”

  “Yes, because he's starving to death, or at least not thriving. His mother has starved, his grandmother starved; for generations they were underfed and hungry, with food just out of reach.”

  “Or,” she interrupted him, “another example. What about the first lizards? I read that when the slow-moving insects had all been eaten, the lizards couldn't find food, until suddenly, there was a dramatic change in the musculature of their hind legs, and they gained speed. They could catch anything.”

  “Exactly. Good one.” Andrew thought for a moment. “Actually, something similar happened to the archosaurs, the ancestor of the dinosaurs, didn't it? They needed greater speed, and their body structure changed to raise them off the ground and give them a longer stride.”

  “I believe that's the same thing,” she answered curtly, with a large grin exposing her seldom seen dimples, “except now you're getting into the evolution of bipedality in reptiles. That's a bit more complicated.”

  “Okay,” he agreed, “the point is, the list is endless. Time and again the fossil record shows that a need arose, and genetic changes soon followed.” Andrew stopped, his brow deeply furrowed in thought.

  “Isn’t that the basis of the Red Queen Theory?” Kerri added. “Taken from Lewis Carroll’s ‘Through the Looking Glass’ where the Red Queen says to Alice ‘It takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place!’ I just love that line,” she laughed and repeated it. “That was such a great book.”

  “Right,” he gave her a questioning look. “It’s true though. The
so called ‘arms race’ between predators and prey, where the only way predators can compensate for a better defense by the prey, for example, rabbits running faster, is by developing a better offense, i.e. foxes running faster. It takes a species all the changes it can make, just to stay alive as a species. Happens continuously.” Andrew stopped, his brow deeply furrowed in deep thought.

  “So, back to the giraffe?” Kerri brought him out of his reverie.

  “Right. For ten thousand individuals over I don’t know how many generations, could’ve been hundreds or less than ten, at any rate for several generations they were starving. Enough food within reach to barely survive, constantly hungry and straining those neck muscles – until finally, a trigger was released.”

  Kerri remembered something and interrupted him. “Oh yeah, I read about two researchers at Berkeley who found that if they played with the genes for neck development in a baby duck, left just one gene on a little bit longer, it grew a longer neck In fact they ended up with a swan neck instead of a duck neck.”

  “I didn’t know,” he smiled. “Perfect example.”

  “Okay. A trigger is released.” Kerri said. “But you cannot change the structure of the giraffe’s neck. No matter how hard it stretches, it’s already formed. You have to change its offspring.”

  “Right.”

  “You need to have the stress trigger the mutatorsome to go from the mother to the developing fetus.”

  “Yes!” Andrew grew excited. “Then once it’s in the embryo, it changes the gene which controls neck length, ….voila! A longer neck!” He paused.

  “Do you know how signals can be transferred to the fetus?” she asked.

  “No. But I bet we can find out.”

  They both stopped, stunned into silence by what they had just said.

  “Could this be it, Andrew? Have we actually figured out answer to the question Lamarck first asked 150 years ago, the mechanism for directed mutation?”