To Become a Whale

by Ben Hobson

  ‘You don’t like working here?’

  ‘I don’t mind it here. But I don’t like it, no,’ he said. Then he added, almost to himself, ‘There’s a big difference.’

  On their right the trees thinned and the boy could see more white sand through them. They kept walking and the landscape beside them shifted. The dunes, when they came upon them, were made of the same dazzling white sand. They were so tall and steep they blocked the sun and the boy noticed that the sand beneath his feet was cooler.

  ‘Wow,’ the boy said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Phil said. ‘They’re pretty massive.’

  They both just stared for a moment and marvelled. Then Phil said, ‘You should climb them.’

  ‘Climb them?’

  ‘You ever roll down a sand dune?’

  The boy laughed and realised he hadn’t heard that sound in some time. ‘No.’ And then he remembered rolling down the hill, squeezed into a barrel, scared for his life. He remembered, too, his mother’s hand on his back at the end of it, and his father’s laughter. He understood his sense of loss more deeply now. It wasn’t just that she was gone; it was that he was never going to be her son again, he would share no new experiences or moments with her. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Mate, get up there,’ Phil urged. ‘Best time of your life, rolling down. You’ll love it.’

  The boy found himself looking at the dune. He didn’t want to relive the memory of rolling down the hill in the barrel. He didn’t want it diluted further. So he said, maybe in an effort to distract Phil, maybe simply to unburden himself, ‘You remember that whetstone?’

  Phil’s eyes widened. ‘Yeah?’

  The boy breathed out. ‘I stole it.’

  Phil burst out laughing, almost leaping from the sand. ‘I bloody knew you did!’

  The boy turned away from the dune and said, ‘I lost Dad’s and I was just borrowing it. I was going to give it back but then the whole thing happened.’

  Phil, still laughing, clapped the boy on the back. ‘Why didn’t you tell your old man?’

  ‘Thought he’d be mad.’

  ‘He would be,’ Phil said. He sighed and turned from the dune and looked out at the ocean. He sat down and hugged his knees. ‘My old man’s the same, I guess. Still. Probably better to tell him. You going to?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘No. Not now. Not after what happened with Harry.’

  ‘He’d probably just be mad for a bit and then get over it.’

  ‘I don’t want him mad at me when we’re here until Christmas.’

  Phil nodded, seemed to think on what the boy had said. ‘You going to climb the dune?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Not today.’

  ‘Another day?’

  ‘I gotta work.’

  Phil laughed. ‘Just like your dad, eh? Bottling stuff up.’ He brushed sand from his knees then held out his hands. ‘Help me up then.’

  The two walked back to the deck in silence. The boy sneaked the occasional glance at Phil, whose very stride conveyed confidence and simplicity. He longed to place his feet on the ground in the same manner and, in the time remaining on the beach, attempted to do so.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The boy felt sleepy when they returned, but there was no way he could sneak in a nap, not given how long they’d been gone. He managed a coffee and made his way up the steps to the deck, braving the terrible sun and the bitter wind, to find his father. He had to squint when they started work and kept shielding his eyes with his hand. He took the knife his father had given him from his pocket and, while they waited for a whale, sharpened it with the stolen whetstone. It grated pleasantly and in the sun the water on it made the stone turn black and next to this the silver of the blade shone. When he finished he saw the men were bringing a whale up: the first whale of his new shift.

  When the blubber had been ripped away he kneeled on the deck and carved it into squares, almost retching at the smell, which struck him anew in his fatigue. When did he wake up again? Was it four? He sweated and the droplets ran down his temples and nestled in his eyelashes until he blinked them away. His feet were throbbing inside the gumboots and his knees, too, were boiling. As the beginnings of a headache gathered at the base of his skull he looked at his father. ‘Can I get a drink of water?’ he asked.

  ‘If you need a drink, get a drink, mate. I’m not your father out here, yeah?’

  Chastened, the boy hurried down the stairs and along the path to the mess hall. There he gulped down two cups of cold water and looked at the other men, none of whom seemed to struggle the way the boy did. Panting, he ran back up the stairs to the deck. The first whale his father’s team had handled had been distributed, the bones already in the hole at the back and the saw whirring.

  Shielding his eyes against the sun, the boy said, ‘I need to take a break.’

  ‘We just started.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I can’t see straight.’

  ‘Bloody dune, knew you’d get sunstroke or something,’ his father said. He looked at his watch then said angrily, ‘We’ve only been at it an hour.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You go to sleep now you’ll wake up when we’re finishing. Then what good will you be tomorrow?’

  ‘I just need to go and sit down for a bit.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ his father said. He spat and shook his head. ‘Go on then. Do whatever the hell you want.’ He waved a hand at the boy in an act of severance.

  The boy left the deck and retreated to the air-conditioned mess hall. He drank some more water but it just made him feel worse, the water sloshing in his belly. He groaned, sick with shame.

  He went into the empty movie theatre at the back and pushed two chairs together so he could lie across them. Feeling tired and sick, he shut his eyes.

  The boy opened his eyes with a start. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, just to rest for a few minutes. He shuffled upright, the chairs beneath him scraping, and ran outside. The sun was low over the water, the men still toiling on the deck. He dashed up the stairs to the deck. His father looked at him then turned back to his task. When the boy didn’t move he looked again. ‘What’re you standing there for? Go see if Brian needs you on the hose. We’re alright here.’

  The boy walked away, almost glad of the rejection. It seemed as though in this world of his father’s a single mistake would cost you. He had no idea how to make amends, or if it was even possible. The boy knew he would never measure up to his father’s expectations and there was almost relief in that. Still, he wanted his father’s approval, even though he found himself disliking who his father was, the stern way he had, his lack of empathy. This was to be his lot in life: working towards a goal not of his design.

  He found Brian smoking and looking at the sun. The hose in his hand was sloshing water aimlessly. Brian smiled as he approached and said, ‘Back down with the dregs, huh?’

  The boy nodded and held out his hand.

  Brian gave him the hose and walked away, laughing.

  The boy still couldn’t look at the sun, despite its diminished power as it sank towards the horizon, and so he focused on the ramp and the water he was spraying. He looked back at the whale his father’s team was processing. The flipper broken and skewed beneath the body, torn off at the joint. The gigantic head. The baleen like a comb, etching a grin into the otherwise dour face. Slowly mutilated, the body stripped from the rear, behind the head was empty carcass and viscera. The meaning of the beast taken with its organs. A face without body.

  The sound of men shouting alerted the boy first to his distraction and he turned and saw with alarm the winch had started and a whale’s body was being hauled up the ramp. A man barged into him while running by and said, ‘Mind your bloody job, mate.’ The whale’s body was skipping on the wood and it stuck and jerked like it had life in it still. The boy hosed beneath it and it soon slid more smoothly. Another mistake to add to his tally.

  When the whale reached his father, Dan inspected it a
nd cut out the eardrum. His father reached beneath it and ran his hand across the skin, having been witness to his son’s error. His hand came away with splinters. He held it up for his son to see despite the distance. Reluctantly, the boy walked over. When he reached his father, his father held out his hand so the boy could see the jagged splinters plainly.

  ‘Just go inside, Sam,’ his father said. The words were uttered without anger, only deep regret.

  The boy walked away. He heard some muttering from the other men as he passed. He had lost what respect he had earned. He had only cost these men time, and maybe even money due to the splintered whale flesh they would need to discard. It seemed unfair.

  Back in the room, he checked his pockets as he undressed to shower and found the whetstone he had stolen. He threw it at the wall, making a sharp dent. Then he stamped on it with impotent anger. He grabbed his pillow from his bed and punched and twisted it; he wanted desperately to destroy something, to render it as useless as he felt. He yelled and screamed his frustration. Surely somebody must have heard him, but nobody came. He fought his pillow until his hands hurt and then he lay down on it and cried and wished for his mother to wrap him up and take him from this place.

  The boy pretended to be asleep when his father and Steve returned. They did not appear to notice the mess of his tantrum or the new dent in the wall. The two men talked quietly as they readied themselves for bed and then went to sleep.

  The boy woke the next day to find the whetstone, which he’d left on the floor beside the wall, gone. He sighed and resolved to stay to the end of the shift no matter what and not to dwell on what had happened. He would strive to prove the men’s low opinion of him was undeserved.

  The next few days saw him achieve this goal. He was quiet and attentive. He listened to the men when they gave him directions and promptly did as he was told. His father pretended not to be watching, but often the boy saw him sneaking glances. Within a week, he had earned back the knife. When his father handed it to him, he touched the back of the boy’s hand, looked him in the eyes and said, ‘Take care of this, now.’ The boy felt sick inside, knowing he had earned this respect without integrity, having deliberately changed who he was to please these men, but it felt so good to be loved that he said nothing and instead slept that night with the knife at the base of the couch and prayed to God for his strength of character to return.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The boy woke early, before the others, and pulled on his clothes and went for a walk. He came to the deck and went around it and stood on the sand of the shore. The sharks at the bottom of the slipway had grown in number and ferocity. The boy watched them churn the water. Behind him men worked on the deck and their noise was a steady drone of yelling and sawing. The sound of the plane overhead drowned out the birdcalls.

  A whale was towed over by the dinghy and secured with the winch, and before it was dragged up some of the sharks took the opportunity to chomp on the carcass. There was a thrashing in the water and the blue turned to murky red. Surprising how bright it was. Then the whale was dragged clear of the water and the boy could see large red oozing sores lining its face as it emerged. One of its eyeballs was mostly gone and hung from the socket. The join in the jaw was wrecked with tearing and the jaw swung freely, whumping against the timber with each jerk of the chain.

  A man stood ready with the heavier cable and was attaching it to the tail as the whale reached the flat part of the slipway when a shark leaped a good nine feet from the water and latched its jaws onto what remained of the whale’s face. The man with the winch yelled out and two other men from above scrambled down the ramp, skidding on the wet. The shark was tearing at the whale’s lips, its mighty tail beating like a hammer. The boy could see red oozing between its teeth and travelling along the length of it. He stepped closer.

  A gunshot. The sound so startled the boy he ended up sprawled on the sand. The shark shook then without conscious motor control. Still with jaws clenched, a hole oozing more red from the top of its head. Its eyes far blacker than the whale’s. Dead before it died. To the boy’s surprise Harry stood above it, one hand holding a rifle to the sky and the thumb of his other hand hooked in his belt. He looked like someone from a movie poster. He bared his teeth and muttered loud enough for all to hear, ‘Bloody buggers.’

  The shark was still attached to the whale as the winching began anew. The two animals, paired in death, were levered over the lip of the deck. The boy watched the men as they gathered around the shark, clapping Harry on the back. They kicked at the dead shark. Some put their gloved hands near its mouth to lever open its jaws. Another man ran over with his flensing knife held high and handed it to Harry, who bent down and severed the head. He had to saw into the flesh of it, and the bone, far tougher than a whale’s hide. Eventually the throat was exposed and a steady sucking of blood and seawater could be heard even from where the boy stood. The men all laughed at this and kicked the carcass some more. The boy glanced at the sharks gathered at the bottom of the slipway; they had no idea of the fate that had befallen their friend.

  Once the head was clean off, Harry held it aloft for the world to admire. The men cheered as if he was holding a trophy. Blood leaked onto his forearms. The rifle slung across his back. He left the deck with some of the other men, perhaps to find a place to store the trophy. Meanwhile, the whale was fitted with a different winch and hauled further up the deck. One man took the time to roll the body of the shark down the slipway with a series of kicks. Back in the water, its comrades found it quickly and sank their teeth in amid the thrashing of their tails. The mess and sound of their feast, teeth snapping and water churning, made the boy want to step closer so he might witness the violence. But he didn’t.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Three shifts later he was cutting blubber beneath the powerful sun. The day had been unusually busy and they were almost at their quota with the sun still up. A few more shifts like this and Melsom might bump the quota up again, they might be out of here come mid-December. Five more months, probably more, the boy would have to endure. Would he feel pride in himself at the end of his time on the island? Would he still be himself?

  His father was sitting on a milk crate, drinking water from a glass bottle. The shirt he wore was stuck to his back with sweat. It was the first time the boy had seen his father reach his limit for work. A whale was wobbling before them, flensed by the others on his team.

  His father waved at the boy with the bottle, beckoning him closer. ‘You want some?’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘You want a go?’ His father nodded at the carcass.

  ‘Flensing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The boy looked at the cavernous maw and said, ‘I don’t want to stuff it up.’

  His father smiled, took another sip. ‘So? Go slow. We’re way ahead. For once.’ He craned his neck. ‘You boys alright if Sam has a shot?’

  The other men nodded. The first turned back to his task but the one named Tommy sat down beside his father and laughed. ‘He can do the rest of the bloody thing if he wants. Marshall!’ he called to the man who was etching lines into the black rubber. ‘Take a break! Sam’s going to have a crack.’

  Marshall wandered over and collapsed onto the deck beside the others. He grinned at the boy. ‘Just need a beer now.’

  The boy’s father smiled. He picked up his flensing blade and and handed it to the boy. ‘Alright. Have a go, mate.’

  ‘What if I stuff it up?’

  ‘I’ll tell you to stop.’

  The boy approached the whale and studied the glossy skin before him, ran his hand along it. Smooth and slippery like soap. He hefted his father’s long-handled flensing knife and shifted the weight. He punctured the skin slowly and found it slipped in as though he had carved into a slug. He had watched his father and the others and thought he knew how to proceed, but now he stood before the whale he found none of the knowledge at hand. Blood flowed heavily from the eardrum wound and the boy worried
the creature’s heart still thumped within its chest. The underbelly had been already stripped of blubber and skin, so surely if any consciousness remained the creature would have given its melancholy call or bucked them off then.

  The boy stepped towards the open sore from which the flipper had swung.

  He judged the distance to the next cut from where Tommy had left off and slipped the blade in. It went right in up to the wood. The curved blade swished easily up and down. The boy dragged it down too quickly because it caught inside the whale on unseen impediments. His line went crooked and he fought to wrench the long-handled blade free to redo it. His father watching all the while with creases in the corners of his eyes. The other men beside resting silently, letting the boy fail or succeed on his own.

  He reached the midway point where his blade travelled into white and stopped. He found one of the side winch hooks and attached it to the top of the flesh the way he had seen the other men do, standing on his tiptoes to reach. Then he walked back to the winch and cranked it, struggling to keep it steady.

  The blubber was torn off too quickly and lumps of white remained fastened to the carcass. The thing that hit the deck looked about half of what his father normally managed and rippled like the ocean. He looked at his father.

  ‘That’s alright,’ his father said, standing. He inspected what remained in the whale. ‘Good for a first go.’

  ‘You make it look easy.’

  ‘It is easy,’ his father said. ‘But it takes practice.’

  His father picked up a knife and helped the boy scrape what blubber remained off the whale. The other men stood and joined them. The boy did two more strips on the underbelly and found himself stepping inside the whale to reach, as he had seen the other men do. The smell engulfed him but he found himself capable of withstanding it, and the innards and meat became a blurry mess and so less repulsive. The last strip he completed was decent and he looked at it proudly. He carved the blubber into squares and kicked it to the boiler beneath.