To Become a Whale

by Ben Hobson

  Something he hadn’t counted on was the heat of the corrugated iron. He had to keep sloshing water beneath himself so that he could sit still for even a short amount of time. He couldn’t rest his feet on it, the heat even ebbing through the black soles of his shoes. He worried that Albert’s body would fry like bacon in a pan.

  Moreton Island like a torn piece of paper, a mark on the horizon. The mainland in the distance as he drifted. He hadn’t bothered paddling in an age. He tried for a moment and soon gave it up for hopeless. He sat back and looked at the island and, near it, on the horizon, the smoke of a ship. So tiny. Smaller than his fingernail, which he held up for comparison.

  His isolation began to unnerve him. He might fall off and drown and there would be no one to bear witness. He might fight a shark, with both his good and corrupted hands, and win, and eat its remains, and no one would ever hear of his courage. Under the boat, the water turned a murkier colour, and the boy wondered if what he saw was the ocean floor. Maybe the water was really only waist deep and if he were to jump in he would touch squishy bottom with his toes and he would be able to drag his boat back to shore. He stared for a long time, trying to figure it out. A few times he tried paddling for shore, but found he grew no closer and tired quickly.

  The sun bit into his skin and the boy braved it as long as he could before he took his jacket from the barrow and draped it over his head. Then he removed the remaining food from the barrow and, cradling his dog’s body in shaking arms, placed it reverently inside. He gently covered the dog with the cans, careful not to further bruise him. He sat back. He’d had no idea how much he’d miss shade. He lay down on his back, the jacket over his mouth and eyes. His breath became hot. ‘Bloody hot,’ he said. ‘Bloody stinker.’ He kept repeating these phrases, growing steadily quieter, until he was silent once more. Then, with a burst of energy, he screamed into the jacket. Nothing effected. Hard to determine if he was even alive.

  He flung the jacket aside and grabbed one of the cans of spam and opened it, and scooped the oozy meat into his maw. He looked at the fish flesh in the baked beans can, already pungent. He considered throwing it overboard but knew it would be useful in future for bait.

  There was no plan. Nothing he could do. He sat on the boat for hours and shifted as his legs grew too hot and watched the sun and breathed and said nothing. He thought always of the dog and what it must have been like for him in his final moments. Did he doubt the boy loved him? Moreton Island was no longer visible. No other boats or land. Fear settled in him and he was almost relieved by the knowledge that he too would surely die and they, the dog and boy, would be united in death.

  He rolled onto his front and the iron soon cooked his stomach through his shirt. He looked into the water. He searched for his mother down there, for life of any type. Her face seemed further from him now and was difficult to summon amid the sweeping water. The colour of her eyes had been green. She had dimples when she smiled and when she frowned. Her nose had been slightly crooked. She hugged too hard and sometimes yelled at his father and when she did her dimples disappeared and in their place a thick rosiness. She too was imperfect, and perfect all the same.

  The sun went down quickly and there was no brightness suffusing the sky to welcome the boy this night. In the dark he found relief from the sun, but then his hot skin became much too cold. He covered himself with his jacket, which scraped against his skin painfully.

  In the dark, with the torch wedged between his legs, he picked at his hand. Taking his knife, he cut the stitches and pulled them out, the sensation like bugs beneath his skin. The wound had mostly healed, but he couldn’t quite bend his fingers. It felt no better.

  He slept. When he woke there was a noise near his boat. He didn’t want to wake up properly so he continued to doze, but when he realised what he’d heard he sat up and looked about. Beneath the water a large shape moved. With the moon behind and the stars on the horizon, he saw clearly the silhouette of a large tail flicking up and then thumping against the water before retreating beneath the surface.

  The boy grabbed an oar and paddled, trying to get closer. He pulled his knife from his pocket and readied it, feeling frantic and peculiar.

  The whale surfaced again nearby and announced itself this time with a water spout, and the boy felt the drops fall like rain against his burnt face. The creature was so close he could almost touch it. A miracle. He stretched out his hand. The whale gave no sign that it was aware of his existence. The boy longed to see its eyes alive. He paddled closer.

  The whale sank again and the boy held the knife tightly in his wounded hand. He relaxed his grip and as the whale came near to the surface once more, bellowing, he studied what he held, he studied what violence had been impressed upon him.

  The next time the whale surfaced the boy was sitting back on his boat, hugging his knees to his chest. He only watched and listened. The knife he had put away.

  It turned on one side in the moonlight and waved a flipper. It rolled over. The boy never knew the beast alive could be so wonderful. He didn’t pursue it when it retreated from him, and he didn’t shrink away when it turned and came towards him. He had no fear for himself or for his boat. He just watched.

  The whale slipped beneath him and emerged on the other side of the boat, spouting water, free in purpose and in spirit. The droplets struck his burnt skin. The whale’s white belly shone in the moonlight and it bellowed, shooting water. There was no second-guessing its own nature. It was what it was. He tried to imagine perpetrating the violence he had earlier felt upon this beast and robbing it of its life. The boy felt remorse, and shame, that he had helped butcher this beast’s family. He whispered, ‘Sorry, mate,’ and really meant it.

  Watching the whale stirred him. He felt within him his spirit return. It filled the water surrounding him and went towards the whale and returned to him. He breathed and looked at the sky and watched the whale and felt no urge to do anything else.

  When the whale had glided away from him in the dark, he lifted the cans from Albert’s body and stacked them on the boat. Then the boy lifted his dead dog and held him. He put his forehead against the dog’s fur and rubbed it back and forth. Then he lowered the body into the ocean. Albert’s eyes were open and unseeing, but the boy saw within them the possibility of forgiveness. He knew he had made a mistake and that his friend had paid for it. He knew, too, that there was no fixing it. As he watched Albert sink into the black and lose his form within moments, he knew the dog was alive. His mother’s words about the afterlife were true. He knew the dog’s body would become food for a shark or some other ocean creature, and he knew the rightness of it.

  In the morning he looked to the west, towards the mainland, the sight of which had been a reliable comfort to him as he drifted, but he couldn’t see it anymore. All that surrounded him now was tremendous ocean. All the peace the whale had brought him during the night was forgotten in his panic. If there was no land, there was also no direction in which he should paddle, even if he were to muster the strength. His arms were failing him and his crippled hand was talon-like in its rigidity. The muscles in his forearms and his legs were aching and cramped.

  The corner of the boat slipped beneath the water as the vessel bobbed and sank, a little deeper each time. There was no way to right it. The barrow was still mostly full of cans and the jerry can was perched atop and he still had his knife and Phil’s torch. His mother’s name on the side of the boat had faded from the sun and the salt water and now looked a blurry mess.

  With his oar he swept the water off the boat as it gushed over the corner. Frustrating work that had little effect, but it was nonetheless important and necessary. He sat back on his jacket to insulate himself from the already boiling iron and had some asparagus from a can. It tasted foul and he feared the can had been punctured somehow and the vegetables within rotted, but he couldn’t find any hole. He set his fishing line and had a drink and kept sweeping water from the boat.

  ‘Damn it,’ he sa
id aloud, after hours of silence. ‘Damn it.’ Then, ‘Please come back,’ with thoughts of the whale and Albert both.

  He sipped from the jerry can and caught no fish and swept away the water and passed the day in this way.

  When the sun began its descent, he took stock. Half the cans he had started with remained, and he still had the soggy flathead fillets. The jerry can was almost half full but that was because he had not been drinking enough, and he felt light-headed as a result.

  He considered his situation. Every action he might take from this point forward was futile. It felt pointless to even try. Still, he had to. It was no longer a case of mere preservation. He had settled in his mind that God must exist because of the whale and because his mother had told him so. So God must be real and his mother must be in heaven and must have sent the whale. He almost wished for his death so that he might see her, but he knew that she would not want him to give up and so he baited his line, stretched his legs, swept the water.

  The sun had not long disappeared when something tugged his line and he yanked on the rod. He started to reel it in but found it to be a fighter and so gave it some line and let it tire itself out. His limbs were weak and he kept shaking his hands to ease the ache as he worked the reel. He waited for the fish to become settled in its death before he really hauled it in. As it got closer to the boat he realised he had hooked a shark.

  In the dark it was a black formless shape beneath the water but there was no doubt what creature it was. Probably a gummy. It was as long as one of his oars and its tail swept from side to side but it had lost most of its will. He got it beside the boat and let it sit there as he decided what to do with it. With his arms as dead as they were he was uncertain about his ability to lift it onto his vessel. Uncertain too about how to skin the thing, though he knew well enough how to kill it. With one hand steadying the rod he found his torch with the other and shone it on the shark. It didn’t startle and regarded him with reverence, this maker of its death. Its eye was black plastic and without soul, though the boy was sure there must be one in there somewhere. He risked his safety to reach out and pat it. Its skin rough, like sandpaper, caught on his fingertips as he stroked it.

  He undid one of the many ropes that kept the barrow secure and looped it around the shark a few times. He heaved on the ropes and braced his legs and got the shark aboard, then lashed it to the wood. As he worked the ropes he accidentally embraced the shark. It didn’t struggle and the boy saw in the shark’s apathy his own desire just to lie down, accept his fate and be done with it.

  The boy waited for the shark to die a peaceful death; he refused to cut off its head and end its life prematurely in that fashion. This method of death was more respectful, he felt.

  He knew when it had died because its eyes looked different. He tentatively poked at one of them. There was no response. He imagined what it would be like if the boat were now to sink. He would wrap his arms around the shark and they both would drift to the bottom of this dark ocean and at the bottom his ears would pop and he wouldn’t hear anything but he would look at the shark and feel comfort. But the boat didn’t sink. He stood, wobbly on his feet, and left the shark alone.

  With his knife he later carved up the shark by moonlight. Difficult work holding the torch, so he squinted through the black until his eyes adjusted. Now he cut the head off and to his relief there was no gurgling of blood or beating heart. The boy had waited long enough and the shark was truly dead. Without its head it was no longer itself. The head went in the water. He yanked out the intestines and heart and other offal and flicked it into the ocean and washed his hands in the salt water. He was unsure if he could eat shark without cooking it. He put some of the meat, with the skin still on, in his mouth and it tasted of ocean. He chewed and found it tough and unpleasant. He managed to swallow, though, on account of his hunger.

  The night passed slowly with this work. The scab on his hand kept cracking when he bent his fingers and oozed yellow fluid which in the dark looked like pale custard. He ate a bit more of the shark and felt sick. He drank water, growing anxious as the water level in the jerry can dropped. He he’d been told, possibly by his father, that a man could drink his own piss if he were desperate. He thought about peeing into the empty spam can but instead he went over the side into the water.

  The whale had saved him; of this he was sure. He sat and looked up at the sky, supported by his aching hand. He would make it back to land, and things would be different now. He knew it now to be true. Like the whale had extinguished all doubt.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  He slept for some time, and when he woke the sun had risen and he could see land. A current was pushing him towards it and he quickly sat up and grabbed an oar and began to row. He made slow progress and soon realised that his rowing was having little effect. He lifted the oar back onto the boat and watched the land and willed for it to come closer. It did. It seemed to grow in expanse and then he saw trees and was surprised by how much he’d missed their greenery. The shore stretched out golden and the sun lit the sand.

  The waves increased in strength and and he rose up and down with them, each one pushing him forward. Soon, in his exhilaration, he grabbed an oar again and rowed and rowed. Finally he was in charge of his own fate!

  He surged forward and soon the beach was so near he was tempted to dive off the boat and swim for it, but he felt such fear he didn’t try. Then the boat threatened to capsize in the surf so he was forced to risk it. Panic in his heart and limbs. He couldn’t touch the bottom and so he clung to the boat with both hands clenched tight and the waves were upon him, dunking him underwater. He tasted the ocean and it stung his eyes. He let go of the vessel and struck out, propelled forward by the waves at his back.

  He crawled onto the beach and, with the ocean still lapping at his legs, rested his head on the sandy mud and breathed. His sore hand was burning and pumped to the rhythm of his heartbeat. He rolled onto his back and looked at the sky. Maybe he was in heaven and soon his mother would walk down the beach towards him, holding Albert in her arms.

  He sat up and then stood on wobbling legs. The boat was still adrift but was coming steadily closer. He looked at the barrow still half full of food and water and he considered retrieving it, but was so weak that instead he sat down again and waited for the decision to be made for him. Hugging his knees to his chest, teeth chattering. The boat came closer. He stood and waded into the ocean. When he was waist-deep in water he grabbed the boat and dragged it ashore. The activity left him breathless and he had to lie down for some time before he could stand again.

  He untied the barrow and dragged it up the sand to a shady spot under a tree. He splashed his face with some water from the jerry can and drank half of what was left. He found the knife still in his pocket and used it to stab into a can of green beans and consumed it all, foul juice included. The torch in his pocket was now dead but still he would not discard it. Then he sat and watched the waves catch the side of the vessel made from the old shack. Those barrels had belonged to his mother. He was happy to let them go.

  The boy managed to doze fitfully beneath the tree, not waking properly until it was dark. It was freezing. His fingertips felt frozen and the fingers gashed with the flensing knife had no feeling left in them at all. He tried to squeeze them shut and couldn’t. He touched them with his good hand and found they felt like overripe bananas. He rubbed at his eyes to remove the sand that had become embedded in his eyelids and then considered his situation.

  Where he had washed ashore was a picture. Even in the night the beach was soft and lush. The water was dark but still inviting. The trees were bright green even moonlit. There was a steady breeze. But he was shivering from the cold and had no change of clothes nor any way to dry what he had on. He had no way to start a fire. ‘Bloody stupid,’ he said, and was surprised at the quiver in his voice.

  He took off his shorts and the leather shoes that, absurdly, he was still wearing. He removed his brown socks – they were dri
pping wet – and flung them aside, so he was left in just his undies. Teeth chattering, he piled sand over his legs and torso, and almost at once lapsed back into sleep.

  The first thing he was aware of when he woke, still in the indomitable dark, was his infected hand. The numbness had been replaced with a terrific pain, terrible and cutting. It was a wonder he had managed to sleep through it. He gripped it and groaned, then tried rubbing it with his good hand, which only made it worse. Some of the soft scabs peeled away and he felt fresh blood trickle down his forearm. By moonlight the blood resembled ink. He needed to do something. He needed to get help.

  He strained his ears for some sound of civilisation but heard nothing beyond the breeze rustling through leaves, and insects, and waves. There were no lights that he could see. There were no fires on the beach indicating the presence of campers. There might be people further up the beach, though equally there might not be. Still, he had little choice but to try.

  He pulled on his still-wet clothes and shoes. There was no easy way to carry his food and remaining water. He tried to cradle the barrow in his arms, but the pressure on his injured hand caused an intense wave of pain. With the knife he punctured a tin of baked beans cut around the lid until he was able to bend back the top. After devouring the contents, he filled the empty tin with water and pushed the top back down. He tried to pocket it and struggled with the size. He ended up placing it between the band of his shorts and his hip, securing it with his belt, making sure it remained upright. It did if he walked carefully.

  He set forth, leaving behind his oars and his boat, and the rest of his food and water. Knowing this effort was his last. He carried the torch in his good hand. As he walked down the beach, struggling through the soft sand, he swung the torch like a club. In the trees there were no sounds beyond the breeze but he pictured creatures there all the same.

  He walked for a long time, until the sun rose over the horizon and shone into his eyes. He stopped and spat and sipped at the water. The sun came up slowly and in the distance were grey clouds. He was hungry now, and regretted not bringing any food with him. There was nothing on the beach to eat and inland there were only trees and he was sure the leaves would provide little sustenance.