On the Rocks

by Eric Walters

  Also, by sticking to the shoreline I thought I was less likely to run into any bears or wolves or cougars. I assumed from my grandfather’s paintings that all those creatures lived here on the island.

  As long as it wasn’t raining, it wasn’t bad being outside. When it was raining, I spent time in my room, on the porch and even in the shed. In my mind, my grandfather and I were having an unofficial contest to see who could say the fewest words to the other. One day I said twenty-one words to him. He’d said twenty-three. So I won.

  When I closed the bedroom door now, it glided shut and just kissed the frame. It was as smooth as silk. On my second day here, I’d oiled and adjusted the hinges and used a plane to shave the bottom and side.

  Along with ignoring my grandfather, I’d tried to do things around the place to earn my keep. I was going to eat his food—what choice did I have? We were stuck with each other. But I wasn’t going to take his charity. I’d fixed the hinge on the toolshed door so it closed properly too. Then I’d cleaned out the shed and organized it. I’d even fixed the handle on the dresser in my room. Maybe I’d broken it, but I’d also fixed it. That last one was sort of a draw.

  I took the red rain jacket from the peg beside the cabin door and slipped on my boots. I went down the steps—all of them. It felt good knowing I’d replaced the missing one. I thought it would have made my grandmother happy. That thought made me happy.

  Spending so much time by myself had given me time to think. I’d thought about my mother in treatment. I’d thought about what it must have been like growing up here. I’d thought about my grandmother. I’d thought about my grandfather. I doubted he’d been thinking about me. All he did was paint. Mostly in his studio, but sometimes he took his paints and easel and worked outside. We’d bumped into each other a couple of times this week—he was painting, and I was walking on the beach. It’s harder to ignore somebody when you see them by accident. Today, though, there would be no danger of us running into each other.

  The yellow kayak was pulled up from the beach where I’d left it. When I’d cleaned out the shed, I’d found two kayaks in the rafters. I’d taken them down and cleaned up the one that looked to be in the best shape. If there was any reason it wouldn’t float, I couldn’t see it. I could have asked my grandfather, but that would have meant speaking to him. I’d also found a life jacket and a double-bladed paddle that I knew kayakers used because I’d seen them on TV before.

  I picked up the kayak and brought it to the water’s edge, putting it back down so it was barely on the beach and mostly in the water. There wasn’t much wind, and the waves were small. Much smaller than they’d been the last couple of days. I figured today might be my best opportunity to get out on the water. I put on a life jacket and carefully stepped into the kayak. It wiggled, and I thought it was going to tip, but it didn’t. I settled into the seat, tucking my legs into the front. With the paddle I pushed against the ground. I moved a little and a little more and then popped free and skittered out into the water.

  The waves bounced me around and tried to push me back to shore. I dug in my blades and paddled out and away—left, right, left, right, left, right. I was pleasantly surprised at how fast and how far I was going. Either this was really easy or I was a fast learner.

  I kept paddling and riding over the waves. I had the strange sensation that I wasn’t so much going through the water as hovering over it. A big wave hit directly in front of me. The nose of the kayak dipped slightly, and a shower of spray hit me directly in the face. But I was feeling more confident. The waves weren’t going to topple me. I could ride them out, almost ride above them.

  I paddled around and started enjoying myself. I found that by paddling on only one side I could easily change directions, even make the kayak go in a tight little circle. I soon discovered that it was better to head directly into the waves than have them hit me on the side. Riding the waves up and down—which was a little scary at first—was actually fun.

  Now I had to make a decision. I could stay here in the little cove, or I could go out a bit farther and follow the shoreline. I could, technically, circle the entire island. Okay, that made no sense, but I decided to keep paddling a little bit farther. I headed straight out toward the open water.

  I focused on paddling. Glancing left and right, I realized I’d already passed the rocks that marked the sides of the cove. I wasn’t in the cove anymore. I was in the open ocean. The wind had picked up, but strangely the waves seemed to have settled down. The water was flatter, the bumps fewer, and the ride was smoother.

  Now I had to decide which direction to go. To the left was the beach. I’d previously walked pretty far in that direction. To the right were the rocks that had blocked me from exploring. That was the way I wanted to go. I had to see what was on the other side of those rocks.

  I dug in harder to the left and quickly turned in the other direction. To my right was the island. To the left, as far as I could see, was nothing but ocean. No, wait. In the distance a thin line and a few bumps were visible through the gray. Mountains on the mainland. That was the direction of civilization, the way off the island. If I spun in that direction and paddled all day, I could probably get there.

  What a strange thought. What a wrong thought. What I could probably do was drown or get lost. So instead, I paddled to put myself closer to the island shore.

  I got back into the rhythm of paddling. All I had to think about was left, right, left, right. I focused on putting the paddle blade in the water just the right way. There was something almost hypnotic and calming about it.

  Until I saw the fin burst out of the water directly in front of me.

  Chapter Six

  It was big and black, and it appeared and then was gone.

  I stopped paddling. I bobbed on the waves, afraid to move or splash or breathe. I scanned the water. There was nothing but water. I must have imagined it. If it was a shark, it was the size of a submarine. And I was sitting in a thin piece of fiberglass.

  The fin reappeared. It looked a lot smaller and, thank goodness, was moving away. It disappeared under the water again. Should I just wait until it left, or should I spin around and paddle like crazy in the other direction? Before I could decide, another fin broke through the surface near me, and then another and another! They were much closer now, between me and the shore. They came up out of the water and then disappeared beneath again.

  My brain raced, trying to make sense through the fear. Not sharks. Sharks didn’t travel together. And then I remembered that a shark’s dorsal fin has a straight edge. A dolphin’s curves toward its tail. These were dolphins. It was a bunch…um, a herd…no, that was wrong. Dolphins were like fish, so it must be a school. I was seeing a school of dolphins.

  Just then a gigantic fin rose very close to my kayak. Below it I saw a black back and a flash of white and then a head. It wasn’t a dolphin—it was a killer whale, and it was looking right at me! It slid back under the water, and a second one breached right beside it. It was enormous—or was it just closer to me than the last one? There was a loud sound, like breathing, and I spun around. There was another one on the other side of my kayak. I was in the middle of them.

  I sat there, stunned and shocked and scared. The fins kept popping up and out of the water on both sides of me and then in front of me. I bobbed along as they moved forward. Soon they were all in front of me. I tried to count them, but it was impossible as they moved in and out, up and down. Let’s just say there were a lot of them. They were moving quickly, and I watched as they got smaller and farther away. Finally they disappeared.

  My whole body shuddered. I took a deep breath. That had been amazing. Just amazing. I found myself wishing they would reappear and come back. But more than anything I wanted to get land under my feet. I started paddling back to the cove.

  Left, right, left, right, I paddled. I kept glancing over my shoulder for dorsal fins that never appeared. I was disappointed. And relieved.

  Some time later, back
at the cabin, I was startled by the front door opening. I looked up from the table. My grandfather had an easel over his shoulder and a canvas in his other hand. I had thought he was quietly working away in his studio. He nodded his head slightly. I was going to add that to our word count for the day. I was now ahead one to nothing.

  He leaned the easel against the wall, put down the canvas and removed his coat. Underneath was a white knit sweater that was stained with paint. The stains weren’t new. He wore this sweater all the time.

  He came over and looked at the books scattered in front of me. “You’re interested in orcas?”

  I could have just said “yep” and stayed four words ahead, but I didn’t.

  “I saw a school of them today. When I was kayaking.”

  I had just put him in the lead.

  He nodded. “A group of whales is called a pod. You found the kayaks in the shed.”

  “Yeah, I cleaned one of them up.”

  “And you were out kayaking when you saw the pod?” he asked.

  “They sort of surrounded me.”

  “Were there about ten of them?”

  “I think so. It was hard to tell. Fins just kept popping up and then disappearing.”

  “Come and I’ll show you something.”

  He walked toward his studio. I got up and followed. The door to his studio was sticking a bit too. Maybe the next time he went out, I’d try to fix it.

  He was fumbling around, searching through a series of stacked canvases. He found one and pulled it out. The painting was a side view of six or seven dorsal fins. Two of the whales had their backs out of the water. In the background was the cove.

  “Do you recognize any of them?” he asked.

  How was I supposed to answer a question that stupid?

  “It’s not as stupid as it sounds,” he said.

  Had he read my expression?

  “They have distinct dorsal fins. Do you see this one?” he asked, pointing at the painting. “He has a notch close to the bottom of his fin, and the white patch around his eye is—”

  “I saw him!” I exclaimed. “He came up close to the surface and turned to look at me.”

  “I’m not surprised. He’s the youngster in our resident pod.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I said.

  “We have a pod that lives around here. I can recognize them all. In the late summer, when the salmon are running, we often get a superpod, as other pods come for the feast.”

  “So this is a fish-eating pod instead of one that hunts and kills seals or other mammals.”

  “You know about orcas?”

  “I know some,” I said. What I knew was what I had just read.

  I looked at the painting again. It was so realistic. So good.

  “I did a series of paintings about this pod. But I haven’t been out on the water for a while…years, in fact.”

  “I got the other kayak out of the rafters. I could clean it up and we could go out together,” I said.

  Judging from his expression, he seemed as surprised by what I’d said as I had been when the words came out of my mouth.

  “I have to finish up a painting tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” I said. Why did I think he would want to do anything with me?

  “But how about if we go out the day after that?”

  “Yeah, sure. I guess that’s okay.”

  Chapter Seven

  I set the red kayak down on the shore beside the yellow one. It had a couple of dings in the hull, and the paint was scraped off in more than one place. I’d really had to clean it out. It looked like some squirrels had been using it as a nest.

  I made sure that both kayaks were well above the high-water line. The tide had just hit its high mark and was starting to recede. I’d learned the pattern. Twice a day. After high tide the water went down for six hours, and then it came back in over six hours till it got back to high tide. Two highs and two lows every day.

  That morning my grandfather and I had had breakfast together. We’d talked. I hadn’t even done a word count. We’d basically kept to safe topics. It turned out he knew a lot about whales. He knew a lot about all animals. He’d even shown me the canvas he was working on. I’d recognized the spot. It wasn’t far from where I was standing right now. After that he’d set out to paint. He’d taken his paints, supplies, easel and the canvas he was working on and left while I finished up the dishes.

  There were no more piles of dirty dishes around the cabin. I had tackled them in the first few days I was here. I liked order. There wasn’t much I could control in my life, but at least I could control what was around me and keep a place tidy.

  Now that the second kayak was down on the beach and ready for our adventure the next day, I planned to go back up to the cabin and clean out the gutters. They were filled with pine needles, leaves and branches and really needed to be cleaned. I couldn’t say I was really looking forward to the job though. It had stormed badly the night before, and the water had poured down the side of the house because the gutters were so filled with garbage. They had to be cleared, but now that the sun was out, I started thinking that maybe they could wait for another day. I could let my grandfather know I’d gotten the kayak out. I wanted him to know. I also really wanted to go back out to see the killer whales, and I wanted somebody to go with me. I knew they wouldn’t hurt me, but it was still scary to be out on the water alone with those gigantic creatures. It would be nice to have somebody else with me.

  I strolled along the beach until I came to the rock cliff that had blocked my way when I had first started exploring. I’d discovered that at low tide I could get around them, but for now I had to head inland to go any farther. I climbed up a path and then onto the rocks. They were rugged and sharp, and I had to move carefully from rock to rock. When I reached the top of the cliff I could see the ocean again. Despite the sky being clear, the water looked dark and angry. It was like last night’s storm had drained into the ocean.

  I looked over the other side of the rocks and spotted my grandfather. He was on the beach. It looked like he was painting the rocks I was standing on. If I stood here long enough, I wondered, would I make it into the painting?

  He waved, and I waved back. I started to make my way down to him. Toward the bottom the way got a bit more dangerous because the rocks were slick. The waves were really crashing onto them.

  I made it down to the sand and had started to walk toward my grandfather when I heard something. At first I thought it was the wind, but there was no wind. Then I thought maybe it was the waves, but the sound was all wrong. It sounded almost human. Like somebody was crying. But as far as I knew, there was nobody on this side of the island except me and my grandfather.

  I turned my head back and forth, trying to locate the source of the sound. It was coming from behind me. I went back toward the rocks. The sound was gone. It had to be the wind or waves or just my imagination. But then it started again. It was louder and even sadder-sounding. I climbed up the rocks, and then I saw I’d been hearing. I could hardly believe my eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  My grandfather and I stood together on the rocks directly above it. I was staring at it, but my brain was having trouble processing what I was seeing.

  “It happens. Not often, but it happens,” said my grandfather.

  “But they’re so smart! I read it—you told me. How does this happen?”

  “The storm last night churned up sediment, maybe even shifted the ocean bottom. And then the tide went out.”

  The creature let out another cry, and my whole body shuddered. Below us was a killer whale. It was stranded on the rocks. There was still a little water being splashed on it when a big wave crashed in, but it was completely trapped. And it was only going to get worse. The tide was going out. It would be going out for another five hours.

  “Even though I just saw some up close, I didn’t really realize just how big killer whales are,” I said.

  “And this one isn’t ev
en full grown,” said my grandfather.

  “It isn’t?”

  “This is the teenage whale I was telling you about. And teenagers, regardless of the species, sometimes do stupid things. His inexperience is probably why he’s on the rocks.”

  “How do you know it’s the same one?”

  “Do you see the notch on the bottom of his fin?”

  “Yeah, I see it!” I remembered him telling me about that detail and seeing it in his painting.

  “I have spent a lot of time observing these whales. This may sound strange, but when I’m painting it’s like I’m not just putting the images on canvas but etching them into my brain.”

  “I don’t think that’s strange. My mother says things like that too.”

  “Does she?” My grandfather paused. “His name is Oreo.”

  “Oreo? What sort of a name is that for a whale?”

  “It’s sort of unofficial.” He paused again. “I named them all.”

  The whale—Oreo—called out again. It got an answer. Out in the ocean the rest of the pod was swimming about. Dorsal fins kept breaking the surface just off the shore, and a couple of heads kept popping out of the water. My grandfather called it “periscoping.”

  Suddenly he started yelling. “Get out of here!”

  I jumped.

  “Go away!” He waved his arms around, as if directing the whales out to sea.

  “Are you afraid another one is going to get stranded?” I asked.

  “Yes. They’re family. They can’t help him, and they can’t abandon him. But the tide is still going out. They’re putting themselves at risk.”

  “So what happens now?” I asked.

  “Nothing. We’re as unable to do anything as they are.”

  “Shouldn’t we call for help? Radio somebody?”

  “We can call, but by the time help arrives, it will be too late.”

  “Too late…wait…do you mean it will…it will…die?”