“Alright folks, time to see if I can get this mama and her calf interested in the boat.”
The Jack-and-Water rocked as fifty-six tourists hauled sweaty thighs and cameras port side. Cap put it in neutral— as required by the two hundred page regulation book—and drifted on low swells.
Two humpbacks dived, flipping bracketed flukes into the air, but Cap could see their white fins below. Still there. He spoke into the boat’s PA system and the tourists hushed.
“Watch for those lighter blue shapes now— those are their pectoral fins— as long as you see those, they’re still hanging out with us. These whales are very calm, I think they’re curious.”
Don’t anthropomorphize the whales. How could you know if they’re curious?
Adrianna’s voice in his head was the recoil to his tourist-guide drivel.
Because they swim up to the boat, hon. They roll around and wave their fins at the tourists, you’ve seen it yourself.
In this memory there are no tourists, only He and She standing at the rail of his empty whale watching boat. It was early spring and cold.
Maybe they want to get away but don’t know how.
If a whale wants to get away, they go. You’ll never see them again. I can’t make a whale do a damn thing Adrianna. They stay because they’re interested in the boat or in the people.
Let them be whales, Cap. Just let them be.
Heavy mist had dipped down into their coffee mugs as they squinted into periwinkle fog, hoping to hear a telltale splash or the gasp of the humpback’s twinned blowholes.
The sound he heard now, starboard.
“Folks we’ve been joined by a big ol’ bull, starboard side.” They had heard it too and shuffled over. The boat leaned.
The bull’s back was wide and round, like a colossal serpent. It rolled at the surface for an impossibly long time, its pointed dorsal finally hooking out of the waves. Whale’s backs humping out of the sea always reminded Cap of old painted maps, of the terror and wonder (and bullshitting instincts) of ancient sailors describing a leviathan’s ascent next to their boat.
This one looked to be as long as the Jack— forty-two feet— which meant it was probably only a teenager. Still, Cap let out a long whistle as it passed. He was used to the smaller females and calves, but a bull always inspired awe. He clicked on the PA, his eyes never leaving the animal.
“Here’s a fun fact for your Facebook post: a humpback whale has more than 50 gallons of blood in his body. That’s a big fish, folks.”
He imagined wool-clad whalers with salt-crusted knuckles and sunburnt cracks at the corners of their eyes hurling pointed sticks at the beast, screaming commands and slaying monsters. While his passengers took picture after picture of a peaceful blue scene, Cap’s imagination swam in frothing red.
We hunted whales from boats for centuries—
WE? Adrianna, who do you think you’re talking to?
Ok, YOU. Your people. Saltanstalls going back to the times when sea monsters were on the maps. YOUR people stabbed a thousand whales. Does that make you feel better?
Saltanstall men know whales. I know whales.
And they know you. They know what humans are all about. Now you motor out here, fifty tourists at a time, and try to get them to stick around near the boat? Tell yourself that they want to be there? It’s inane.
Humans want to appreciate them. To honor them.
Cap, give me a fucking break. You think these boats out here spewing diesel are honoring them? You think tourists eating imported tuna in town are honoring them?
I know whales.
The mother and calf surfaced, bellies to the sky, waving white fins through the air. It really looked like they were waving. And why not? The tourists waved back at them. Whales were smart.
As the horde followed the whales and the boat rocked again, a plastic water bottle was tossed from a knapsack on deck. It rolled across the fiberglass, half full of water taken from a spring some thousands of miles away. The weight of the water gave it momentum, and it slipped below the rail in an instant, splashing down and bobbing just out of Cap’s reach.
The sea air was suddenly heavy with the chemical citrus tang of grocery store sunscreen. Cap Saltanstall lacked the seasick gene, but he felt his stomach boil.
What about a hotel? We could open a little bed and breakfast together.
I have to be on the water. It’s in my blood.
You can’t exploit the whales forever Cap. I love you, but you have to let this go. It’s barbaric.
Looking at whales is barbaric? You’re nuts Adrianna. Fucking nuts.
They aren’t clowns. They don’t exist for our pleasure.
In this memory Adrianna holds a clipboard, the petition neatly clamped in its metal jaws titled “End Whale Watching in St. George.” She had marched up and down packed farmer’s market aisles that Sunday, and many Sundays after, demanding an end to his livelihood.
At night she came home smelling of lavender, nuzzled into his whiskered neck and filled his head with fantasies of a different life. He went along with them because in the pictures she painted she was radiant. He loved to imagine her running a flower shop, a book store, smiling at customers, sweeping dust from a sun-filled doorway.
But he was never in those pictures.
Whether they chased whales with binoculars or harpoons, the men in Cap’s family were as much a part of the sea as the animals themselves. Their ice chests were full of bloodred meat, the floors of their clapboard homes shiny with whale oil. Whales and Saltanstalls were locked together, intertwined in life or bloody death, pulling each other down into the abyss or up into dry, thin air.
Born too late to be barbaric, Cap inherited a neutered version: his father’s whale watching boat and a museum-quality harpoon mounted over the fireplace. His hands were white when they should have been red, his family legacy just out of reach.
Adrianna loved him in spite of his truncated fate. And he loved her in spite of her quest to destroy his life. Funny how that happened.
Out on the horizon a whale breached. A handful of the passengers saw it and Cap heard their squeals and gasps. He picked up the PA again.
“We’re getting a real show today folks! This might be the best day of the season. But remember our number one rule: don’t chase—”
“Give whales space!” The chorus shrilled through the quiet sky. Respectful.
I’m leaving.
Adrianna, please! You can’t leave me.
I have to. There’s no future for us. You think I’m going to pack your little lunches and send you off on the boat every morning? Make a roast and watch for you out the window?
Is that really so bad? Am I the worst fate you can imagine? Keep fighting me at town meetings for the rest of our stupid lives. Maybe you’ll win and all your fucked up dreams will come true.
Don’t mock me Cap. I tried to do something here. Tried to bring this shitty town into the twenty-first century. This town, your tourists, your fucking whales. You’re killing me.
In this memory, his cottage on the bluffs feels much too small. The windows fogged from breath and bodies, no longer room for them both. They lay on his lumpy mattress under thin quilts, faces streaked with salt, skin where it touched hot as the sun.
Adrianna fell asleep in the moon’s watery light, her eyes swollen, her packed suitcase by the door. Cap lurched around the tiny house like it was being tossed in a storm, his head full of lightning. He wanted to yell, to shake her awake and terrify her.
The antique harpoon, not hefted shoulder height in a century, winked to him from the mantel.
A boat motored up beside the Jack. A pleasure boat, twenty-seven footer, speakers blaring some radio hit. The guy at the console didn’t cut his engine as required, didn’t even lower the volume on his stereo. He carved loops around the Jack, throwing up whitewater and spooking the whales. Cap watched flukes flip into the air one after the other as his whales dived deep. Fury lapped at his lungs, threatening to bubble over. He turned the ignition.
“Everyone please find a seat or hold on, we’re going to try another spot.”
The engine hummed, then growled as he sped from the fleeing whales and electronic beats.
Cap couldn’t let Adrianna leave, of course he couldn’t. A shadow of his ancestors, he had dominion over nothing. He gripped the harpoon handle until his hands sweat and cramped.
He wanted to erase her from existence, to undo her from the world. He straddled her body on the bed, Saltanstall spear held vertical. He remembered with shame how his hands shook. How they betrayed his legacy. But he had watched his destiny swim away from him a thousand times.
He aimed for her heart, but Cap wasn’t a hunter. Adrianna’s eyes bugged open and her narrow lips circled to a silent scream and dark blood gurgled up over her big white teeth. His muscles went soft and he couldn’t pull the harpoon out, couldn’t speed things up or slow them down. He could do nothing but stand over her, looking at the ceiling beams and hoping she would go.
As slippery hands grasped his ankles, he remembered a framed verse in his grandfather’s house, loops of sepia cursive, a prayer for the whalers. He closed his eyes and prayed an imaginary version, one he stitched together on the spot.
Praise God for making our harpoons sharp and our aim true.
As he prayed, he felt hot waves on his bare feet, red tide surging before it soaked into the mattress. A surge of power splashed through his guts.
Praise God for making a savage wild and bloody hands to tame it.
The bed heaved. He smelled dock cleat verdigris and the mucky stench of an anchor pulled from the deep. He was vital and hungry, pressing his tongue against the pointy parts of his teeth.
Praise God for making violence, and the Men who use it to make the world good.
When it was still, he leaned over, dipping two fingers and holding them up to the moonlight. They were the color of a humpback’s hide, black and shiny and hot with ancient promises.
Praise God for giving us the abyss, and Men of rage for never flinching.
Cap cut the engine. The Jack-and-Water floated over the edge of Yankee Canyon, where the ocean floor plummeted from fifty feet of clear water to three hundred, an underwater cliff irresistible to sea life. Exactly on time, a plume of white steam blew out of the swells. The tourists gasped and cheered. He had put them right over the pod.
He let out a whoop, banging his fist on the hull because it felt so good to be good at this. On his hand, a dry brown smudge met seawater and bloomed red.
Cap Saltanstall knew whales.
Saltanstall!
Great story. I love the way you captured his urge to honour his ancestors and his rage against his lady for defying him. Beautifully written.