The water is glassy and calm, and the day windless as we row north out of the marina, and even though neither of us dares to say it, we’re both aching to see the whales. We hug the western shore, and at times I catch myself holding my breath waiting for the whales’ breath to come. But the water stays calm. Overhead, the crows caw-caw and the gulls squawk but the noisiest place of all is hidden. Without a hydrophone to drop overboard, the underwater calls of the orcas are lost.
Little waves lap on the hull. In the distance, I can hear the slow rumble of cars traveling on the eastern shoreline road. Even Jesse seems content to just sit, playing with the straps of his life jacket, dipping his hand in the water, or tapping out a little rhythm on the rowboat’s hull.
The taps sound random at first, but when I really listen, something about the pattern starts to seem familiar. At first I can’t place where I might have heard a sound like that.
Then I remember.
When Dad first taught me to kayak, he drilled it in that if I ever tipped over and couldn’t right myself, I should tap on the hull in a specific rhythm. That way, he said, anyone hearing it would know someone was trapped underneath, and not think it was just abandoned. He taught me something sailors used, he said, to remember the long and short syllable pattern—seven beats—shave-and-a-hair-cut-two-bits.
And that’s it! That’s exactly what Jesse’s tapping now on the rowboat’s hull. Shave-and-a-hair-cut-two-bits. But … it must be just a coincidence. He’d have no way of knowing that trick, would he?
With orcas, you’ll usually hear them before you see them—that pfoosh sound as they surface to breathe—but today it’s quiet and the tapping lulls me. I so much want the orcas to come. But we don’t have much longer before we have to turn and head back to the marina to make it in time for school.
I glance east toward the Tracyton shoreline, and notice five or six gulls diving at the surface. That could mean food scraps from orcas feeding nearby. I sit up straighter, trying to locate any sign of movement in the water.
The trick with spotting orcas is to not move your eyes too quickly from one place to the next, because they’re constantly moving and by the time you refocus, they’ll be gone. Mom taught me that. Stare at one spot for a minute, she said, then shift your gaze a little to the right and refocus. When it works, the whales should appear just slightly ahead of where you last looked.
Jesse’s tapping continues. Shave-and-a-hair-cut-two-bits.
Then we hear it—the pfoosh of whale blows. Almost immediately, three whales surface near us, right off our port side. Two adults and a youngster. And there’s no mistaking the rhythm of their blows.
The first gives one long blow—shave.
The little one follows … four short bursts—and-a-hair-cut.
Finally, the second adult answers … two distinct, extended blows—two-bits.
Jesse giggles and taps his message on our hull even louder. The whales repeat the sequence. I sit there stunned. It’s like Jesse called them to come. And then the real show begins.
The little whale heaves himself up, laying his whole body across the head of one of the much larger whales, his mother? She tumbles him around and throws him off but as soon as he regains his balance he swims right back onto her head. And sure enough, she tumbles and throws him off again. They keep this up for several minutes. Off in the distance, I spot six or seven more whales playing with kelp, tail slapping, and spyhopping. Finally, after a good ten minutes, they all group up in the center of the inlet and swim southward, fast, toward the rocky shore.
I check my watch—it’s time to go. A sad drizzle of rain is falling steadily now. As we row back to shore, I glance over at Harris.
“Did my mom ever say anything to you … about me?” He wrinkles his brow and holds my gaze. “You know,” I shrug, “just anything she might’ve said about—”
Harris bursts out laughing, surprising me.
“What?” I whine.
“Marisa, you’re kidding me, right? Your mom talked about you all the time. How hard you work, how much you love living here, how into whales you are. She told one kid how you liked cooking with your dad—I think she was trying to get him interested in eating something other than candy!” Harris says and we both laugh, Jesse joining in too.
“So, what about you and Jesse?” I ask, taking a chance. “I’m not trying to be nosy or anything, but you’ve had to do a lot for yourself, because of stuff at home, right? Are you doing okay?”
“Me? Yeah, it’s cool, especially now that I’m older,” Harris says. “It was kind of a love-hate thing with my folks, I guess. Pretty sure they loved me and Jes but they loved other stuff too, or maybe more.” He drags his hand in the cold inlet water and laughs, but this time it isn’t a fun laugh. “Things might’ve turned around if my mom hadn’t died. At least that’s what I tell myself. But she did die, right after Jesse was born with a whole slew of problems.”
The water sloshes against the sides of our rowboat.
“That was the last straw, I think, for my old man. We bounced around in a bunch of foster homes … he’d always come home just enough to make sure nobody took his kids away for good. Lots of people helped, a little, but nobody helped enough to really make everything all right.” He pauses. “Getting Jesse all the medical care he needs is the toughest,” he says quietly.
We’re at the dock now. A few other fishermen mill around, getting ready to head out. It’s time to tie up and go.
“Maybe it’s not for me to say, Marisa,” Harris says, “but … somebody like your mom … there’s gotta be a good reason why she left, you know? You’re her family. She wouldn’t just up and abandon family unless there was a damn good reason.”
“I’m just afraid that—” I swallow. I haven’t been able to explain my fear to anyone, not even myself. “I’m just afraid that maybe she’ll decide she’s not coming back.”
Harris doesn’t miss a beat. “No way. Never. Family was super-important to her, Marisa.” He reaches across to ruffle Jesse’s hair. “She told me once that no matter what, I needed to remember that Jesse and me were brothers. I needed to be responsible. I remember it real clear, ‘He’s family,’ she said. ‘Don’t give him up or you’ll always regret it.’ A bunch of times, when things got rough, she told me to trust her.” Harris looks at me. “Maybe you should, too.”
And it takes all the effort I can muster not to burst into tears right then and there. After all that’s happened these past weeks, a wave of real hope sweeps over me. I have the whales and Harris to thank for it.
––––
That night, I sleep deeply and peacefully until—CRASH!
Water—the deafening sound of a massive wave slamming against my window jolts me awake. Stuff is flying everywhere. The houseboat is pitching and rolling with such tremendous force that I have to grip the side rails to keep from sliding to the floor.
“Daddy!” I scream out, then catch myself. “Hey, Dad!”
The table light smashes to the floor. Books slide off my dresser and land in a heap. I watch them fall like in a dream.
“Marisa!” I hear Dad’s voice.
I manage to crawl out of bed but the houseboat is roiling so badly I can barely walk down the hallway. The door is open. Dad stumbles into the kitchen, stretching out his hand. I head toward him, clumsily making my way along, steadying myself with my arms against both of the walls. When I get close, I let one arm go and grab for his hand. He pulls me hard, up and over the main port door and outside onto the dock.
It’s lighter outside, just barely dawn. Upland, the dark trees look strangely still—there’s not even a breeze moving them. I stand there in my pajamas, bewildered, watching our houseboat rock wildly in its berth, hugging myself against the cold night air. The dock quickly fills with sleepy people pouring out of their boats.
“Those boats are coming in earlier and earlier. This is the second time we’ve been rocked this week!” says a man wrapped in a raincoat and wearing slippers.
“Unbelievable!”
“It’ll get worse,” an elderly woman warns. “Just wait until the weekend.”
A young woman sitting on the dock edge jiggles a crying baby. “Oh, please. I love the whales as much as anyone but … this is making me tired.” She looks at me and sighs. I give her a sympathetic look as Dad rushes past, following a group of men toward the marina’s maintenance shack.
“What happened?” I shout.
“Commercial tour boats.…” he answers. “Drove too fast through the Narrows. We got hit with their wakes. I have to help … the marina’s water lines have pulled apart. I’ll be back soon.” I watch him hurry off and the conversation on the dock swirls around me.
“Idle in and idle out. That’s all I ask. How hard is that?”
“Ha! Wishful thinking.”
“How’d they like it if I drove a semi through their house?” asks the angry man in slippers.
I leave them to their grumbling and walk out along the length of the dock where there’s a good view across the Narrows. Already, I can see damage to a few of the houseboat decks that have been swamped and banged around into their pilings. It’s hard to think the movement of water could even damage water lines. But it’s a narrow channel and those big boats have a deep “V” hull that pushes the water real hard, even when they’re going slowly.
Across the water, lights are coming on at the yacht club marina at Phinney Bay, where Grace’s father keeps his yacht. I stay there for a long time, thinking. As my eyes get accustomed to the dark, I can just barely see the vessels bobbing around, so I know the wakes have hit there as well.
By the time I walk back to our houseboat, the door is open and Dad is back, rooting around. The place is a mess. Things have been thrown down from every counter and table. Everything has fallen from the open kitchen shelves and furniture has slid and shifted, banging into the walls.
“Forgot my tools,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Try to go back to sleep, it’s still early. We’ll deal with the mess later. Oh, and the water’s off until they can repair the lines.”
He finds his jacket under a pile of stuff in the hallway, gives me a quick kiss, and is gone.
“Bye,” I whisper to the empty doorway. Sleep is the furthest thing from my mind right now. I pull out the broom and dustpan and start sweeping up pieces of broken dishes and glasses, wondering if there’s anything else that can possibly go wrong.
CHAPTER 15
Orca Day 17
The damage from the massive wakes is all anyone talks about for days, and every story is worse than the last. The launching facilities at Evergreen Park and Lions Field have both been hit hard, and all up and down the inlet, stories pour in. Just this morning five people got tossed in the water when their sailboat overturned from the wake of a forty-foot yacht.
It gets so bad that the Coast Guard broadcasts a warning message on marine radio every hour, and sends out their cutter Point Defiance to enforce it. Worst of all, the big boats keep coming. With another weekend of whale watching looming, everyone is edgy.
After class, I duck into the bathroom. With the water off at the marina, I haven’t showered in two days. One look in the mirror says it all. But Kevin’s got a long list of stuff that needs to be done, so I give my face and neck a good scrub and have to settle for twisting my hair up into a double ponytail.
My newest job is posting “No Wake” notices along the shoreline. I head down the hill toward the inlet, a big stack stashed in my backpack. For close to an hour, I work my way south, stopping every 100 feet or so. As I tack the notices to the telephone poles, electricity running through the wires buzzes overhead. It’s slowgoing, climbing off and on my bike, and the dirt kicked up from passing traffic on the road makes me feel even grimier.
Near Lions Field, I turn and head straight down to the shoreline, rounding the curve as the purple and white turrets of Tal and Bette’s house come into view. Mut comes shuffling off the porch to greet me, followed by the familiar figure of Harris. As he comes closer, I can see he’s carrying a small video camera.
“Wait, stop,” he greets me, grinning. He holds up his hand. “Let me try this out.” He brings the camera up to his face. “Move a little, maybe ride the bike back and forth.”
Awkwardly I obey, making lazy figure eights on my bike. Mut pads after me as the camera whirs.
“Is that Tal’s?”
Harris nods from behind the lens. “It’s old, he says he never uses it anymore. I get to mess around with it now.”
I glide my bike out of one final circle and come to a stop. It’s only been a little over a week since Harris and Jesse have been at Tal and Bette’s but it’s like I’m looking at a whole new person.
“You look great,” I say, without thinking, then quickly blush. “I mean, you look … better.” I lay my bike and backpack down near the road.
“Yeah, it’s cool.…” Harris nods, then laughs. “It’s like being on vacation! These last couple years, I’ve been mostly trying to make sure Jesse and me get by, you know, eat okay and stuff. But man, I was losing steam. Now I’m kinda getting a plan,” he says, his eyes shining. “Hey, did you know Bette’s from Lummi Island? She’s—”
“A plan?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, shuffling from one foot to the other on the sandy road. “I’m thinking it’d be good if me and Jesse spent more time with people—you know, people who can help.” He slumps down against one of the big driftwood logs that separate the shoreline road from the beach. “I been in that house one week,” Harris says. “One week Marisa, and I learned all sorts of stuff … about planes, cameras, fishing. Things I never even heard before. Man, those two have stories!”
I sit down beside him. The inlet is busy with boats, steaming back and forth.
With the toe of my sneaker, I dig a hole in the sand and fiddle with some dried-up seaweed. Everybody needs someone to believe in them. That’s Mom—explaining the world to nine-year-old me. It occurs to me now that she probably shared similar advice with Harris.
“Has Tal started quizzing you on vocabulary words yet?” I ask Harris, but he just looks “flummoxed” which makes me grin.
“Hello!” Tal, calls out, walking down the porch steps. “To what do we owe this pleasant surprise?” Mut trots up to him, a long stick in his mouth.
“‘No Wake’ notices,” I say, brushing the sand off my jeans. “We’re posting them all around the inlet, and on the water on buoys, too.” I pull a flyer out of my backpack and hand it to Tal. He takes the sheet of orange paper, pulls his reading glasses down from his forehead, and scans the page for a minute.
“‘Boaters should be aware that they are legally responsible for any damage caused by their wakes,’” he reads aloud, then continues silently to himself. I watch as Harris wrestles the stick away from Mut, and throws it far down the length of the beach. But it’s too far for old Mut and he watches it go.
“Hmm, well, in my experience,” Tal says, “the only people who listen to these kinds of things are the people who don’t need to. But I guess you do what you can do.”
He hands the sheet back to me, and I stuff it into my pack, along with any gloomy feelings. Even if it’s true what Tal said, he’s someone who’s taught me I have to keep trying.
“C’mon, I’ll help,” Harris says, so I haul my bike up to leave it on the porch and clip on Mut’s leash. We plaster notices everywhere we possibly can, all along the length of the beach road, trekking uphill near the bridge, and then back along Tracyton Boulevard, hoping it might make a difference.
After almost an hour, at the cutoff to Lions Field we spot Grace, going in the opposite direction. For once she’s alone, and she walks right by us—until she notices Mut.
“Hey, you have a dog?” she calls back.
Mut swivels around and makes a half jump toward her.
“No, Mut, down!” I yell.
“Mutt?” Grace laughs. “That’s a weird name. Like mixed-dog mutt?”
“I hardly ever se
e you alone,” Harris blurts out, changing the subject. “Usually you’re walking with your crowd or your mother’s driving you around.”
I feel myself smile. It’s kind of refreshing how Harris speaks his mind, doesn’t waste time worrying about what people might be saying behind his back. I wait for Grace’s reaction, but she surprises me.
“Not like usually, like always!” she laughs, straightening up. “I can’t get my mother to leave me alone. I practically have to hide sometimes.” She tips her head sideways and grins. “But today, Mom is out of town and Daddy is dealing with the trouble at the yacht club. So for once, I-am-on-my-own.”
Grace does a little spin right there on the road, then stops and looks at me. “Daddy says there was thousands of dollars of damage. He was really worked up about it. But you probably know that. Don’t you like, live on the water?” Before I can say anything, she notices the stack of paper sticking out of my backpack. “What are those?”
“Warning notices we’re posting around the inlet.”
“Give ’em to me,” she says, her hand outstretched.
“Why?” I ask suspiciously.
“Just give them to me, okay.” When I still don’t hand them over, she rolls her eyes. “Sheesh, I’m not going to steal them or anything. I can put some up at the yacht club. Daddy will be so shocked that I even know about any of this.”
Harris and I exchange a look, trying not to laugh.
“Sure, that’d be great.” I reach into my bag and hand her the rest of the stack of notices. “Thanks.” Smiling, she shoves them in her bag and heads home, not even bothering to read what they say.
––––
On the way back, Harris invites me in to Tal and Bette’s house. I accept, of course. It’s Friday, so I don’t have any homework I have to do just yet. Plus I’ve always wanted to see the inside of their crazy purple house. As you would expect from the outside, it’s a hodgepodge mix of stuff inside as well. There are knickknacks and odd bits of junk everywhere. The kitchen, though, is filled with the heavenly scent of blueberry scones.
Chasing at the Surface Page 10
