Contents
Treasure of the Blue Whale
Copyright © 2019 Steven Mayfield. All rights reserved.
Dedication
Ambergris
The Baleia Azul
I discover the ambergris
We become rich
The first town meeting
Ma
Cyrus Dinkle
The second town meeting
The Boops and Skitch Peterson the Hornswoggler’s auto sale
Dinkle’s man
The Zenith Stratosphere, a monkey, and a jeweled commode
Mr. and Mrs. C. Herbert Judson
The Allegheny Chemicals Corporation
Dinkle’s mousetrap
I discover the truth
The falcon spots the field mouse
James Throckmorton makes his play
The Ambergrisians and Axel Throckmorton’s fiancée
Welcome to Fort Buford
I meet a real actor and learn about sex
The third town meeting
Dinkle’s man squeezes the potato
I enter the lair
I steal a letter opener
The potato softens
Escape from Fort Buford
A pheasant in the brush
The fourth town meeting
Dinkle’s comeuppance
It’s alive
Our comeuppance
We face the music
It all ends
Treasure of the Blue Whale
Steven Mayfield
Regal House Publishing
Copyright © 2019 Steven Mayfield. All rights reserved.
Published by
Regal House Publishing, LLC
Raleigh, NC 27612
All rights reserved
ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646030040
ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646030316
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019941553
All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.
Interior and cover design by Lafayette & Greene
lafayetteandgreene.com
Cover illustrations © by C. B. Royal
Author photograph by Rebecca Hunnicutt Farren
Regal House Publishing, LLC
https://regalhousepublishing.com
The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For Pam
Ambergris
Ambergris: ‘amber .gris, - .gre(s)noun: a waxy substance found floating in or on the shores of tropical waters, believed to originate in the intestines of the sperm whale and used in perfumery as a fixative—Merriam-Webster Dictionary.
“Who would think, then, that such fine ladies and gentlemen should regale themselves with an essence found in the inglorious bowels of a sick whale!”—Herman Melville: Moby Dick
Chapter One:
The Baleia Azul
The Whale was middle-aged—a great, block-headed beast nearly forty years old—and he bore numerous scars, the bushy spray from his blowhole yet to be quieted by a whaler’s harpoon. Sixty-five feet long and father to many, he had lived a solitary life when not breeding. This is the way of the male sperm whale, the saddle tramps of the sea, their impressive fertility unaccompanied by paternal instincts. He knew the ocean from the Bering Straits to the Antarctic Ocean, from the coast of Japan to the waters around the Hawaiian Islands. Capable of diving more than 7000 feet and remaining immersed for up to ninety minutes, the Whale was indomitable and no non-human predators, including the feared orcas, dared challenge him.
In the spring of 1918 the Whale was off the coast of Japan. It was a dangerous place, heavily prowled by whalers, yet he was unconcerned. Despite a gigantic brain nearly five times the relative size of its human counterpart, he was entirely a creature of instinct with no ability to discern danger much beyond the tip of his great snout. The Whale was experiencing discomfort that day, the sort a fellow might treat with a little bicarbonate of soda. It was dyspepsia a long time in the making, undigested squid beaks in his stomach not only plugging its outlet but discouraging dives to the deepest part of the ocean where the water pressure on his rib cage squeezed the sharp points into his stomach lining. He cruised near the surface of the water, rolling and twisting and occasionally letting loose a great geyser of spray from his blowhole. This caught the attention of a Japanese whaling ship around the same time the Whale’s stomach contents began to roil and churn.
The underwater echo-locating clicks of a sperm whale can be as loud as the on-land backfire from a truck, but the sound the Whale made that morning as the Japanese attack dinghy approached was even louder. Curling very slightly, the Whale made a great retching noise accompanied by a high-pitched squeak, the latter recalling for one of the Japanese whalers the deafening scrape made by a steel-sided vessel as it slid down the launch ramp of the Fujinagata shipyard at Osaka. At the same time the whaler, a harpoon in hand, drove his spear deep into the Whale’s back. The huge creature squealed and retched again. This time a black-gray, viscous mass the size of a boulder erupted from his underslung maw. He writhed about as if trying to escape the thing, as if it were a changeling sent to sting him. Then, he dove.
Down and down the Whale went, the whalers staying clear of the rope attached to the harpoon as it uncoiled and exited their boat in ferocious, swirling loops. The end of the rope was tied to a cleat, and when its full length was played out, the boat violently jerked. Two whalers tumbled off the gunwale, the rest clinging to the rails and oarlocks to stay aboard. The Whale then dragged the dinghy across the ocean for nearly a quarter mile before pulling it down, the remaining crewmen frantically leaping into the water, helplessly staring at the small maelstrom where their boat was last seen. They were now at least a half-mile from the mother ship and cried out for God to rescue them, terrified the Whale might return to exact revenge. Four lived—four others claimed that day by the sea. The Whale was never again seen. And the black-gray viscous mass? It sank about fifteen feet until its fat-marbled composition allowed it to achieve buoyancy. The huge mass then floated about the ocean for fifteen years.
In 1933 an earthquake measuring 8.4 on the Richter scale hit the Sanriku coast in Japan with its epicenter about 180 miles east of the city of Kamaishi, Iwate. The subsequent tsunami killed more than 1500 people, injuring over 12,000. The Whale’s effluent, once a great mass broad as a Sequoia and tall as a boy of ten, was on the easternmost margin of the periphery. Black-gray and viscous when it exited the Whale, the mass had first turned brown, waxy, and shrunken as it floated about the Pacific. It was now hard and whitish and quite small—about the size of a football—and resembled how one might imagine a dinosaur egg would look were it found bobbing in the ocean. The massive undertow created by the earthqu
ake emptied beaches along Sanriku. As it receded the Whale’s dinosaur egg was rippled eastward. A year later it was less than two miles off the coast of California.
It was late in May of 1934 when Armando Souza was called to the bridge of the Baleia Azul—the Blue Whale—a Portuguese freighter operating out of the Philippines. The horrible odor was getting worse, drifting like smoke through every crack and crevice of the ship. Souza was the cook of the Baleia Azul and the crewman called upon to fulfill duties otherwise unassigned.
“I can still smell it, Souza. What is responsible for the delay?” the captain demanded.
“I’m sorry, sir, but what can I do?” Souza complained. “It’s very large and I must take it up a shovelful at a time. No one will help.”
The captain stroked his chin. His crew was a decent one and generally quicker than most to lend a hand. But he couldn’t blame them for leaving Souza to his own devices. The gigantic blob in the bowels of his ship carried a sickening stench. Five days earlier a perfect storm of mishaps had created the thing—the sewage tank ruptured at the same time ten barrels of lard bound for Los Angeles came loose in the hold and broke open beneath the tank. The engineer had called the first mate. The first mate then called the captain who was already well aware, the odor preceding his petty officer’s report. He pinched his nostrils shut and ordered Souza to clean up the mess.
Souza had no idea how to contain or dispose of it and began by adding his own stomach contents, followed by several bags of the sawdust kept onboard in the event of oil spills. This worsened matters, creating a pasty goo that Souza shoveled into a blob. By then the smell of oil and feces and lard had permeated every compartment of the Baleia Azul, sending most of the crew, including the captain, to the ship’s rails where they shared their breakfasts with the sea.
“I have asked the cargo officer to give me enough canvas to wrap it. Then we could use the hoist to lift it out in one piece,” Souza reported to the captain, “but he refuses. He does not want his netting to stink for the rest of the voyage.”
“We’ll pick up replacement netting at the Port of Oakland,” the captain said. “Tell the cargo officer to haul the damned thing up and throw it overboard with the netting attached. We can’t have it down there another day.”
And so the horribly malodorous mass was wrapped in canvas, hauled up in the cargo net, and tossed overboard. It didn’t sink; rather it floated like the great piece of shit that it was, for a time following the Baleia Azul like a whale calf trailing its mother. Time passed and the netting slipped off, followed by the canvas. A few more hours elapsed and the floating mass struck what looked to be a dinosaur egg, the egg embedding itself beneath the black-gray, viscous coating and through the sawdust-laden, brown waxy layer. A week later on the first day of summer vacation in Tesoro, California, the whole thing—lard, oil, sawdust, shit, and dinosaur egg—washed up on the beach below Angus MacCallum’s lighthouse.
Chapter Two:
I discover the ambergris
I reached the gigantic, lumpy mass on the beach with Angus MacCallum still fifty or more paces off, my claim thus trumping his. He was a good fellow about it, cursing his emphysema and arthritis rather than my youth. We had both made a run for it, but I was ten years old at the time and Angus was a few years north of seventy, one gimpy leg making him not so much run as waddle like a crab, an elbow energetically flailing at the air as if he were fighting his way through a crowd. I am now ninety-one years old and don’t doubt that, limp and all, Angus could outrun me today were he still prowling the beach below his lighthouse. But this was more than eighty years ago, a time when my legs were still strong and fresh.
I must boast that we O’Hallorans have always been fast afoot. My little brother Alex was eventually faster than me—a county champion in the 100-yard dash. However, in 1934 he was just six years old and struggled to keep up with me. “Wait up, Connor,” he’d shout when the wind in my face convinced me to run faster and faster along the beach that bordered our little coastal village. If I refused to slow down, he’d add a word picked up from the men cozied up to the bar at The Last Resort. “Wait up, you prick!”
Alex had a predilection for storytelling, although he was a quiet boy who became a quiet man. His stories were preserved on paper, and indeed, I wish this one had come from his pen. The war in Korea stole that opportunity from us both. I spent years as a reporter, making public the private affairs of others. It’s made me protective of my own privacy, and until now, I’ve preferred a small captive audience when recounting the events of that summer in 1934—a child, grandchild, or great-grandchild listening as I carry on from a porch swing or at the fireside. “You may not like it. It’s a story for boys about secrets and treasure and other things boys think about,” I told my daughter, the first of them to hear this tale of the whale and the ambergris and Tesoro, California. She was eleven years old at the time and my careless remark got her dander up. Of course, she kept her lips buttoned even though I deserved some sass. She was raised in a time when girls were taught to put up with narrow-minded talk from men. Thank goodness she raised her own girls to understand that any opinion worth having is dressed in neither skirt nor trousers. “A story is a story, Grandpa,” her own daughter sniffed when sitting at my knee around twenty-five years later. “If it’s any good, both girls and boys will like it.” She had gumption, that one. Still does. She’s a forthright woman and reminds me of Miss Lizzie Fryberg, one of the strongest, smartest, and most wonderful women I’ve ever known.
Now you may believe I’m about to fill your head with some whoppers, and I confess my story can sometimes sound like the fanciful recollections of an old man. Have a little faith. Everything I’ll tell you is as true as I best remember. Of course, that makes it not entirely true. Just mostly true.
So, there I was, my claim staked, waiting for Angus MacCallum to reach me. He shouted as he ran, managing to sound profane without actually issuing any profanity, spicing the mishmash of Gaelic words he’d brought to our little northern California coastal town from his native Scotland with a few “bloody” this’s and that’s.
“I saw it first and started me run afore ye, laddie,” he croaked upon reaching me. “Some might suppose that makes it mine, but I figgers ye bested me fair and square and I cannae dispute it.”
The lips forming his words were mere suggestions, Angus’s face a mass of wrinkles with folds of flesh drooping morosely from forehead to jowl. I looked into a pair of creases that offered the best chance of being his eyes.
“You can have it, Angus,” I said, the stinking blob of jellylike material of value only because the old lighthouse keeper had been so enthusiastic about reaching it first. Now that it was mine, I found little to recommend the thing with its overpowering odor of fish and feces, its girth that of an elephant, its shape no more defined than a compost pile. It reminded me of a story often told by Miss Lizzie Fryberg, then the Tesoro town midwife and general medical officer, who had once attended a delivery resulting not in a baby but a gelatinous mass much like this one except for its size—the newborn thing no larger than a honeydew melon and studded with hair and teeth and fingernails. It was apparently not a baby at all but some sort of tumor called a teratoma. Nevertheless, the poor new mother insisted on naming the thing Arthur and having it buried in the family plot. Children in Tesoro have since been terrifying their little brothers and sisters with tales of Arthur the Teratoma who purportedly arises on Halloween night to steal the souls of trick-or-treaters.
“I mean it, Angus,” I reiterated, wrinkling my nose against the monstrous stench. “You can have it.”
Angus shook his head.
“Nae, laddie, dinnae let it be said that Angus MacCallum was a poor loser. Ye beat me to it. It’s yers.”
Angus began to pace about the thing, poking at it with the walking stick he always carried, afterward sniffing the tip of his cane and issuing little grunts
and hums. His behavior suggested that he knew what he was doing, although I strongly suspected he did not.
“It stinks, Angus,” I said. “You keep it.”
Angus made a great show of being exasperated, a difficult proposition as the mood he prized above all others was exasperation.
“Ye cannae give it away, ye little fool!” he shouted. “Yer mother would ne’er forgive ye.”
The introduction of my mother into the discussion did little to dissuade me. At the time Ma lived about three streets past even-tempered and one short of loony, in part because my father lost interest in our family about the time Miss Lizzie Fryberg pulled my little brother Alex from Ma’s womb and slapped him on his pink bottom. Dad took one look at another mouth to feed and stepped out for a smoke that turned into forever.
“Ma is in one of her moods,” I told Angus. “She won’t care.”
One of the folds in the old man’s face formed a reproachful scowl, but I remained suspicious. Angus didn’t recognize competing claims on beach debris. He was a decent man and had always been good to Ma and Alex and me. But everyone in Tesoro knew that he considered the public strip of sand below the lighthouse to be his private property. Every day he patrolled the narrow stretch, barking off campers or kids he didn’t like, at the same time searching for pieces of driftwood he could carve into small gnomes or mermaids. Such items were inexplicably appealing to rich tourists taking a day from their San Francisco vacations to visit our little seaside village. They routinely squandered up to a dollar for Angus’s homemade doodads and their extravagance made him territorial, shouting off more than one kid from a giant sand dollar and once smacking Milton Garwood the Misanthrope with his walking stick, in part because he figured Milton had it coming, but also to reinforce his claim on a mutant dried starfish with six points. So, you might see why it made sense for me to be wary of the old lighthouse keeper’s uncharacteristic generosity. After all, it was the first day of my summer vacation from school, and I had a good deal of nothing planned for the next three months with no desire to replace even a minute of it cleaning up the enormous blob on the beach just because Angus MacCallum was too old to beat me to it.
Treasure of the Blue Whale Page 1
