by Michael Cole
Inside the wheelhouse, Dr. Forster stood at the helm. She had just finished loading waterproof bandages and disinfectants, with the help of her assistant Marco, who climbed up on deck by ladder. Fourteen-by-twelve feet, the wheelhouse looked like the car of a train. Several square windows lined all the sides, except the bow-facing one. Inside were numerous tables with all sorts of electronic equipment stored on them. Several large computer monitors lined a table on the starboard side. Each screen was linked to feeds from underwater cameras installed onto various locations along the hull and gunwale.
Dressed in a white shirt and grey cargo shorts, Marco clapped his hands. He had just finished fueling the boat, in addition to assisting Forster with loading the supplies. He turned toward the wheelhouse and waved. Forster glanced at him. As usual, she couldn’t help but notice that his bicep was nearly about to rip through his sleeves. He was an extremely well-built man, almost ranked with the physique of a professional bodybuilder.
“All set and ready to go,” Marco called to her through the cabin’s open doorway. Forster replied with a two-finger salute from the helm. She inserted the key into the ignition. The engine started up. With a gentle push of the throttle, the V-hull cut the water as Forster steered the boat clear of the resort’s private harbor. Water splashed against the bow before making way for the vessel.
As they made distance, more of the resort came into view behind them. Marco crossed his arms along the side as he looked to the east. The east peninsula seemed to take shape. He could see the cove come into view, where much of the casual resort was. He could see people relaxing along the beach, while many others splashed in enclosures in the cove, simply referred to as pools. Some tourists were busy getting massages by professional masseurs on beach tables, and many others sat at circular bars that lined the beach.
Loud whirring mechanical noises, like tracks on a train, pummeled the air to the west. Shouts of excitement quickly followed as the roller coaster initiated its run. The car, full of tourists, dipped from its high peak mid way up the west peninsula, and sped down the steep slope. It hooked upward, grazing the water just enough to generate a large splash, before performing a loop and speeding away to the remainder of its run.
As Dr. Forster steered the vessel out, the park came into more complete view. The rollercoaster extended far out into the water, except for its starting point. The Ferris wheel rolled at a steady pace, the merry-go-rounds spun, and other rides dipped and moved along. The park area extended out into the bay, where prize games were floated on large decks. Long wooden docks, intersecting into perfect square shapes, led way to each of these games, some going hundreds of feet out. It was like a huge wooden checkerboard over water.
Though it seemed that there were a lot of people, attendance was actually at an all time low. It was particularly substandard for an opening year. Felt’s Paradise had been fully booked for the summer, with only a few vacancies in the fall months. This changed after the news was released of Mr. Felt’s collaborations with Wan Industry, and the rumors that followed. Like rats fleeing a ship, the resort experienced an exodus of reservations as people withdrew. Within weeks, attendance was cut down to nearly half, and still dwindling. This loss of revenue, combined with the massive expense of the facilities, brought an immense level of anxiety to Mr. Felt.
After clearing the peak of the peninsula, Forster turned the boat west and drove it south along the other side until she reached the Milan Reef, midway down the protrusion of landmass. In the shallow region near shore, the water almost appeared to glow in a rainbow of colors. Coral reef creatures of all shapes and sizes lined the seabed. It was a peaceful sight that always had a soothing effect on Forster’s mind, even on the most stressful of days. She followed the reef out into the blue open ocean. Out there, she saw a different array of lights, these ones not so pleasant.
A quarter mile out, red and blue emergency lights flashed. Multiple police vessels formed a perimeter. As they moved toward it, one particular set of flashing lights moved in their direction. After a minute, an orange and white Fire/Rescue vessel passed by. The sirens blared throughout the salty afternoon air. Marco squinted as his ears felt like they would burst. He looked back as the boat turned south toward the nearest dock.
“Good lord, you’d think they were on the highway,” he said. Even after several months of working together, Forster still expected an accent each time he spoke. He was a man of Brazilian descent and looked every bit of it. However, he was completely American, having been born in Utah of all places.
“The Chief had said it was a boating accident,” Forster said. “If they hit a whale, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whale wasn’t the only one busted up.”
“You think the whale attacked the boat?” Marco asked. “Like, retaliation? Thinking they were attacking it, maybe?” Forster thought about it.
“No,” she said, although her voice sounded unsure. “At least, that’s not how the Chief explained it to me. In fact, he was concerned for the whale itself.” Marco scratched his chin.
“Hmm. They must have hit it hard, then,” he said. “They had to, to severely injure the thing and themselves.” This sparked a thought in Forster’s mind.
“What I want to figure out is how they hit the thing,” she said.
“I thought you pointed out that they rammed it along the side, behind its flipper or…”
“No,” Forster interrupted him. “I mean, how did they even manage to make contact? Whales have pretty good reflexes, and usually a good awareness of what’s around them. Most would have steered clear of that boat, especially if it was moving at that speed.”
“Hmm,” was Marco’s only response. Although he was her primary assistant, he didn’t have much knowledge in the behaviors of most sea life in terms of their natural habitat. The only ones he really understood were those he helped care for in the aquarium. It was simple; feed at certain times; certain species do not mix with others; some are more aggressive than others; keep the water circulating; and very importantly, don’t touch the glass.
They drew near to the police perimeter. Four black boats, with stripes of white that ran horizontally down the sides, tried to maintain a square formation. In the middle of that white stripe read Pariso Marino Police. Off to the side was the twenty-one-foot Atlantic speedboat, with its two occupants sitting with their arms crossed. The Neptune dwarfed the twenty-foot patrol vessels as it approached. Forster slowed the boat to a crawl and looked at the middle of the perimeter, where the fifty-foot humpback whale floated. She angled her direction to align with it.
“Excuse me! Nobody is permitted beyond this point!” a voice, blaring through a bullhorn, called out to her. Surprised, and slightly irritated, Forster stopped the throttle and stepped out onto deck. The nearest police boat moved toward her. An officer stood at the bow deck, with the bullhorn still raised, even though they were right next to each other. Forster planted both hands on her hips and scowled.
“Excuse ME,” she said, “but I’m Doctor Julie Forster. Either you’re an idiot, or they didn’t pass on to you, I’m here at Chief Nelson’s request. And I’m not on payroll, so fuck off and get out of the way.” The officer stood speechless for a moment. Naturally, he wanted to respond with an audacious remark, but professionalism would prevent him. His radio crackled.
“Harrison, I told you she was coming! Get out of the way.” The officer tried not to let his embarrassment show. He looked down at his transmitter.
“Aye-aye, Chief,” he said. By the time he looked back up, he was face-to-face with Forster’s middle finger. Worse than that was Marco’s intimidating stare, like that of a Goliath ready to stomp on the little man who angered it. And angered he was. Forster re-entered the wheelhouse, gritting her teeth as she slowly steered the boat near the whale. The officer was clearly playing the whole event as a misunderstanding, but she and Marco knew better.
The controversy of William Felt’s dealings cut deep into the reputation of anyone who still worked there
. Even members of the police department seemed to harbor resentment. The fishing industry, which had gone on since the founding of Pariso Marino, had been impacted hard from the poisoning in the water. Plankton and small fish were the most directly affected, and the creatures that fed upon them either died off or became so badly infected that they were inedible upon catch. Before this, the local economy was booming. However, local incomes were dwindling, and taxpayer dollars along with it. Prices at the markets went up, making matters even worse. With less local taxpayer income, government employees were beginning to fear for their positions. This included the police department.
With the burden on the island increased, so was the resentment Forster felt. Even with officers, such as Harrison giving her grief, it was clear that few people had a favorable opinion of her as long as she worked for Felt. It was hard for her to even fill her car up with gas without getting a rude stare. As if she was marked; everyone seemed to know who she was. She was clearly at odds with the island population.
She stopped alongside the whale, keeping a distance of about twenty feet. After dropping anchor, she stepped on deck and looked at the animal. It was motionless in the water. There was no air moving in nor out of its blowhole. The lifeless eye seemed to stare past her, with its eyelids half closed. The flippers seemed to move with each ripple of the water. The whale was dead.
She looked at the wound. A red indentation of flesh creased nearly a foot into its hide behind the flipper. From what she could see above the water, the slice appeared to be a few feet long, running up onto its back.
Odd, she thought. It certainly was a severe injury, and the whale would certainly have suffered significant loss of blood.
But fatal?
Then she looked down, where the injury had dipped below the water line. She realized the wound dipped down into its belly. She leaned over the side to get a closer look. From what she could see, the wound was widened, as if that’s where it had taken the brunt of the impact.
She looked back at the red speedboat. Though it was hard for her to see, the boat appeared to only have some indentation on the hull. It was floating on its own okay, so it was not taking in water. The bow was in perfect form, otherwise.
One of the police boats pulled up alongside, blocking her view of the speedboat. Standing on the deck was a tall man in his early forties, with salt and pepper hair. Chief Nelson gave her a smile as they made eye contact. He had both hands placed on the rail bar as he leaned against it. His eyes were almost as glassy as hers, longing for a full night’s sleep.
“Is this how your monkeys usually behave?” Forster remarked, tilting her head toward Officer Harrison’s boat. Nelson’s smile quickly faded.
“Come on, now,” he said. “I’ll take care of that issue.” He watched Forster look back at the dead whale. “Yeah, it stopped moving a little after our phone conversation.” Forster looked back at him, then pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket. She looked at the screen. No missed calls or text messages. He noticed her gaze turn back toward him, and it wasn’t friendly.
“How nice it was for you to call and let me know,” she said. Chief Nelson quickly ran a hand over his eyes. It was clear he was tired and feeling a bit scatterbrained. Forster’s harsh attitude had caught him off guard, as the two usually were very friendly towards one another. He felt foolish for being surprised; he was aware of the stress in her life, as well as the unrelenting demands in her work schedule; and after all, he was the one who interrupted her day.
Lately, he had been experiencing similar things. In his six years as police chief on the island, he had grown used to the simple quiet life it provided. There was just enough going on in the community to keep him and his department occupied, but it rarely was anything severe. After fourteen years as a police officer in Atlanta, he was perfectly fine with that life. Things had taken a turn in the past several months, however. Animosity between local fishermen and resort employees sparked a series of incidents. It was as if two tribes had formed and were warring against each other. Often, these incidents would occur late at night. Off duty workers would go into town, and subsequently get testy with local residents. Despite having seen the worst in society, it still came as a surprise to Nelson to see the community take such a drastic turn. He had found himself getting called in the middle of the night by his staff regarding incidents. Six years ago, he had been perfectly used to it. Now, he had settled into the seven-to-three realm, and he was having a hard time readjusting.
“Yeah, I apologize about that,” he said. “I should have given you a call, it’s just that…” his voice trailed off, as if he was trying to figure out what to say.
“I’m sensing a request,” Forster said. Nelson felt slightly nervous, worried that what he was about to say was going to trigger an unfriendly response.
“Well I, um,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “You have a tow line, right?” An unsoundly ‘ugh’ sound echoed from Forster. The answer was yes, although she wouldn’t yet say it.
“Dude, do you need coffee or something? Just spit it out!”
Yes, please! You offering?
This was the reaction he feared he would get. Now Nelson was feeling foolish for not properly notifying her.
“I’m sorry, Julie,” he said. “Look, I notified the Coast Guard. They’re gonna be by to pick this thing up. It’ll be a couple of hours. Since you were already on your way out, I didn’t bother calling you again, but I realize I should have. Your boat’s much sturdier than anything we’ve got. Could you tow this thing to a more appropriate spot for when the Coast Guard arrives?”
Forster turned her eyes out and scanned the blue ocean. There was hardly anything around, except for a small fishing boat out to the northwest.
“Because this is such a busy area?” she sarcastically asked. Nelson struggled to maintain his friendly demeanor. He pretended to itch his face, while actually blocking the brief tensing of facial muscles from her view.
“These are fishing lanes,” he said. “With everything that’s going on, I really don’t want to deal with the complaints. Aside from that, we don’t want it to wash ashore.” He mentally braced for her unkindly reaction.
“Alright,” she simply said. Her voice was calm, without irritation. She went into the wheelhouse, emerging a few moments later with flippers, an air tank, and goggles. Nelson waited as she got ready. He was simply grateful that the awkward conversation was over.
Forster slipped the air tank on and tested the airflow. She tucked her feet into the flippers and spat into the inside of the goggles. While she did this, Marko prepared the towing harness. He attached the cable to the crane, and slowly winched the harness into the air, while extending the arm toward the whale.
Forster stepped to the ladder by the starboard aft quarter with the heavy-duty towing rope in hand. After shoving in her mouthpiece, she splashed down. For a moment, there was nothing but water in her sight. Under the surface, it was slightly darker than how it appeared above. There was a slight cloudiness to it, likely from the whale’s blood. She swam over to the whale’s fluke, which angled a few feet down. She rested on the tail and used hand signals to help guide the crane arm. Luckily, the whale had drifted a bit closer during the conversation, so he didn’t need to adjust the boat. He placed the harness down behind the fluke.
Forster got to work on getting it all the way around. She clipped the end of the towing rope to the metal ring on the harness. She submerged to hook up all the metal clips, and made sure they were tightened properly. After a few minutes it was all done. She surfaced and turned toward the Neptune, giving a thumbs up to Marco.
Before she took the first paddle, she suddenly became consumed with curiosity of the whale’s injury. She figured she had time to examine; Marco would currently be busy adjusting the towing rope to the cleats; and hell, it wasn’t as if she was on any payroll anyway. She swam over and dove to get a proper view.
The portion of the wound that expanded down to its belly was much wi
der, and was also deeper. To her surprise, much of the muscular tissue was missing, exposing the deeper innards. Intestines were exposed, as well as the edge of one of its ribs. She examined the edge of the wound. The meat around the edges seemed mangled, with tiny bits flapping in the water. It didn’t look like the result of a puncture wound from the bow of the speedboat. Instead, it looked rather as if the flesh had been torn away. Behind the edge were a few small slits, as if a dozen knives had been sunk into the skin.
Tooth marks? she thought. No way that boat did this. She pondered the possibilities. Possibly a feeding frenzy occurred. The blood certainly could have attracted several sharks. But then, where were they now? The police boats wouldn’t have scared them off. Or perhaps, the boat simply did ram the whale, and when they pulled away, it caused additional tearing of the flesh. Except, that would guarantee the bow would be completely ravaged, and it was in relatively decent shape.
The sound of muffled conversation disrupted her theories. She quickly emerged, and immediately saw Marco yelling and pointing. She followed the direction of his finger and the sound of shouting that interloped with his. That fishing boat she had seen earlier had pulled up nearby. Standing outside the cockpit was a skinny man in his fifties, dressed in a ragged flannel shirt and jeans, both smothered in grit and bait. Even his cap couldn’t prove immune from the muck. He pointed back at Marco and shouted back. The only dialogue she could make out were the yells from Chief Nelson. He had pulled his vessel up in front of the Neptune, providing a separation between it and the fishing boat.
“Marco, stop just a second,” he said. He looked back to the fisherman. “Hal! I’m not going to tell you again. Get a move on.” He seemed much clearer and more well spoken. Apparently, the current situation had stimulated his groggy mind. Hal started reaching for his shirt pocket, but stopped short. Clearly, there was a bottle of whiskey tucked in there. He looked down at Forster in the water.
