by Lee Welles
Because she was on her back, she could see upward. There above her, swinging in a sling, was Star. She was pumping her flukes hard, trying to swim. Her calls fell on Miho like hideous rain. As hard as she could, Miho sent Star the picture of herself the silly, long, legged gaijin, pushing baby Shinju back into the water.
It was all she could do. She didn’t know what might happen next. But that image was now a promise. Miho flipped over and gave one final, hard shove that pushed herself and Shinju over the edge!
The water below was still as much a horror as the deck above. Now many men were in the water, knives in hand. Miho could still hear Notch calling to the pod. His call stopped suddenly. Miho didn’t want to or need to know why. It was all too much.
She stood up. She felt twice as tall and twice as angry as when she had yelled at Ojisan the night before. She placed her left hand on Shinju’s back and balled her scarred hand into a fist. She plunged her fist into the horrendous pink water and began to swish it back and forth.
Instantly, the scene of the dolphins’ demise was overtaken by waves. Like water sloshing in a bathtub, the water that pounded into and out of the bay set the zodiacs tumbling and the men on the boat deck scrambling for handholds. Miho grabbed Shinju with one arm and dove. She kicked hard and said in Dolphinese, “Swim fast!”
They passed under the zodiacs and finally Shinju began to pump her small flukes, helping their escape. Miho heard an outboard fire up. When they rose to breathe, she saw one of the inflatable, motorized boats swivel and begin to follow them! She wanted to run, or to swim—as the case may be. But she knew that her pathetic human feet and Shinju’s small, inexperienced tail was no match for the motor.
She turned and faced the boat. Face him, Miho! Turn and face him! Her father’s voice rang in her ears as she drew both her hands out wide and shouted, “NOOOOOOO!” She clapped her hands together. It was if her hands dragged half the ocean along with them!
Two great waves drew up behind her hands and curled toward the unspeakable scene in the bay. The zodiac in pursuit was swept up the sheer face of the wave. Into the washing machine! Miho actually smiled when she heard the satisfying sound of men crying out. The small boat was flipped and the lip of the great wave began to fold over.
The two waves coming together looked like watery jaws coming to eat the bay and swallow the horror. Miho didn’t see the rest of what happened. She grabbed Shinju and raced away.
34
Orphans
Miho kicked harder than she had ever kicked before. She had to turn herself and Shinju upward when she needed to breathe. Behind them, the roar of the giant waves had overtaken the cries and the yells. For a long minute, there was nothing but the roaring and the hissing of the water pounding, receding, and pounding back into the small bay.
For Miho, within the roaring and pounding came her father’s voice.
“Under heaven
nothing is more soft
and yielding than
water.
Yet for attacking the
solid and strong
nothing is better.
It has no equal.”
Miho didn’t know if any of the other pod members had escaped. She hoped that her waves hadn’t flung any of them onto the boats or the shore. She turned once to call out, “Follow us!” and sent a picture of herself and little Shinju. She listened for an answer. She kept her ears open for the sound of outboard motors, but the motors didn’t come.
Miho kept swimming, trying not to hear Shinju’s repeated cries for her mother. Miho just kept telling her, “swim,” over and over. When Miho felt the buzz of sonar pass over her, she stopped swimming and turned. She called out, “Hello?” wishing desperately that she knew how to say, “We are here.”
Shinju and Miho waited, and waited. They surfaced to breathe twice before the dolphin reached them. It was the one she thought of as Lightning, the one with the zigzag mark. Although now, she was marked by more than a light colored zigzag.
Lightning was swimming slow and trailing blood. A gash along her neck revealed her thick white blubber. The gash angled back and had partially separated her pectoral fin from her flank. It was there the blood streamed out, a dark testament to the reality of what should have been a bad dream. Miho’s throat tightened with tears. Why? Why would they do this?
Lightning sent Miho pictures of sharks. Miho understood. Sharks would be coming, drawn to the blood. Beside her, little Shinju began to shiver. Miho remembered how she had shivered uncontrollably the day she had met her own shark. She knew that shock was beginning to overcome Shinju.
“Swim,” she told this new, tiny pod. She didn’t know what else to do. They moved pathetically slowly. Lightning had to keep correcting her course because, without the full use of her pectoral fin, she kept rolling and drifting left. Shinju was worn out, her little tail, little help. When they surfaced, Miho scanned the shoreline. When they dove, she did her best to scan the seafloor. She needed to find the right spot.
As the sun began to slide down the west side of the sky, a breeze brought a greater chop to the water. It was getting harder for all three of them to continue to surface and dive, surface and dive. And Miho knew the sharks were coming. It was what sharks did—remove the small, the weak, and the injured from the sea. Miho also knew big sharks didn’t like shallow water.
The sun had slid behind the mountains by the time Miho found what she needed. A rim of living coral hemmed a sandy beach. The sharp rise of the reef broke the waves long before they reached shore. Because the waves lost their energy on the reef, the water close to the beach was calm and relatively protected from the hunters of the deep.
Miho led the way through the breaking waves and sharp coral. When she tried to stand, she found her legs shaking and barely able to hold her weight. She knelt down and wrapped her arms around Shinju. She didn’t think that dolphins gave hugs, but people did, and it was all she could think to do to calm the distressed baby.
Lightning bobbed on the surface, her breathing sounding a little ragged. Now that Miho had found them a safe place, she had to slow or stop the bleeding. Miho pulled off her shirt and tore a long strip from the bottom. She put her shirt back on, wadded up the strip and went to Lightning.
Miho did her best to make a picture of what she was going to do. Lightning gave a short, Dolphinese, “Hai.” Miho rolled the injured lag onto her side. The gash on her neck was deep, but the cut had not gone past the warm and protective blubber. When Miho looked lower, however, she felt her knees weaken and her belly turn to liquid. Lightning’s fin was hanging loose and useless; a little puff of red stained the water with each heartbeat.
Miho concentrated, willed her belly to harden and her mind to focus. She took the balled-up cotton strip of her shirt and began to push it into the gap between Lightning’s fin and body. She pushed it in tight, trying not to notice the way Lightning’s body tensed and kicked with pain.
When Miho was done, she sat back on the sandy bottom, the gentle remainder of waves swirling by her. She placed Lightning’s dark rostrum on her bent knees and did her best to send a picture through the air, one of no blood, no sharks. Lightning was quiet, the only sound, her odd, raspy surface breathing.
Shinju pushed her small, black-tipped snout up against Miho’s hip. Miho looked to the east at the darkened horizon. Was the rest of the pod wondering where they were? Was Ojisan wondering where she was? Should she leave the beach and try to find a phone to call Ojisan? What would happen to darling little Shinju? She’s an orphan—just like me! Miho stopped thinking and simply cried.
35
No Why!
It was the second longest night of Miho’s life. The longest had been waiting for her parents to come home. She had sat on the dock with a wool blanket around her shoulders, ears straining for the familiar sound of the boat’s engine. She wished she had that blanket now.
Miho began to shiver. When she was with the dolphins, she didn’t get cold as fast as she normally would.
But she had been in the water for over 12 hours now. She had neither blanket nor blubber to prevent the chilly Pacific from stealing her heat. Each time she tried to tell Shinju she was going up on the beach, the little white-side clasped the hem of Miho’s shorts in her teeth and wouldn’t let go.
Lightning didn’t say anything, just pulled each breath in with a rattle and exhaled with a slow sigh.
Miho finally had no choice but to forcefully pull herself away from the insistent baby lag and get out of the water. Up past the sandy beach there were trees. Miho snapped leafy branches down until she had enough to cover herself. It was as close to a blanket as she would get. Miho wanted to sleep, but from the shallows came the repeated, plaintive cries of little Shinju. She had her snout in the air and called for her mother, called for Miho, called for the pod. Miho would yell back, “I’m here.” She yelled it in English, in Japanese, and even in Spanish, hoping the frightened little girl would understand.
What little sleep Miho had was punctured by hideous images from the bay, images of her parents, and the sound of Ojisan yelling, “Where you been?” It was a very long night. It seemed like she had only been in the deepest, darkest place of sleep for a moment when the rising sun sliced across the water and stung her eyes.
The cries of sea birds pierced the hazy sky and the rim of coral was alive with breaking waves. Miho shaded her eyes and looked toward the beach. She could see Shinju’s small dorsal fin, bobbing on the surface. She waited for Lightning to surface. The sun rose a bit higher, but Lightning didn’t rise at all. She wasn’t there.
Miho ran into the water and dove under. She began to call, but the only call that came back was from Shinju. The wee dolphin bombarded her with images and clicks, “my stomach is empty, where is my mother, where is Lightning, my stomach is empty, where are we going?” A flurry of possible destinations flew past Miho like a slide show. Miho realized that this small child of a dolphin knew much more about the world of the ocean than she did, and yet she was looking to Miho for guidance.
Miho’s own stomach was growling like an elephant seal. She didn’t feel old enough or big enough to deal with this, but no other pod members were here. She was it. She rubbed her scar with her thumb; she only knew one place to go. She sent Shinju the image of the mermaid cove. She also sent her a picture of Gaia. Gaia would know what to do.
It was a long trip back. Shinju’s little tail could give little bursts of power, but not the sustained speed of adult dolphins. Miho had to scan carefully and listen out ahead to avoid boats, jellyfish, nets, and sharks. Her mind was fixed on getting to the mermaid cove.
Miho knew that she and Shinju both needed food. She hoped Shinju was old enough to eat fish. When one of her scans showed a shoal of sardines, she sent Shinju the idea of eating them. It was a sad thing, a bumbling human and an inexperienced baby dolphin trying to ball up a school of sardines, but Shinju managed to grab three or four and stopped talking about her stomach.
Miho wished she could snatch a raw fish and flip it down her own throat. Her stomach was a knot of complaints by the time the ridgeline of Goza came into view. As much as her stomach ached, it was nothing compared to her legs and arms!
Miho’s grumbling stomach sank when she found the bay empty—no Gaia, no white-sided dolphins. She wasn’t sure why she thought they would be there, but she believed they would be. The tide was rising and the waves were booming against the rocks. Miho couldn’t leave Shinju there! She would tire out completely trying to keep from being pounded against the rocks.
Miho clenched her teeth and tried to tell Shinju that they still had to swim around Goza and into the safety of Ago-wan. If dolphins could whine, that’s what Shinju did. She was tired, she was scared, she was hungry, why were they here? Why? Why? Why?
Miho yelled, “No why!” then clamped her hand over her own mouth! Her flash of understanding for Ojisan was powerful. There are some things you just can’t explain. They are what they are, and you have to do what you have to do. Miho grabbed Shinju’s dorsal fin and began to tug her out of the mermaid cove.
In Ago-wan, Miho found a calm spot behind a tiny island, out of sight from all the shoreline activity and well away from the ferry route. She did her best to show Shinju that she should stay there. Miho tried to say that she would be back soon. But even with her best explanation, she had to swim away with the sad sound of Shinju’s calls following her.
The police car in front of Ojisan’s house made her stop and take a good look at herself. Her shirt was torn off at the bottom. Her shorts were stained red. Her skin was a sick pale color and wrinkled. Miho patted her head and knew that her long, dark hair must be matted and frightening.
She wanted to run somewhere to clean up. She didn’t want to tell the terrible story of what had happened. However, she had no choice but to continue down the lane to the gate. She had no choice. When she pushed the gate open she heard Ojisan yelling. For once, he wasn’t yelling at her, but about her!
He kept repeating in Japanese, “She told me she was going swimming. I don’t know where! You should be looking—not asking stupid questions!” Hearing Ojisan express such concern for her was nothing compared to what met her eyes when she stepped over the threshold.
There was her grumpy, stinky uncle—red-faced, red-eyed, and clutching her raggedy stuffed dolphin in his hands. Miho couldn’t help it; she yelled out, “Ojisan!” and ran to him. He turned and as his eyes opened wide, so did his arms.
Miho didn’t know how many hugs this grumpy, stinky Japanese uncle had ever given, but it was one of the best hugs she ever got.
36
The Whole Story
The police had a lot of questions. Miho played a game of using bad Japanese and a lot of fast, slang-laden English to tell a confusing story of being bumped by a boat and waking up on shore. She could clearly understand the police talking amongst themselves, talking about her being American and not knowing how to be in the water. She let them believe whatever they wanted to make them go away. Ojisan watched with a strange look on his face and said nothing.
When the police finally left, Ojisan brought her a steaming mug. “Shogayu,” he said. “Drink it. It will make you feel better.” The shogayu, hot ginger water, did indeed, begin to warm Miho from the inside out. Ojisan sat, not looking at her, pinching and squeezing the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Eat, take shower, then we talk.” He was pulling his cigarettes from his shirt pocket even as he finished talking. It seemed to Miho hug-time was over, and the Oji she knew was back.
Miho filled her empty, aching stomach with a rice porridge called okayu. Belly full and insides finally warmed, she went to the shower to wash off the salt and blood and memory of her journey. Miho didn’t really want to talk; she wanted to sleep. But Shinju, the living, breathing one, was waiting for her. She would have to talk to Ojisan if she were to be able to go back and help the little orphan.
Miho went to sit next to him on the veranda. There was a long silence, except Goza was never truly silent; the heartbeat of the waves was always there. ‘Seeking the shores forever.’Who said that? she thought, and felt the pang of not being able to ask her dad. That steady, salty heartbeat filled the space between Miho and her uncle as the sun slid downward in the Sunday sky.
“I…have been fired,” Ojisan finally said, giving his head a quick nod, as if to affirm that statement. Miho stared at his profile. He continued to gaze out at the darkening sky, his face not showing how he felt about this new development.
Miho had learned by now not to ask why. She could guess anyway. It was too late for today’s ferry and he probably had to call, yet again, with a story about his American niece and why he wouldn’t be at work in the morning.
She steeled herself against the expected yelling, the tirade about the gaijin-ko who was making his life so difficult. But Ojisan didn’t yell. He turned to smile at her and said the most unexpected thing: “I rather lose job than lose niece.”
Miho bit her lower lip and searched for words
, English, Japanese or Dolphinese. Finding none, she turned to look out at the water. A flock of terns made a last attempt at feeding before the light left for good; a crisp breeze whisked the day’s heat away. Her uncle continued. “So, Miho-san, I very curious, where you been. If you tell me whole story, maybe I help you get rid of this.”
He reached out his thumb and rubbed it between her eyebrows. Miho hadn’t realized it, but she had her brows knit tightly together. When Ojisan rubbed the scrunched-up line away, the tensions of the last five months seemed to get smoothed away as well. She could think again, and words flooded her mind.
Miho threw caution to the wind and let the whole story pour out. She told Ojisan about first seeing the otter in Alaska. She told him about following the otter to the water her first night in Goza. She told him about the night of O-bon and about meeting the dolphins. She told him how dolphins talk to each other and how they have names and how they laugh and play, gossip and argue—just like people do. She told him how the dolphins had taught her to go deep and see in the dark. These were the friends that helped her find the pearls.
By the time Miho finished, it was dusk, lit by the glow of the setting sun and of Ojisan’s cigarette. He exhaled and said through the plume of blue smoke, “This is most interesting story. But I still not know story of where you have been for two days. Hmmm?”
Miho sighed and pulled her knees up to her chest. She wished she had Shinju, the stuffed one, tucked under her chin. Instead, she laid her forehead on her knees and directed the rest of the story into her lap.
She told him about making the pod help her find the ten pearls. She told him about the explosions, the gaffing hooks, the trucks, the knives, and their escape. When she told about the two thunderous waves, she sat up and held out her hand.
