Eco Warrior

by Philip Roy

“Well, I’ll just keep them for you anyway, until the next time you visit…after all of this nonsense is over and your name is cleared.”

  He sounded so confident that that would happen. I hoped he was right.

  Once Merwin was suited up, I surfaced again, opened the hatch, inflated the kayak, and tied it to a rope that I tied to a handle on the portal. I helped Merwin up the ladder, down onto the hull, and into the kayak, then carried up his sleeping bag and knapsack. The waves were lifting us up and down like a merry-go-round, but at least they weren’t cresting, and so wouldn’t spill into the kayak. There were no lights on the beach or cliff, but the moon was out, and he could keep his direction with that. I expected him to take no more than half an hour to reach the beach, fifteen minutes to climb the cliff, and another fifteen to collect wood and start a fire. If I didn’t see the fire signal in an hour and fifteen minutes, I’d turn around and come looking for him.

  “Wait two hours, Captain.” He was sitting in position and ready to go.

  I shook my head. “If I don’t see the fires for two hours, I’ll assume you’re dead.”

  “You’re too cautious, Captain.” He smiled as he untied the rope.

  “You’re not cautious enough.”

  “Was it a good trade…Alfred? Did you learn enough about environmentalism from me?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I did. Was it a fair trade for you?”

  He pushed himself off with the paddle. “More than fair. What was the best thing you learned?”

  I tried to think quickly; there were so many things. My mind went back to the anthill. “Uhh…every effort matters.”

  “That’s good. I like that.”

  “What was the best thing you learned?”

  His answer surprised me. “I’m a sculptor, not a naval engineer. Goodbye, Captain!” He paddled a few times, and quickly disappeared over the top of a wave.

  I looked up at the moon. A cloud was covering it now, but you could still see enough light to navigate by it. I watched as Merwin appeared on the tops of a few more waves. He was moving quickly away from the sub. I felt confident he’d reach the beach without trouble. I shut the hatch, climbed down inside, submerged to periscope depth, and motored outside of the three-mile zone.

  Almost an hour exactly from when he pushed off, I spotted a faint light in the dark. A few moments later, I saw another one beside it. I felt a burst of joy inside. Merwin was a wonderful person. I would miss him.

  But as I stared at the two signal fires, I couldn’t help thinking of the two whales we had befriended: the mother who had followed us, who had inspired us, and enjoyed our singing, and then died so horribly at the hands of the whalers; and her baby…and my joy slipped into sadness. I wondered where her calf was now. Was it old enough to fend for itself? Would it seek the company of other whales? Would it escape the whalers? I could only hope so.

  Who were these whalers anyway? Weren’t they just people like anybody else, with families, and homes, and dogs and cats for pets? Didn’t their children go to school, and didn’t they read them stories before bed at night? Suddenly I realized that it wasn’t enough for me to learn how to save the planet. I needed to understand how people could be so destructive in the first place. Why, when whales were probably the nicest creatures on Earth, would anyone kill them so mercilessly? More than anything else, that’s what I needed to know. And to find out, I knew I had to go to where the killers of whales lived—Japan—and see them for myself.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “IT’S TIME TO SERVICE the sub, Al. She needs new paint. You’re probably carrying barnacles all over the world. That’s not very efficient. I want to clean out the motor, flush all the systems, check the hull for cracks, check the propeller for cracks. It’s time to come home.”

  “I know.”

  I was calling Ziegfried from a phone booth outside a small general store that sold fishing tackle and surfboards. I had moored the sub in the shelter of an alcove beneath Green Cape lighthouse, on the mainland of Australia. Although it was risky coming ashore, we really didn’t have any choice; we would starve if we didn’t.

  “She wasn’t made for beating up whaling ships.”

  “I know.”

  “So you’re coming then?”

  “Uhh…yes, definitely…eventually.”

  I heard Ziegfried sigh on the other end of the phone. It was morning in Australia—afternoon of the day before in Newfoundland. “Where are you headed, Al?”

  “Japan.”

  “Japan?”

  “Just for a little while. Then I’ll come home.”

  There was a long pause. “Gee, I’ve always wanted to visit Japan. Maybe I should come and meet you there.”

  “Really? Would you come?” I felt a shiver of excitement.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it, and talk it over with Sheba. She’s standing beside me, waiting to talk to you. Take care of yourself, Al. You sound beaten up. Stop chasing ships that are bigger than yourself.”

  “Okay.” But they were all bigger than me. “I really hope you will come to Japan.”

  “I’ll give it serious thought. I miss you, buddy.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Here’s Sheba.”

  There was a longer pause as Ziegfried handed the phone over. I could imagine him quickly explaining things to her. Then I heard Sheba speaking. The softness of her voice made me think of warm wind blowing over hot sand.

  “My dear boy, you are all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  She paused. “No, you’re not, you’re wounded. I can hear it in your voice, and I can feel it in my heart.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “It happened, then?”

  “Yah, it did.”

  “It was your heart that was wounded.”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed. “Life is a journey, Alfred, both joyful and painful. It seems we cannot have one without the other.”

  “I guess so.”

  “A letter came for you.”

  “A letter…? Really? Who is it from?”

  “It’s postmarked from India.”

  “It must be from Melissa and Radji.”

  “I don’t think so. It just says, ‘Margaret.’ But there’s an address. Do you want me to open it and read it to you?”

  “Yes, please.” Wow, a letter from Margaret. How strange. I couldn’t wait to hear it.

  “She has nice, old-fashioned handwriting. She must be a nice lady, is she?”

  “Yah, sort of. But I don’t know how she sent me a letter. The last time I saw her she was in the middle of a storm at sea.”

  “Well, let me read it.”

  “Okay.”

  My Dear Alfred,

  I found this address inside the cover of the book you lent me, and thought I would write you a letter in the hope it will reach you. I know that if it is meant to, it will. By now you must be in Australia. You might be interested to know that as soon as I started reading the Bhagavad Gita, I became so inspired to visit India, that I started up the engine of my boat, and ran it through the storm, and didn’t stop until I reached Kanyakumari, the most southern tip of India. There, I sold it to a man who has never sailed before. And so, my boat’s journey continues without me.

  Brutus and Clive have retired from sea also. They have shaved, changed clothes, and taken positions in a tattoo and jewellery shop in Kanyakumari. You wouldn’t recognize them. They look very Indian now. I bought a train ticket north, followed my instincts, and am now working on an organic farm that is inspired by a New Zealander with a wondrous philosophy. They have even made a film of him. It is called One Man, One Cow, One Planet. Please do look for it. Whoever would have dreamed we might save the planet with cow dung? I want to thank you, my young friend, for rescuing me from my doldrums and giving me a new lease on life. Should you ever find the time to write me a letter, I would dearly love to hear from you. My address is on this envelope. You have inspired me, my cou
rageous young submariner. In turn, I hope the writings of Thoreau are finding a home in you.

  With great affection, Margaret.

  After I said goodbye to Sheba and Ziegfried, and stepped out of the phone booth, I felt my heart lift like a bird in the wind. I had gotten so used to Margaret’s pessimistic view that I thought it was cut in stone. I didn’t know why, but I had been using it as a sort of gauge with which to measure everything. There were things about us that were similar. We were both very stubborn, both sailing the world on a small vessel, both unafraid of storms and whatever might come our way. It almost felt as if she were an older version of me. Now, she had thrown away her pessimism like an old shoe, and given herself a brand new beginning. I found that so inspiring. Perhaps things were not so hopeless after all.

  When I left the phone booth, I opened the door to the store, and stepped inside. In my excitement, I had forgotten to hide Hollie in the tool bag. He walked in beside me and looked all around like it was nobody’s business. Like me, he was hoping there was something good to eat. Behind the counter sat a large, muscular man with tattoos on his neck and arms. He had a stern looking face, but was friendly enough. I was wearing Merwin’s sandy-coloured hat, with the faded golden dragon on the front, and my month-old beard, with a tint of red. I had been told that my mother’s hair had red in it.

  “G’day!”

  “G’day.”

  “First time here?”

  I nodded. He looked down at Hollie, then back at me. “You don’t look like a surfer or a fisherman, you must be a sailor or hitchhiker. Which is it?”

  “Sailor. Do you have any potatoes?”

  “At the back of that aisle. You must be sailing with your family. Did they send you in for potatoes?”

  “They said I should pick some up if I happened to see any.” I hated lying, but didn’t know what else to say. I carried three bags of potatoes up to the counter. “What about beans?”

  “First shelf. On the bottom. Where did you moor your boat?”

  “Below the lighthouse.”

  “Below the lighthouse?” He sounded startled. I should have given a different answer. “Why didn’t you moor in the harbour, at Eden?”

  “Ahh…I don’t know. We saw the beach, and everyone wanted to walk there.” That much, at least, was true. I gathered ten cans of beans in my arms and carried them up to the counter.

  “It’s pretty rough below the lighthouse. You must have a heavy-duty anchor.”

  “Yah.” I found the peanut butter and jam, and carried five jars of each up to the counter.

  “Somebody loves peanut butter and jam.” He stared into my face. “The whole crew?”

  “Yah.” That was true, too.

  “How big is your boat?”

  “Twenty-five feet.”

  “Catamaran?”

  “No, just a regular sailboat.”

  “Wood, or fibreglass?” Now he was starting to sound suspicious.

  “Wood.” That was partly true. “Do you have any bread?”

  “Third row, top shelf.”

  I brought four loaves up. I could freeze two. I went looking for cookies and candy. We had to get out of the store before he got any more suspicious. “You don’t have any other vegetables by any chance, do you?”

  “There are carrots in the fridge. Looks like your family is making you do all the work. It’s a long hike to the lighthouse. Are you on foot?”

  “Yah.” I carried the carrots and cookies up to the counter. The candy was on the wall behind him. He turned around when he saw me staring at it.

  “Let me guess: everybody on your boat loves candy?”

  I nodded. “Yah.” That was true, too.

  He looked more closely at me, then down at Hollie. He was about to say something, but stopped. “Which ones?”

  “The peppermints and toffees, please.”

  “How many bags each?”

  “Ten.”

  He pulled them off the wall and started adding up the bill. I stared at the pile on the counter. I didn’t know how I was going to carry it all back to the sub. I’d have to make two trips. First I’d get it out of the store, then split it up, and hide half of it in the bushes. He seemed to be reading my mind.

  “I’ve got a little two-wheel trolley you can borrow.” He pointed to it. “You can carry all your groceries in it, and just leave it at the lighthouse. I’ll pick it up later, or my friend will bring it in.”

  “Really? Thank you. That would be a great help.”

  “No problem. Here.” He pulled out the trolley and loaded it up. I stood by and watched. Then he finished adding the bill. “One hundred and fifty-seven dollars and twenty-three cents.”

  I dug out my money.

  “That’s an expensive bill for someone who just came in for potatoes.”

  I smiled awkwardly. “I didn’t just come in for potatoes.”

  He nodded, gave me my change, and didn’t say anything more. I started out the door. “Goodbye. Thank you.”

  He just nodded again. He was definitely suspicious now. I could feel it. At least he didn’t follow us out. Maybe we were going to get away with it. I pulled the trolley out, and Hollie trotted beside me. As I closed the door, I saw the man watching us. I turned and walked away quickly, pulling the trolley behind me. I felt my spine tingle.

  We went about quarter of a mile down the road, when I heard him yell. “Hey! Hey!”

  Shoot! He was coming after us. What should I do? Should I run for it? But what about the groceries? We really needed them. Could I toss some of them into the bushes before he got here, and come back for them later? No. There was no time for that. Desperately, I grabbed a bag of potatoes, a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, and started to run.

  “Come on, Hollie! Run!”

  “Wait! Don’t run! Wait!”

  I turned around. He had stopped running, so I stopped. To get away from him I would have had to drop everything and really sprint. But I had paid for it, and hated to leave with nothing.

  “Wait,” he said. His voice was not threatening. “I know who you are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know who you are. I want to give you your money back.”

  “You want to give me my money back? Why?”

  He held the money in his hand, and reached it out to me. “Here. Take it. I don’t want your money.”

  “But…what about the groceries?”

  “They’re yours.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Look.”

  I looked. On his right arm was a tattoo of a whale. On his left arm was a tattoo that said, “Save the whales!”

  “I’m your ally, mate. I’m a supporter of the Sea Shepherd Society. I saw you on television. You guys are doing what I wish I could do. The least I can do is help out in other ways. Here, take your money back. I don’t want it.”

  I reached out my hand and took the money. “Thank you…” I wanted to say more, but couldn’t. My throat swelled up. I was so tired, and hungry, and moved by his kindness. But I had to get a grip on my emotions. It was embarrassing.

  “It’s okay, mate. Just know that there are those of us rooting for you. Keep up the good work.”

  I managed to clear my throat. “Thank you.”

  “You’re all right.” He reached over, slapped me on the shoulder, turned around, and started back. I watched him go. Then I went over and picked up the groceries. As I pulled the trolley towards the lighthouse, every step felt a step lighter.

  Epilogue

  THE SEA TOSSED US AROUND like an untethered buoy. I had a pot of stew on the stove, a cup of tea in my hand, and my book on my lap. Hollie was happily chewing the end of a rope, but the movement of the sub kept rolling it away from him, and he had to pull it back with his paw. Seaweed was in a deep sleep. His webbed feet secured him to his spot. It would take a pretty big wave to shake him loose. Margaret’s letter reminded me of something Thoreau had written. I opened
the book to the first chapter and searched for the words. I felt less alone when I read Thoreau’s words because it felt as though he were sitting right across from me, saying the words out loud, slowly, solemnly, and maybe with a twinkle in his eye.

  What everybody echoes or in silence passes by as true today may turn out to be falsehood tomorrow, mere smoke of opinion, which some had trusted for a cloud that would sprinkle fertilizing rain on their fields. What old people say you cannot do, you try and find that you can.

  I didn’t yet know why they called Thoreau the father of the environmental movement, but I sure felt armed with his words. It made me wonder if words were our best weapon. Even Captain Watson, as fierce as he was on the sea, was fighting the whalers in the courts, too, and on television, where the weapons were words. Maybe I could learn to do that, too. I thought of Margaret, working on an organic farm in India. She was learning something new all over again. I thought of the tattooed man who gave me the groceries for free because he believed so much in the Sea Shepherd Society. Everyone who cared was helping in his or her own way, and every action mattered, big or small. That was something I learned from Merwin. As I got up to stir the stew, and turned to look at my resting crew, I felt my worries fade away like shadows in the night, and a strong conviction take their place. I felt I could remember the whales now without tears, those noble, intelligent, and beautiful creatures. We were sailing to Japan to face their killers.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Philip Roy lives in St. Marys, Ontario, with his family, and their 17-year-old cat. Continuing to write adventurous and historical young adult novels focusing on social, environmental, and global concerns, Philip is also delighted to be embarking upon Mouse Pet, his third book in the “Happy the Pocket Mouse” series (illustrated by Andrea Torrey Balsara), due out in the fall of 2015, as well as the eighth volume of the “Submarine Outlaw” series, set in Japan (Ronsdale Press). Along with writing, travelling, running, composing music, and crafting folk art out of recycled materials, Philip spends his time with his growing family. Visit Philip at www.philiproy.ca.