by D. G. Driver
“My plan is to submit work I’ve done specifically with rehabilitation centers, oil spill rescue, or anything related to helping sea mammals to demonstrate how devoted I am to my educational direction.”
“Well said,” he mumbled. “I’m sure you’ll do well at your interviews.” He picked up one of the duffel bags and grabbed his keys from the counter.
“Dad,” I said. “Are you even listening?”
“Do I need to? Seems like you’ve got it all figured out.” At the door he stopped and looked back at me. “Come or don’t. I have to go.”
I pulled the other bag over my shoulder and followed him out to the pick-up truck in the driveway. My dad helped me load the equipment into the extra cab, and then we buckled up and drove off. Thirty minutes had passed since my mom called. Too slow. Usually we moved much faster than this.
Those extra couple minutes shouldn’t have made much difference, really. Nothing could stop the oil from leaking and the animals from dying. But if I had known what we were going to find on that beach, I’d have grabbed the keys and shoved my barefoot Dad and all his “poor me” attitude out the door so we could get there in time to help.
~ * ~
Neither of us spoke at all on the way to the beach. We didn’t have to. We knew what we had to do once we got there, and if we spoke about anything else, we’d just argue. So we listened to the early morning news, wondering if the possible oil spill had been leaked to the press yet. It hadn’t. Usually no one heard about these events before the so-called experts (who were secretly under contract with Affron Oil Company) came and declared that the situation “had only minimal impact.”
Once Dad got on the highway going west, he floored it. At the speed he was going he’d cut a lot of time off our hour drive to the beaches at Aberdeen.
“Dad,” I said, a little nervously, “don’t worry, you’ll be the first one there.” Although, I felt pretty sure that his lead foot was more from anger than from his need to be first on the scene to get footage before anyone disturbed it. When he only shrugged, turned up the radio, and added another five miles per hour to the speedometer, I decided to shut up about it and let him drive. Hopefully, the death-defying speed would help get the drama out of his system and we wouldn’t die before it happened.
I shut off the radio and said, “Dad, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
The speedometer dropped back ten miles per hour as my dad sighed.
“No,” he said, clearing his throat because he hadn’t spoken in forty-five minutes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well after we argued, and your mom’s call put me on edge. This isn’t the way to handle things.”
I didn’t say anything. How do you agree with your dad when he tells you he’s being stupid? Yeah, Dad. Get it together. Ah, no.
“I still want to talk more about all that, but not now. Okay?”
I wasn’t going to argue that. The last thing I wanted to do was launch into that topic again. Dad had finally reached a speed limit that didn’t have me clutching the handle above the window.
“So, what do you think?” he asked. “It’s Tuesday in September.”
I stifled a smile and nodded thoughtfully. If he was going to play this like nothing happened and get right to business, I could go along with that. For now.
I drew in a deep breath as I considered what he was asking. “The weather’s not too cold yet. There could be some die-hard nature-lovers. You know, the retired folks and beachcombers. No tents. Just mobile campers.”
“That’s what I’m thinking, too.”
All of the main beaches were part of public parks with campgrounds, like Ocean City State Park.
“What about Grayland Beach?” I suggested. “It’s south of town, away from the harbor and tourists. It’s the one Haley and I usually hang out at because it’s less populated. Odds are best that no one will be there.”
“Good idea,” he said, making a left turn at the off-ramp.
A few minutes later my dad pulled the truck into an empty public parking lot that led to the public beach at the base of the cliff. We leapt out of the truck and grabbed our equipment. The rain had stopped for the moment, leaving the air crisp and smelling of salt and sulfur. It was now about four o’clock in the morning, so the sky had brightened to a dull gray. In another hour or so we would be able to use the cameras without extra lighting equipment. By then, Affron’s people would arrive, and it would be too late to get any pictures that truly captured the devastation. Those guys moved fast when it came to disguising their messes as “no considerable damage.”
I hiked the asphalt walkway down the hill, carrying too much. With one heavy bag over my back, a tripod under my arm and a flashlight in the other hand, I didn’t have a free hand to catch myself when I slipped on the wet sand. My legs skidded out in front of me. I skidded a half yard on my right thigh and then landed squarely on my rump.
“June!” Dad snapped at me. “Be careful!”
Like my dad even cared about me getting hurt. Even if I had, he’d just say, “Shake it off,” because I was not allowed to cry. I hadn’t been allowed to cry over a bruise or bump since I was six. He was only worried about the equipment. That’s why he shouted. It stung a bit, to know that the equipment meant more to him than my leg, but I also knew my dad’s reaction was the correct one. Scratches from a fall meant nothing, but if the lamp or bulbs in my bag broke, we wouldn’t get any good pictures. I didn’t hear a crack or break come from the bag. I was pretty sure it hadn’t touched the ground, so hopefully everything was still in good condition.
Carefully, I stood up and continued down the path. My thigh screamed at me, and I knew an hour from now, I’d be looking at a heavy-duty scratch there.
When I caught up to my dad on the beach, he was already wrapping the 35mm around his neck and pulling the camcorder out of the bag.
“I’m going to need light, June,” he said. “Can you hurry?”
“Sure.”
But even without the light, we could both see that my mother’s worries had been founded. Already a number of sea animals had beached themselves. Through the gray light of early morning, the sand was dimpled with objects much larger than broken seashells brought to shore by the high tide. Small creatures had crawled out of the surf to escape the film on the top of the water: clams, crabs, and a few turtles. I saw a lot of dead fish, a couple of sea otters and already dozens of birds—all of them far blacker than they should be for that kind of light. Some still struggled against the oil coating their bodies. Most were dead.
It never got better, seeing this kind of destruction. I could now bear the sight of it without breaking into sobs like I used to when I was younger, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want to fall on the ground and wail. I felt my throat close up and my body tense in the way I’d trained it so that I could stay cool despite the emotion rushing through me. My dad had taught me how to overcome the sadness. He had to stay calm and in control, and it didn’t help him to have a slobbery daughter at his side to worry about.
Stiffly, I set up the lighting equipment that I would carry behind my dad from spot to spot.
“Come on, June,” Dad called. “We’re losing time.”
I followed him down to the waterline and focused the lights on a porpoise. Its blowhole had been sealed shut by the oil and its eyes permanently closed. My dad snapped a few pictures and then switched to the camcorder. He held the camera, while I spoke into a microphone about how the oil was killing the porpoise.
“This porpoise was swimming in the ocean, eating fish this morning. It came up for air and couldn’t get any. The oil spread across its blowhole so that it couldn’t take a breath. Imagine trying to breathe through cellophane taped over your nose and mouth. In a panic, the porpoise swam to shore and beached itself, probably thinking that it could rub the oil away in the sand. Unfortunately, it can’t get back into the water. It wouldn’t matter anyway. The fish it ate were coated with oil too, and that oil is slowly
poisoning his system through his kidneys. This animal will die in minutes, not hours.”
Learning to talk through the knot in my throat had taken years of training, too. Usually I could keep it together if I could just stand and watch, but the second I had to say something and blam! Out the tears flowed. Just like a baby. But Dad preferred me to do the voice-over work, so he could focus on taking pictures, so I did the best I could.
Granted my vocal tones weren’t smooth that morning. My words quavered and edged on losing it, but I knew we didn’t have time for retakes, so I pulled out some inner strength and mastered it.
“As you can see, there are already a growing number of creatures here on the beach dying or dead because of the Affron Oil leak. The oil will begin to sink deeper into the ocean and will coat the scales of fish. The killer whales, sea lions, sharks, and dolphins will eat those fish and die. The oil will seep into the ocean floor and kill the coral, sea plants, and the creatures that live and feed on them. Thousands of creatures will be dead by nightfall.”
We moved around the beach, getting shots of different kinds of animals and birds. I made sure to note on video which animals were endangered species. Dad complimented me on my growing expertise at making clear expository for the video clips and advised me about what to add as we walked away from yet another victim of the oil.
“I told you that I’ve learned a lot from you and Mom.”
He smiled. Not in a whole-hearted happy way, but in that I-hear-you-and-appreciate-what-you’re-saying way. “Yeah, I guess we’ve inundated you with this stuff. But look how good you are at it. You could really make a statement, if you’d just...”
“Follow in Mom’s footsteps?” I finished for him. “I could, but I could also do a great deal of good with the animals themselves. Just think, I could know how to clean up these animals, get them healthy, and get them re-acclimated to the ocean. Wouldn’t that be just as worthwhile?”
My dad put the camera down and rubbed his shoulder. “It’s worthwhile, but...”
“But what?” I came back quickly. “How can you argue that animal research and rehabilitation would be bad?”
“I’m not saying it is. I’m saying that you wouldn’t have to rescue any animals if people weren’t hurting them in the first place. Your mother and I try to prevent things like this oil spill from happening. We need someone young and intelligent like you to keep our work going.”
“You say that like you’re going somewhere,” I said. “You’re not dying and you’re not quitting, so why do you need me so much?”
“You’re the voice of your generation, June. That’s why.”
I looked away from him back toward the water. The sky had lightened quite a bit, and now I could see two-thirds of the way down the beach. We had been there about an hour and already more pelicans and sea gulls had flopped onto the shore, their wings coated with oil so that they couldn’t fly, their beaks stuck together so that they couldn’t eat.
“Do we have enough?” I asked my dad.
“I think we’ve covered at least one of each type,” he said. “We might as well keep shooting, though. The Coast Guard will be here soon enough, and we can stop then.”
I scanned the beach for a particularly sad case that we could stick on the evening news when I saw something horrible down toward the far end of the beach. No, it couldn’t be!
The sun was up just enough for me to be able to make out the silhouette of what looked to be a human being covered in oil. I took a couple steps to my left to see more clearly. No, I was wrong. It wasn’t a human.
There were three humans struggling against the oil.
“Dad!” I screamed. “There are some people over there! We’ve got to help them!”
Chapter Three
They must be surfers, was all I could think as I ran toward the three squirming bodies. Who else would be in the water this early in the morning? But even for surfers, this was pretty early. They’d have to have been surfing in the dark. That didn’t make any sense. Were they crazy? I knew some surfers at school, and they were definitely nuts sometimes, but surfing before the sun rose seemed extreme even for them.
Well, crazy or not, they didn’t deserve to be caught in an oil slick. I crashed down to my knees beside the bodies and dropped my gear. I started to reach out my hand to tap them and see if they were all right without even stopping to get a good look at them. But before I touched any of them, my arm recoiled back to my side.
“Dad!” I screamed. “Oh my God! Dad!”
My dad rushed up behind me. “Are they alive?” he asked, trying to catch his breath.
“I... I...”
Words didn’t come. I couldn’t formulate a thought. I was too startled. These three figures lying in the sand in front of me weren’t surfers at all.
They weren’t even people.
From their facial features and upper torsos, they looked kind of like women, but all three of them had silver-colored skin. They were bald, with strange ridges marking their skulls. None of them seemed to have ears, only holes in the sides of their heads. No nose was visible, not even a bone or nostrils filled that space between their eyes and mouths. Although their mouths seemed to be moving, they were actually breathing through what looked like gills in their necks.
And if that wasn’t weird enough, instead of legs, their upper torsos stretched out into long, scale-covered, silver fishtails. If I had to say what these things stranded in front of me, splattered with oil, appeared to be, I’d say mermaids. And no, they didn’t look like they’d start singing songs or granting me wishes. They looked a little bit scary—but fragile too. Most of all, they looked like they were going to die, and no handsome prince was there to kiss them and keep them from turning into sea foam.
“June,” my dad whispered. “Do you think they’re real?”
“Yes,” I whispered back. “Strange but very real.”
“You don’t think they’re costumes?” he suggested. “Maybe some costume party on a yacht last night—they fell off.”
Sometimes my dad’s brain worked even more off-kilter than mine. I shook my head. “Those are not costumes, Dad.”
Those beings lying there in the sand were not wearing anything that was cut or stitched together. What I saw wasn’t material. It wasn’t a lycra suit like on Catwoman, nor was it some kind of make-up like that chick from X-Men. Make-up would’ve been washed away.
What I saw was real skin. Or some kind of skin, if skin could be silver. And those were real scales, not some kind of pointy sequins. I’d been around enough fish to know the difference. Besides, if these were a couple drunk, rich women in costumes, they’d be dead already. I knew these creatures weren’t dead, because the one closest to me suddenly opened its eyes and focused them right at me.
They were huge and midnight blue, almost like eyes from a Japanese Anime character but more oval in shape. The color was so deep, lacking any light, probably like the world the creature knew. In those eyes I saw such intense pain and desperation. The creature implored me with those eyes to do something to help. The mermaid raised its webbed hands to its throat. The other mermaids started doing the same action.
“I don’t think they can breathe,” I said. “They’re suffocating.”
My dad and I had been kneeling there in the sand, mesmerized by the creatures for far too long. I forced myself to my feet and sprang into action. Reaching into my pack, I pulled out a box of alcohol wipes. I used them to wipe the oil away from the mermaids’ gills and faces. The mermaids cringed at the sting of the alcohol. While I attended to the mermaids, my dad got on the cell phone.
“Yeah,” he said to someone on the other end. “It’s Peter Sawfeather. We’ve got an emergency... Oil spill... How fast can you get the center ready? We’ve got a number of animals here, but we need to bring in three, um, fish, right away... We can’t wait... Dolphin size... Saltwater... Give us twenty minutes. Maybe less.” He closed his phone and came back to me.
By now the sun was f
ully above the horizon. The Coast Guard and Affron specialists should be arriving any moment to take over.
“We’ve got to get them out of here before Affron gets here,” Dad told me as if I didn’t know that already. “They won’t be safe.”
I chose not to take a moment to say, “Duh,” even though I was thinking it. Instead, I slipped my arms under the cold, slimy body of the first mermaid. He didn’t lean over and grab the tail. Instead, he was rummaging through his pack. “Dad,” I said impatiently, “help me carry them.”
“Wait,” my dad said. “One second.” He pulled out the video camera he’d stashed in there when he ran over to join me and aimed the lens at the three mermaids. “Hold that one up a little bit more, June,” he ordered. “Let me get a good shot of her.”
“Dad, we don’t have time for this,” I said. He didn’t listen. He gestured for me to hold the mermaid up even a little straighter. “This might be hurting her.” He put a ‘stop’ hand up. I guess I had her where he wanted. “Dad, am I in this shot?” I asked. “Please say no.”
With the mermaid dying in my arms, I knew it was awful to think about how ugly I was at the moment. I mean, my hair wasn’t brushed, and I didn’t have a stitch of make-up on. A part of me realized that I shouldn’t care about such things. I should only care about doing what was right—saving the mermaids and recording their plight for the world to discover. This was an unbelievable find that I could barely wrap my head around, and yet I knew it was more important than my stupid vanity. That was the thinking of the responsible person my parents raised, who understood the enormity of what was happening, what I was holding in my arms. The rest of me, however, was still a teenage girl with a few basic needs. One necessity was being given some kind of warning that I was going to be filmed, so I would not be completely hideous looking. Who knew where my dad might choose to send this footage? I didn’t even have a free hand at the moment to tuck my stray hairs back up under my cap.
