Singing Home the Whale

by Hager, Mandy

  He increased speed, amazed how much grunt the boat had, lifting and lunging forwards until it planed at sixteen knots. It felt ludicrously fast, but he’d need to average this to make it to Kaikoura before the southerly struck. The acceleration stirred Min into a series of slapping breaches as he flung himself through its bow wake. But with added speed came the fear of losing control, of the boat bolting into the darkness at a full gallop, no time to think where he was, what was underneath, either side, or coming up ahead.

  He’d passed most of the settled bays now, not a single light confirming life elsewhere. Headlands loomed up way too quickly, huge black shapes lurched from the dark — undefined monsters — and the fear of unseen rocks sent Morse-code panic signals from his heart. He flew through space, singing but not feeling it, head full of carnage, mayhem, prison. Too fast, too dark, far too powerful. Terrifying. The only thing he had to reassure him was the GPS. He watched it with manic distrust, still waiting for the crunch to come; Pelorus Sound slipped off behind them and they entered Cook Strait.

  Immediately the seascape changed. A choppy swell slapped at the boat, making it even harder to hold the course. He peered into the void beyond the pool of light to check for other boats. Nothing stirred besides Min’s darting presence. Will was in awe of the first people who headed off in wooden rafts with only the stars to guide them and, later, the waka paddlers who sat so low in the choppy seas. He felt as vulnerable right now: lost in time and space, except he had to trust a gadget that could break down at any moment and he’d be stuck in a stretch of water known as one of the roughest in the world, so many lives lost in its depths. He changed to singing Wagner now, more fitting for this brooding sea: tongue-twisting German to take his mind off all the things that could go wrong. It didn’t work. He sweated as if he’d run a marathon, head pounding, his throat closing up.

  Four hours out from Blythe he was exhausted; he powered back and let the boat rock in the slop as he went out on deck and edged along the handrail to check on Min. When his little shadow bobbed up Will reached over and scratched his rostrum, trying not to transmit his own jangly nerves.

  ‘How’re you going, matey?’ Min made his bubbly propeller noise and nudged against Will’s hand. ‘Hang in there, eh? We’re still a long way off.’ The fine mist of Min’s exhalation spritzed him. ‘Thanks mate, I needed that!’

  He grabbed a couple of sandwiches and wolfed them down as he urged the boat back up to speed. They’d passed the halfway point according to the GPS and, sure enough, there was the faint aura of Wellington’s lights in the northeast. It was surreal; the night now inky black, the moon having deserted him, and the stars, through a web of cloud, dull and weak. His eyes were playing tricks again, shapes looming out of nowhere then fading back. He felt confused, disorientated.

  When a screeching started up he jumped about a metre in the air. Jesus Christ! The GPS alarm! He stared at it, trying to decipher what it said. Come on, come on. Realised he’d strayed off course. He spun the wheel hard and powered the juice on, the back sliding out sideways. Fuck! His mind went blank. He pushed wrong buttons, pulled wrong levers. Had to calm down. Talk himself through it. Take a few deep breaths then set things back on the right course. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Now concentrate. It was only thanks to Pania’s calm voice ringing in his head that finally he brought the big Cat back on course.

  By five a.m. he was leaden. He’d tried to keep the singing up but his vocal chords had seized up by the time dawn scuffed the horizon. Its silvery tinge turned from dark to light as quickly as a flaring match — and it was such a relief to orientate himself again: the hills of the North Island’s rugged coast to his left, the long spine of the Kaikouras and the Southern Alps pitching straight up to his right. And, sure enough, a threatening cloud bank rolled up the Alps to greet him, a looming prophecy, and the wind was rising, tops blown off the swell, gulls hurtling past like arrows. But there was still a ferry tracking down the coast and a couple of small fishing boats off Island Bay … the water was safe, for now.

  Two times more in the laborious, numbing sixth hour he brought the boat back to a halt, worried Min might disappear now Will couldn’t sing. Yet, both times the little trouper popped up like a piebald cork and called back, urging Will on as if he knew where they were heading, eager to arrive. Tiredness so weighed Will down that the worries he’d tried to bury were resurrected. What the hell would happen when the authorities caught on? And what would happen if he didn’t find Min’s pod? He couldn’t risk returning with him; would have to leave him in Kaikoura’s waters and hope the Whale Watch guys would help. A gutting thought.

  Seven long hours after he’d left Pania waving at the wharf, his body packed up good and proper. The constant seesawing was murder as the hull slapped into the rising swell; he was as sore as if he’d been pedalling all the way from Blythe. Now squally raindrops punched the windscreen so he turned the VHF up to catch another forecast. Not that the weather would change anything; he was far too close to give up now, well past Cape Campbell, heading down towards Kaikoura on the other side. The seas were even bigger here, rolling straight in from Antarctica, sick-making. He couldn’t focus, was hot one minute, cold the next, with gritty, watering eyes and constant tension in his stomach as he fought to keep the Cat on course.

  ‘This is the Cook coastal forecast for the next twenty-four hours. Southerlies rising early Monday to forty-five knots …’ As the forecast continued Will eyed the front. It smothered the Alps like a malevolent spirit, and he could almost hear it hissing: I’m going to get you, boy, tip you out …

  Five minutes later, while he was still panicking over the thought of forty-five knots, the radio burst back to life again. ‘This is Marlborough Marine Radio. We have an alert out for a stolen vessel — believed to have been taken from Blythe Marina sometime last night. Be on the lookout for a twelve-metre aluminium PowerCat with Pelorus Salmon signage, sides and back. Contact us on any channel if you spot it and we’ll pass the info on to the police. Over.’

  Holy crap. He checked the GPS. Was nearly there — another hour at most, though as the seas rose his speed had dropped, the boat bashing straight into the teeth of the rising gale. He upped the revs and pushed it to its limits. Screw it. Too late trying to sing now, even if he could. Instead he willed Min on. Hang in there, little man.

  When the GPS started to beep, he freaked again. Scanned the screen, laughing out loud when he realised it was telling him they’d reached the final waypoint. Below him lay a submarine canyon over a thousand metres deep, tectonic plates alive and cranky, currents clashing, sperm whales, dolphins, orcas … Min’s orcas. He cut the revs and left the boat to idle as he summoned up the nerve to walk the deck. It was awash with spray, bucking like a rodeo bronco. He grabbed one of the mooring ropes and tied it around his waist. Edged out to the stern. Dropped down to his haunches and slapped the water to call Min.

  ‘Min?’ Nothing. ‘Min?’ He wolf-whistled. Still no sign. Jesus Christ. All this way only to lose him now? What sort of bullshit was that? ‘Min! Where the hell are you? Get your fat little orca arse here right now!’ It hurt to shout.

  His nose was itching. Don’t cry, damn it. He was so bloody tired. Shattered. Seasick. Frightened. ‘Min, please, where are you?’ No more than a froggy croak, burning deep.

  He stumbled to his feet and fetched the tube. Thrust it down into the wild water and called again. Forced out a song. Cajoled. Pleaded. All hopeless. He couldn’t hear above the idling engine or the wind, and the sea was so choppy it was impossible to spot Min’s fin in its midst. He sagged onto the deck. Pressed his mouth up to the tube, fighting to keep it submerged, and called again; tried scraps of every song he’d ever learnt. Still nothing. Zero. Zip. It was too much. Unfair. Stupid. Should’ve kept his eye on Min. He rested his head onto the deck as rain pecked at him, fat drops turning to sleety drizzle. Closed his eyes. Felt bile swilling in his gut. All this for nothing. Pathetic. Useless. Lame. Will of the Living Dead.

  Strange e
choes taunted him, so real he glanced around; was he going nuts? He really could hear something. There! Coming from the tube’s mouth. He thrust it to his ear and held his breath. Listened with every fibre of his being.

  Holy hell! He could hear them: a whole damn choir of whale song, right there, below. A great cacophony of welcome — and he could hear Min in amongst them, that unique little waver at the end of every phrase. A sob broke deep inside him. He hauled in three shuddering breaths and called down again, trying the first harmonic he’d recognised as Min’s. Should’ve used it straight away.

  Below, a chorus burst back. And then — suddenly — there they were: rising from the sudsy sea like missiles, a whole host of orcas, seven, ten, no, at least twelve, spy-hopping above the swell in front of him, strong glossy bodies, white throats and bellies gleaming through the rain. And, yes, there was Min, weaving in and out, leaping, breaching, full of joy.

  Will scrabbled to his feet, wanted to throw his arms up and boogie with them but he didn’t dare let go of the handrail as they celebrated in a jubilant mass of tangled bodies, crashing tails, bellies slapping, huge seaborne creatures dancing in the furious sea right before his eyes.

  He didn’t care the rain was icy now. He clapped his hands, croaked out his favourite bit from The Mikado’s first finale. ‘… There’s lots of good fish in the sea, In the sea, in the sea, in the sea, in the sea!’ The perfect ending to this comic opera.

  Then, like a dream, one by one they came, rolled over on their side and stared into his eyes as their powerful tails threshed to anchor them in the swell. Love and gratitude poured off them, he could feel it, truly could, such a sense of warmth despite the filthy weather. Huge orcas, some nearly as big as the boat, all eyeing him. And when the last one filed past, Min remained. He came right up, squealing as Will leaned over, hoping like hell the rope would hold him steady, spume slapping at him as he grasped Min’s head between his hands. He kissed between Min’s eyes as they rocked together, bridging the sloppy sea. Breathed him in: that fishy kelpy scent. Gave him one last loving hongi of farewell.

  ‘You’ll be okay now, mate. For god’s sake don’t get lost again.’

  Min clicked and mewled, then hooked Will’s gaze one final time, holding the connection as he slowly sank below the surface of the agitated sea. And, like that, he was gone. They were gone. And Will was left staring out at wind-tossed waves, alone.

  He tried to stand, conscious again of how rough it was, and scanned the sea in hope of sighting one final glimpse of them resurfacing. Instead, a boat materialised between the sheets of rain, clearly emblazoned with the word ‘Police’.

  What can I tell you of that time you do not already know? My heart was weary, hopes so stretched, while Song Boy’s sullen thoughts grew grimmer still. Together we had crossed a world of wild water, fled his home, but we were still without shelter from the stormy seas.

  Right as the day reached its most dismal peak all my pleading calls were answered! Passed from unknown Being to Being until they found my family further out, the first I knew that they were there was when I heard the happy heart-cry of my aunt. She sped beneath the windswept sea — wailing, weeping, full of wonder — calling for me and my mother, heart humming hope.

  But when they found me so forlorn, my mother gone, they were as wounded hearing of her death as I was telling them that terrible truth. I knew my aunt, my mother’s fondest friend, would mourn most deeply; could feel her loss as sharply as my own. I nestled in against her heaving heart and told the story of my mother’s fearsome — fearless — fight.

  Such woe washed out. Such seething sadness. But from above, through their great grief, came the comfort of my Song Boy’s caring call. It somehow dug down deep to see if I was safe. My family feared at first, until they heard how he helped me, showed me kindness, led me here — and how, for this, I owed him life-long loving thanks.

  They rose right from the swollen sea to scan him; watched him with their weathered, wary eyes. But they could feel the goodwill washing off him; saw the sweetness; heard the love that lit his limping song. And then it was, oh, most moving; still holds the sway to send a shiver through my brittle bones. Such merriment, breaching, bodies brushing past, minds mingling, love let loose to lift me from my depths and wrap me in the comfort of both my Song Boy and my clan. Much tail slapping, boisterous bliss!

  One by one they berthed beside him in that squally sea, sent him such a force of feeling I sensed he felt it too. Once all were past then I swam up, swept by sorrow as I bid him my most fond farewell. I was so torn, heart hauled between the pull of my dear family and the friendship I had fostered with this brave bewitching Boy. Of course, my underwater family won. But, dear friends, do not doubt me, Song Boy still holds the weight of my most weary heart.

  Will braced himself on the bucking deck, watching the two policemen struggle in the wild sea to raft their boat to his. No point in running. His job was done and this was always bound to be the outcome of his stunt. The first to stagger aboard the Cat was none other than DS Gilroy.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Will’s gaze flicked past him, trying to spot the pod between the upright swells. Thought he did. Thank god. Min was safe now, back together with his family, and that was all that mattered. ‘A rescue mission,’ he said. ‘It was life or death.’ He pointed to the orca cluster but couldn’t stop his hand shaking, the wetsuit no match for the sleety rain that wormed inside to chill his spine.

  ‘For god’s sake, son, you’re going to get hypothermia.’ DS Gilroy turned to his partner. ‘Let’s switch.’ He had to shout. ‘You bring this beast into Kaikoura and get it moored. I’ll take the boy with me in ours.’

  It was terrifying trying to time the step from one bucking bronco to the next. When he finally negotiated it, Will hunkered down and wrapped up in the silver thermal blanket the cop had thrust at him. They bashed through swell, spray crashing in. It was impossible to speak. Not that he could; his throat felt like he’d swallowed a roll of razor wire.

  When they made it back to land Gilroy took him straight to the Kaikoura Police Station. Gave him a towel. Then a boiler suit and woollen jersey. Then he was bundled into a patrol car for the long drive back to Blenheim. Of course the heater didn’t work. Gilroy stopped on the main road out for fuel, returning with two coffees and hot chips for Will. Not what he’d expected; he’d imagined a paddy wagon and handcuffs. He sipped the coffee slowly as it burned down to the pit of his stomach. It gradually thawed him from the inside out.

  Gilroy didn’t push. He waited for Will to finish eating before he started in. ‘Okay, now you’re warmer, start from the beginning. This isn’t on the record yet, just a chat, so fill me in. I hope you understand how serious this is.’

  Will nodded. Began with finding Min, then unpicked every thread that led up to Bruce threatening Min’s life. In retrospect, he should’ve seen the pattern of Bruce’s violence from the start. Dean had warned him.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell somebody?’

  ‘You heard Dean: Harley’s in Bruce’s pocket — and the local cop’s. And, anyway, there wasn’t time.’

  ‘But stealing a boat? You must’ve known you’d get caught. You could’ve killed yourself.’

  Like he didn’t know? Will’s mouth gave an ironic twitch. ‘Min had already been shot once, and everyone just talked, no one actually did anything. Now he’s safe. You should’ve seen him when he found his pod.’ The memory was so overwhelming he couldn’t go on. He swallowed thorny tears. Jesus, he was knackered.

  Gilroy continued with his lecture but Will switched off now; just sat there watching the windscreen wipers flick back and forth, breathing in the stink of damp wool. He thought of Min surrounded by his family. Was his mother there? He’d seemed to circle one big orca in particular. Maybe that was her? God, he hoped so.

  The wind was even fiercer now, buffeting the car. It took them just under two hours to reach Blenheim. They drove straight to the police station
and Will was led into a room for more official questioning. At the end, he signed his statement and was charged with theft, photographed, fingerprinted and locked into a cell. It was cold, no natural light, the bed no more than a narrow bench with a mean squab. He curled up under two blankets and tried to blank his mind. It didn’t work. He shivered as if electricity was shocking through him. Felt numb.

  They’d offered him a phone call, but he couldn’t face speaking to Dean. No way. Dean would think he had to solve it. Same with his parents. He’d known what he was getting into; he would take the blame and stick it out. Had even told the cops he couldn’t pay all of Harley’s fine in time, so he was on the hook for that as well. He may as well go down in one big fiery heap.

  He dozed, dipping in and out of dream-infested sleep, waking disorientated and frozen to the core. He had no idea what time it was; whether it was still even day or had slipped into night. All he could hold onto was Min’s pure joy at being reunited with his kind — and that kiss with Pania. He’d kept her out of his confession. Hunter, too. No point in dumping either of them in the shit when he could take it all. He owed them everything.

  He sat up quickly as the lock rattled. The cop who’d processed him leaned into the cell. ‘You’ve got visitors. The boss says you can come and see them.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Will collected one of the blankets around him like a cape. Them? He half expected Dean — of course the cops would’ve rung him — but who else? Maybe a lawyer?

  In another small room, Dean and Viv sat holding hands, faces anxious as he stepped inside.

  Dean rose and hugged him, slapping his back. ‘Jesus, mate, you look terrible.’