Soon, I was close enough to grab one of his ankles and yank him to a stop. I felt like smacking him. I might have been tempted, if he hadn’t been so pleased with himself.
He was laughing. “Isn’t this incredible! They’re following me!”
I yelled back, “Why not? They’re bored shitless. How can they resist watching a crazy man drown?”
“But you’re a witness. The whales and I are communicating.”
“Great. Tell your buddies that King Neptune can’t play anymore. Then do me a favor and-” A whale startled me, spouting so close that I was rocked by displaced water, and I could smell the protein soup of its breath. I whirled to look, and saw the whale’s dorsal in the green fluorescence of the night-vision monocular. For an instant, as I crested a wave, I thought I saw other fins, too. The fins appeared to be angling toward us.
I continued to stare through the green-eye, waiting for another wave to lift me as I spoke slowly. “Do us both a favor. Let’s swim to shore and ask the experts how we can help with the stranding-” I stopped.
Yes… there were more dorsal fins-two fins vectoring from the north, cutting green wakes. They were triangular fins, three feet high- as large as whale dorsals… but the fins weren’t rounded at the tips. I am not an expert on whales. But I could identify these fins expertly.
It was tarpon season, as Tomlinson had said. The oceangoing meat eaters had come shallow to feed.
Sharks.
I grabbed Tomlinson’s shoulder, turned him, and said, “Out there. Hammerheads. Two, and they’re coming this way. Twelve- or thirteen-footers, maybe a thousand pounds. Get your knees up, pull your arms in tight.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“No. But they’ll shit both of us if they’re feeding.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
He knew from my tone I wasn’t.
“How close?” He thrashed the water, straining to get a look.
I grabbed him again. “Quit splashing. Arms in tight, like you’re a chunk of wood. They’re thirty yards out, closing fast.”
“You can see them?” His voice was shaking.
Yes, I could see them. Each time I crested a wave, the dorsal fins were closer. Their zigzag trajectory was a froth of green. They had locked on to their targets. Us.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“But sharks don’t feed on people! You always say that.”
“They were attracted by the whales’ distress calls. We’re not people out here. We’re the smallest mammals on the menu.”
“Damn, Doc! I was just starting to get my groove back!”
I said, “Maybe they’ll just bump us and move on.”
“Bump us. I’ll piss my damn pants dry. Hey, wait-” He managed to laugh. “-my pants… I’m wearing Yankee pinstripes. Unless the bastards eat their own, I’m sharkproof.”
I replied, “Just to use that line, we’ve got to make it back.” I took a few strokes to consolidate our profile… but it was too late. “Don’t move. They’re here.”
I threw my hands out to fend off as two submarine shapes surfaced within reach, both dorsals higher than my head. Their skin was an armor-work of denticles. I banged one with my fist, kicked at the other. They brushed past with feline indifference, throwing a wake. The sharks arched away, then submerged. Their sensors had identified us. Meat.
“Where’d they go? You see ’em?”
“No,” I said. A few seconds later, though, I said, “Yes.”
The hammerheads were circling back.
The only weapon I had was a folding knife, single blade. I fished the knife out of my pocket and opened it, aware on some internal level of a chemical burn moving through my circulatory system. It was as familiar as the roaring in my ears. It signaled an adrenal overload that keys the fight-or-flight instinct. In some, it also keys rage.
Knife out, I began to sidestroke toward the sharks, charging them as they charged me. Irrational-rage often is.
Suddenly and inexplicably calm, Tomlinson called, “It’s okay, I’ve been warning the whales. I’m ready. If it gives them time to run, I don’t mind sacrificing myself.”
Over my shoulder, I hollered, “Send a message for me. If your whales run instead of attack, they deserve to die,” venting anxiety by voicing what I expected of myself because the hammerheads were on us again.
I could see their fins sculpting the weight of the waves. I could see their eyes set apart on stalks as flexible as glider wings. The hammerheads looked like alien spacecrafts tipped with bright black lights. Their dragon tails made a keening sound as they ruddered water.
One of the sharks submerged. I realized that it would probably hit me first. Maybe the second shark would cruise past and take Tomlinson. It was an observation-objective, unemotional, like the sea, like sharks. If it happened, it happened.
Knife extended, I lunged forward and downward toward the shark. The night-vision monocular was waterproof, but not designed to focus underwater. Black water became green. There were vague images beneath me, like moons adrift. There were glowing shapes the size of boats. Shapes moved, creating swirling contrails. I used the knife to stab and stab again, but connected with nothing.
Then the sea exploded.
Twice, the sea exploded.
I got my head above water, confused because the sky was exploding, too. I watched a whale arc across the stars, jaws locked on to the midsection of a hammerhead shark. The animals cartwheeled, then crashed back to sea. The shock wave was seismic.
To my right, there was a depth charge percussion of similar magnitude. The whales had nailed the second shark.
Tomlinson was beside me as twin shock waves lifted us. “Holy mother of God! Did you feel that?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you see that?”
“Yes.”
Adrenaline was draining from my system. I felt weak, nauseous. I lay back and allowed the buoyancy of saltwater to support me, aware that whales were now moving away, pointing out to sea.
“Let’s get back to the boat. I could use a beer.”
“Oh, yeah.”
On the ride back to Dinkin’s Bay, Tomlinson couldn’t stop repeating himself: “You told the whales to attack, and they attacked. You doubt you have mojo? Doc-they got your message!”
6
Half an hour later, as Tomlinson climbed aboard his sailboat, I said to him, “Use your psychic powers and tell me who turned off the lights in the lab.”
It was 4 a.m., still dark, but the marina’s boat basin was streaked with reflections of mast lights and Japanese lanterns strung for Dinkin’s Bay’s weekly party.
The party was tonight, I realized. Friday-June 21st, the summer solstice.
The cruisers, trawlers, and sailboats were buttoned up tight, air conditioners laboring on this black June morning as owners slept.
“You’re sure you left the lights on?”
I remembered glancing over my shoulder as we crossed the bay, my windows distinctive because of the yellow bulbs.
“I’m sure. And if the power goes off, I’ve got a propane generator. It’s automatic.”
Once again, my eyes scanned the mangrove shoreline, from the marina to my lab. The windows were the same flat gray as the lab’s tin roof.
“Maybe Shay changed her mind and came back. Or it could be the lady biologist you’re dating. You said she had some interesting quirks. There’s the explanation, Doc. That’s not darkness, it’s an invitation. Personally, a dark window is something I’ve never been able to resist.”
I said, “You’re probably right,” willing to agree because Tomlinson was eager for me to be gone. I knew the signs.
On the return trip, he’d decompressed by swallowing something he didn’t want me to see-a pill? A sliver of mushroom? He confided that he had an ounce of sinsemilla, a potent, seedless variety of marijuana, and I broke an old rule and gave him permission to light up. He smoked the joint and finished the six-pack-a bizarre-looking, stringy-haired Cyclops as he focused the night-vision monocular, crooning, “Ooohh…” and “Ahhhhhh…” watching meteors blaze.