I said, “Agreed. But you’re not going to put me in the middle again.”
As we pulled away, I glanced over my shoulder. In the mangrove distance, the marina was a cluster of lights. To the east, the yellow windows of my lab were a solitary constellation, set apart by distance and a darkened space.
I turned toward the cut through the western shoal. It’s a propeller track no wider than a ditch. I lowered the bow, and allowed bottom pressure to funnel us into the trough, engine kicking a rooster tail until we were in deeper water. Tomlinson gripped the rail in silence.
Boats communicate efficiency through the hull. I experimented with trim until I felt the illusion that speed and buoyancy increased in the same silken instant. But the wind was northeast and a heavy chop slammed us. My skiff is among the smoothest and driest ever built-a twenty-one-foot Maverick. Even so, the bay was miserable.
I had to raise my voice to be heard. “I’m heading for the gulf. It’s a couple of miles extra, but calmer.”
Tomlinson replied, “Rough water’s trouble-beer gets foamy, and I could chip a tooth. But is it faster? Getting to those whales is all I care about.”
I said, “Then hold on,” and turned so we were running with the wind.
Ahead was the bridge Shay and I had crossed an hour earlier. It was a strange juxtaposition. In a car, even while discussing blackmail, the world seemed safer for the linkage of asphalt. Not in a boat. Beneath the bridge, in darkness, even as cars passed overhead, stars illustrated the emptiness of space. The safe world ended on the horizon where navigation markers blinked.
When we rounded Lighthouse Point, I found calm water outside the shoal, and asked Tomlinson to break out the MUMs night-vision system because it was so damn dark. It is not a gadget found in boating catalogs. The monocular is fourth-generation technology, a present to me from military pals who specialized in coming ashore quietly after long night swims. It is waterproof to sixty feet, and worn on a headband like a surgical optic. Slip it on, hit the switch, and the blackest night becomes high noon as if seen through a Heineken bottle. A starless sky turns fiery with meteors and stars.
As I removed my glasses and got the monocular locked and focused, Tomlinson muttered, “I love wearing the green-eye. All the fun of van Gogh skies and no risk of losing an ear. Or doing something really stupid.”
The green-eye. His pet name for the thing.
I told him, “It’s yours on the trip back,” as I nudged the tach up to 4200 rpm.
In eerie jade light, we flew along the beach as Sanibel slept, past condos, hotels, and sea grape estates. The sky was animated with meteors that were invisible to the few insomniacs roaming the tide line. They turned toward the sound of our engine, unaware that I could see them clearly- probably wondering why a small boat was gulfside on a night so empty.
Half mile off North Captiva Island, we spotted whales. Spotted the spume from their blowholes first because the spray was backlit by a campfire on the beach. The fire turned each geyser into a mist of sparks that liquefied upon descent. The whales appeared as areas of unsettled darkness, but their skin glowed like wet clay.
As I slowed to approach the beach, Tomlinson surprised me, saying, “Doc, I forgot to ask. Did you see your mail?”
"What?”
“Your mail-I couldn’t help noticing the return address on that envelope. I just now remembered-”
“Later. I don’t want to miss this. This is a pretty spectacular scene, if you haven’t noticed.”
“But I’m curious. I know you’ve been waiting to find out.”
I said patiently, “I saw the envelope. I didn’t open it.”
“Seriously?”
“A few hours isn’t going to change anything.” I pointed as a whale spouted. “Isn’t this more important?”
Tomlinson gave me a brotherly nudge. “A very kendo attitude, man. Death has everyone’s number-but we don’t have to answer when the bastard dials. Spiritually, you just keep getting hipper. The whales know it. When we hit the water, watch how they react. Then follow my lead.”
I said, “Hold on. These whales have teeth the size of my fist, and they aren’t your friends. I haven’t read of any attacks on people, but-”
“Don’t worry, we’re simpatico.”
“No doubt. But I called experts for a reason. There are written protocols when it comes to strandings.”
“But the whales aren’t talking to your experts.”
“Maybe not. But we are.”
Tomlinson mumbled a reply as I turned into the sea. When I gave the word, he dropped anchor and began feeding out scope. Even with the engine idling, I could hear the sonar chirps and clicks of whales communicating.
“They’re all around. At least a dozen.”
I told him, “More. Twenty… maybe thirty.” Through the green-eye, I could see whales hobbyhorsing close to the boat, and pods of whales a quarter mile offshore. Their heads were streamlined, not bulbous, so they were false killer whales. They were moving toward the beach where people surrounded two animals that lay stranded inside a sandbar. One fluke tail moved oddly, like a broken windup toy. The other whale rocked motionless in the waves.
I was getting a stern anchor ready as Tomlinson said, “You gotta believe me, man. I’ve been channeling for the last half hour.”
“Channeling.”
“Communicating. They’re panicked from the distress calls. They rush to help, but they can’t help. There’s an emotional meltdown. They freak, then charge the beach. That’s why I have to do this.”
"Do what?”
He was stripping off his shirt and baseball socks. “What I was called to do. Universal Mind’s calling the shots, not me. I’m just a conduit. I have no control.”
“No argument here. But wait until we get the boat secured before you go talk to the fish, okay? We’re still in fifteen feet of water.”
Instead of replying, Tomlinson rolled off the boat, wearing only his baseball pants. He submerged, then surprised me by coming up on the other side, already explaining as he combed water from his hair. “They want us here. Not just me-you, too. That envelope popped into my mind for a reason. You’ll see.”
I realized I didn’t know which envelope he was talking about. The letter from Merlin Starkey, or the results of my brain scan?
“Come on, doctor. We’ve got to hurry- Whoa!”
I ducked away as a whale surfaced, showering the boat with spray. Tomlinson reached to touch the animal as two more whales broached in tandem.
“How’s that for a welcome? Believe me now?”
“No.”
“You will. Follow me!”
I expected Tomlinson to turn toward shore. Instead, he began swimming toward open sea. What the hell was he doing? I yelled his name. Yelled it again and ordered him back-“We’ve got another anchor to set!”-but he kept going.
“I know you hear me! Tomlinson? Tomlinson! You… hippie flake.”
Now there were four whales alongside him. He wasn’t a good swimmer, but his long arms milled the water steadily as he climbed waves seaward. The animals used their fluke tails, maneuvering to stay close.
I watched for several seconds, surprised, and thinking, I’ll be damned. They really are following him. But then I realized the linkage was fanciful, not rational. A more likely explanation was that the pursuit instinct is common in sea creatures, mammals included. The whales weren’t following him, they were shadowing him. I had to stop the man. I got busy.
Going after him in the boat was risky. He was sandwiched between animals that weighed a ton or more. If the engine spooked them, he’d be crushed.
Instead, I threw the engine into reverse, swinging shoreward on the bow anchor, as I pulled off shirt and shoes. When the boat was positioned, I dropped the second anchor, then slid over the side, still wearing the waterproof monocular. Tomlinson hadn’t gotten far, only about fifty yards. He’d be easy to catch as long as I could see him.
I bulled my way through the surf line, doing the lifeguard’s crawl stroke. Whenever I lost visual contact, I stopped and sculled on roller-coaster waves until I spotted him floundering among whales, then I set off again.