Big Miracle (20 page)

Before Barrow's top whaling crews could make their way into the classroom assigned to them, it was clear they would have to move to accommodate all the people interested in attending the public meeting. There were more than a dozen Outsiders and around fifty Barrowans anxious to see what would happen to the trapped whales. They moved across the hall to a state-of-the-art semicircular audio visual projection auditorium filled with around a hundred padded theater chairs. That room was just big enough to seat everyone.

A short, powerfully built Eskimo man, wearing wide silver-frame glasses over dark sunken eyes and a rounded robust face, waited patiently to start the meeting. His name was Arnold Brower Jr., and he was one of the most successful whaling captains in Barrow. He was one of the top young “subsistence” whalers. His crew killed five bowhead whales during the spring season alone; an almost unheard of accomplishment, even for his mentor Malik.

Arnold Brower Jr., was part of one of the world's largest Inuit families. In fact, many of the hundred or so people in the auditorium were named Brower. It seemed that nearly every Eskimo in Barrow was either named Brower or had close relatives that were.

The Browers could trace their Eskimo lineage back thousands of years, but their name came from modern times. Their patriarch was a brash young explorer from New York City who came to Barrow in the 1880s in search of adventure. Brower discovered much more than even his burgeoning dreams could fathom. He found an immense fortune and a stunning legacy. The former came from selling coal to new steam-powered commercial whaling ships plying through cold Arctic waters in search of bounty. The latter, legend has it, came from Brower taking prodigious advantage of the Eskimo's most enticing cultural trait: spouse sharing.

No one knew for sure how many Inupiats were actually sired by Charlie Brower, but within a generation, there were literally hundreds of them. They were everywhere. Brower had dozens of “family” trading posts stretching all along Alaska's North Slope. They were all run by people who claimed to be Browers. Soon there were so many Browers in and around Barrow, they built their own section of town and named it, aptly, Browerville.

What started as a haphazard collection of traditional sod and whalebone huts had become a veritable Barrow suburb by 1988. Browers of all shapes and sizes lived in heated homes with running water. There was even a shuttle bus to take them the four hundred yards to “downtown” Barrow. When they died, Browers were laid to rest in their own family burial ground.

Like many of Barrow's subsistence hunters, Arnold Brower Jr. took pay from the North Slope Borough. But unlike many others, Brower actually worked for his living. He was one of Mayor George Ahmaogak's top aides. Since the mayor was out of town attending an Alaska Federation of Natives meeting, and the deputy mayor, Warren Matumeak, was unavailable, Arnold Jr. was left to run the whaling captains' meeting. Emergency whaling meetings were rare, but if ever there was an occasion that could be called an emergency, this was it. No Barrowan was threatened with starvation. Nor were there massive fleets of commercial whaling vessels just offshore killing all the whales Barrow used to depend on for survival. This threat was uniquely modern.

To the reporters dazzled by his strange-looking boots and classic Inuit face, Malik appeared to be a primitive Eskimo whose features would make colorful national news footage. They would soon learn that Malik was much more than a great video sound-bite.

Malik knew that, for whatever reason, tens of millions of people in the Lower 48 were glued to the saga of the three stranded whales gasping for breath at the top of the world. This was Barrow's first and probably last chance to make any kind of impression on so many Outsiders. Malik also realized that if the cameras captured the image of a cruel band of Inuit hunters, no matter how small, out to kill a few more beloved whales, it could mean the end of Eskimo whaling, and hence the end of traditional Inuit life. Once the gruesome pictures came down off Aurora I, the damage would be done.

The only question left to answer would be the severity of the consequences. Malik had to do all he could to make sure it never happened. Just before Arnold Jr. moved to open the meeting, Malik gently but forcefully pushed the startled Brower into a corner. Malik insisted on talking privately with a group of four stubborn young whalers still clamoring to slaughter the trapped animals. Speaking in his native Inupiat, Malik told the young men, his own disciples, that the stakes of their impetuous action were far too high. Shaking his head in stern, somber rebuke, Malik demanded they cancel their request to harvest the whales.

The young whalers huddled together and quickly reached a consensus. One of them approached Arnold Brower Jr., and whispered something in his ear. Brower sat down in front of the three television microphones hastily taped down on the table. “Is everyone ready?” he asked.

“The whaling captains of Barrow have decided to use our best efforts to save the three Agvigluaqs,” he said, using the Inupiat word for gray whales. The room broke into a wild cheer. Arnold Brower's short declaration removed Operation Breakout's last and biggest obstacle, the local Eskimo whalers. For all of Colonel Carroll's military expertise, Ron Morris's camera presence, and Cindy Lowry's fearless determination to mount a rescue, the critical move belonged to the Eskimos. As an increasingly anxious world would soon see, the Inuits would do far more than approve the rescue. They would carry it out.

9

Colonel Carroll's Impossible Task

The instant Arnold Brower Jr. made his unexpected announcement, he completely changed the local debate about what to do with the three stranded whales. The media on hand would record the whalers' 180-degree turn. It was no longer a question of whether to kill the whales but how to save them.

Roy Ahmaogak, the local hunter who discovered the whales eight days earlier, nervously leaned over to speak into the portable public address system. His words were the first spoken after the whalers decided to help free the three leviathans. Speaking in the thick guttural accent characteristic of Inupiat Eskimos, he said, “It seems to me that before we can free the whales, we have to figure out a way to keep them alive until the barge gets here. Does anybody have any ideas?”

Geoff, Craig, and Ron Morris sat together facing the whalers. Unaccustomed to speaking in front of bright lights and rolling television cameras, Craig George looked around apprehensively before mustering the courage to offer his suggestion.

“Arnold, what about the saws you used today?” Gaining confidence with the nods of approval from people around him, Craig continued. “Arnold Jr. was out there today and his chain saw opened up the hole real good. I can't see why they couldn't go right on doing it for the next couple of days until the barge gets here.”

Chain saws were among the first tools Barrowans bought with their new oil money back in the early 1970s. They have been one of the most important weapons in the Inuit arsenal ever since. Unlike the lumberjack who viewed the chain saw as a time-saver, the Eskimo saw it as a lifesaver. Ice was more than an inconvenience; it was the constant barrier separating the hunter from the food and furs he needed to survive. The buzz saw not only saved the Eskimo from the arduous chore of manually chopping through thick ocean ice, it saved him much precious energy which allowed him to hunt for longer periods of time.

On Friday afternoon, Brower had an idea. If he could cut holes in the ice with his chain saw to hunt seals, why not use it to enlarge the whales' hole? The lone hole was shrinking several feet each day. By Friday, it was only ten feet wide by twelve feet long, barely larger than the head of a single whale. Unless the rescuers did something fast, the hole would completely freeze over.

Without bothering to tell anyone, Brower loaded one of his chain saws and a rusty gas can onto a wooden dogsled and hitched it to the back of his ski machine. Impervious to blinding winds and bone-chilling temperatures, the hardy Eskimo drove out to the whales.

After fiddling with the carburetor, Brower brought his rusty chain saw to life with a roar in the minus 25 degrees cold. He carried the saw to the middle of the longer side of the rectangular hole and cut several blocks of ice from the edge. After Craig described Arnold's success earlier in the day, the whalers decided to use a couple of their own saws to further expand the hole.

Ever since they found themselves imprisoned in a small hole in the ice, the whales had to make a choice. They could learn to dramatically alter their standard breathing pattern, or they would die. They chose to live.

Because of its distinct habitat, the gray whale developed an equally distinct breathing pattern. Rarely, if ever, would the gray whale swim more than a mile from shore. Hugging close to the ocean's edge, it lived almost exclusively in shallow waters. Gray whales spent most of their lives in water not much deeper than the length of their bodies. Other whales, like the magnificent humpback, lived farther out from shore. Their immensely powerful breaches could vault 80,000 pounds and forty feet of whale clear out of the water. The force of the humpback crashing back into the water smashed off more barnacles in a second than a gray whale could shake off in a year of gravel rolling. This spectacle delighted increasing numbers of tourists who came to Alaska. Their hosts became flourishing entrepreneurs in a growing industry Outsiders called whale watching.

Biologists long thought gray whales didn't breach because they lived in shallower waters than other whales. They never deviated from their traditional pattern of arching their backs just enough to expose their blowholes above the waterline and breathing horizontal to the surface. The moment Roy Ahmaogak spotted three heads popping in and out the one small hole eight days before, he learned something new. A gray whale could lift its huge head clear out of the water if it meant survival.

On Sunday morning, Geoff revved up the power saw to cut the ice around the middle of the hole. Malik vigorously motioned for him to stop. Geoff knew more about whales than most whites, but Malik knew more than Geoff. Shoving a buzz saw into the middle of the water where the whales needed to surface would surely drive them away. With nowhere to go, the whales would swim to their deaths, unable to breathe. Malik wanted to proceed cautiously. He sensed the whales had to become accustomed to the roar of the tools man would use to free them.

Malik took two running saws and placed them on the ice at opposite ends of the hole. Then he motioned the few onlookers to wait quietly. If the whales saw that the water above them looked unchanged from the last time they surfaced, they might take a chance.

Malik was right. After an abnormally long dive, the whales approached the open hole with trepidation. They tentatively lingered just a few feet below the surface before cautiously breaking the water's roiling plain. This time, there was no lounging in the open water. Just as they had breathed in shifts when they were first discovered, the whales started to do so again, first the two larger whales, then the baby. Each whale breathed deeply and quickly dove back down under the ice.

Only when the whales started to grow accustomed to the saws' loud vibrations did Malik figure it was okay to start using them. He slowly pushed his saw's sharp point into the edge of the thick ice. Malik, perhaps the most seasoned Eskimo whaler alive, was unprepared for what he saw. Moments after shying away from the sound, the whales seemed to relish it. Perhaps, Malik thought, they sensed that the loud and ungainly surface instruments were miraculously splitting the ice threatening to entomb them. Malik had a new worry: how to keep the three whales from accidentally rubbing up against the lethal blades of a chain saw at full throttle.

Geoff, Craig, and Ron Morris were relieved when they saw how quickly the whales seemed to reconcile themselves to the presence of the power saws. But they were astonished at the way the whales seemed to embrace the tools as their salvation. Craig mentioned to Geoff how much Cindy Lowry would regret not having been there to see it. But by early that Sunday morning, Cindy was already en route to Barrow. Her anxious wait the night before paid off.

*   *   *

As soon as the whaling captains' meeting had adjourned, Geoff and Craig excitedly rushed to call Cindy from one of the newly installed touch-tone pay phones in the bright lobby of Barrow High. It was the call she and Kevin had nervously awaited all night. She had told the biologists to call the minute there was any word. She tried not to watch the phone as she breathlessly waited for it to ring. Kevin left to pick up take-out food and a movie. He was glad to get out if only for a few minutes. Watching Cindy strut so anxiously about was more than he could bear.

Anticipating Cindy's mood, Kevin scanned the shelves of the local video shop looking for anything that would distract her. He heard Cindy mention she wanted to see
No Way Out,
about a young naval officer's relationship with a beautiful Washington politico. Only after the rescue would that seem a prescient selection.

“They want to save them,” Craig exultantly told Cindy. Already clutching Kevin's elbow, she almost punctured his skin with her fingernails. Not only was she denying him his long-promised weekend, now she was causing physical harm.

Later that night, Cindy tossed and turned. She was booked on the noon flight to Barrow and she hadn't even started to get ready. Although she lived in Alaska, Cindy didn't have the proper clothes for the Arctic. She didn't have any food, either. For all she knew about Barrow, which was precious little, Cindy thought if she didn't bring her own food, she would only have whale, walrus, or seal meat to choose from.

Cindy had not read a newspaper since she first devoted herself to saving the three whales. Her only source of news came through a cable hooked to the back of Kevin's television. None of what she saw or heard prepared her for the remarkable and unique stage upon which the drama was being played out. There was no mention of the ironies or the Eskimos, and there was certainly nothing about Pepe's Mexican restaurant, Arctic Pizza, $200-dollar ski machine rides, or toilet paper with wooden clubs. It was as though there was no human existence, just the forlorn images of an endless white ocean melting imperceptibly into an equally infinite white tundra. Although she was the one to propel the three naturally stranded whales into the national spotlight, Cindy Lowry had not learned a thing about the Arctic's largest and most important town where she would arrive nine days after the whales were first discovered.