Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal (14 page)

I so envy the guys whose families and limbs were eaten by plain
old, simple-minded, by-the-books whales. Dickhead seemed
wise to Whale Killing 101. My hope was he hadn’t taken
Naval Strategy 101. Having devised up a plan accordingly, our
whaleboats cracked through the whitecaps, one beside the other,
on a head-on collision course with the bastard.
Thesaurus prayed to his local god. “Oh, Sunoco,” he sang,
“grant my harpoon the impossible so that I may live to serve you
another day.”
Moses prayed that either Thesaurus or I had brought
along a flask so he could steady his nerves. For some reason I’d
thought having a hammered assistant harpooner would be a bad
idea, so I’d left the liquor behind. Seeing Moses shaking like an
alarm clock now, I realized I’d been wrong on that one.
As he’d done before, Dickhead charged. And it was as
if the waves got scared and jumped the hell out of his way. His
shadow suddenly turned our deck black. Much as I would’ve
liked to ram the bow smack into the bastard’s blubbery face, I
signaled to the other boat. Per our plan, Nelson, at the helm,
spun his wheel to port and the boat disappeared behind the
bastard’s right side. I turned my wheel to starboard and our boat
screamed past the bastard’s snoot on his left side.
The bastard slowed, confused like. Probably he hadn’t
expected the two boats to separate. It was a big risk, as it robbed
us each of recourse if we lost our harpoon line or, worse, if
Dickhead dunked us. The reward was the chance to attack
Dickhead from both of his flanks.
I cut the engine about fifty feet off his left eye and,
looking straight into it, gave him the finger. I know, odds are
the significance of this was lost on him. But it felt real good.
Plus it distracted him from Thesaurus, who at the same time
rose amidships, reared back with his harpoon, and heaved. The
weapon left his hand like a jet taking flight. And suddenly it
was like we were smack in the center of a racetrack as the hemp
harpoon line sizzled around the whaleboat’s rails so hard that
smoke rose from it. “Hold your breath!” I ordered Moses.
He already was. We all were. Because the harpoon had
begun its descent towards the bastard.
P.S. The perspective might be a tiny bit off here, but please keep
that between us—for a guy with the emotional range of a sack of
rocks, Flarq’s pretty sensitive about his scrimshaws. In terms of
conveying what it’s like to be in the bastard’s shadow, though,
you can’t scrimshaw him too big.

The darted tip of Thesaurus’s harpoon disappeared into
Dickhead’s flank just north of his flipper. As good a shot as it
gets. Unless you’re the whale of course. With a howl, the bastard
arched into the air, trying to loose the iron. It held though. He
thundered down onto the water in hope of pounding it free. Still
no dice.
Thesaurus said a quick thanks to Sunoco. Then, to the
whale, he shouted, “I am coming to take that harpoon back.”
For once Dickhead did what a normal whale’s supposed
to. He bolted, not realizing we were attached to him by the
harpoon line. Next thing I knew, we were speeding after him,
our bow lifted out of the water by the suddenly taut line. You
often hear this compared to a ride in a sleigh. Half right. It’s like
a ride in Santa’s sleigh.
The air rushed past like the express train. Me, Moses and
Thesaurus clung to the gunwales for dear life. At the same time, I
had to agree when Moses exclaimed, “Is this the greatest high in
the world or what?” (So that’s why he got into whaling.)
I looked to Thesaurus, expecting him to express similar
sentiments. “I am still worried the whale might fathom and drag
us to our deaths,” he said evenly, “but otherwise I am enjoying
myself.”
A second later, though, he brightened. Flarq’s boat had
caught up, providing us a lifeline. Better still, Flarq, standing
amidships, loosed his harpoon. It rocketed towards the right
side of the bastard’s snoot. It didn’t make it though. En route,
it struck the harpoon foolishly planted there by me earlier
(and now sticking out like a mustache half), ricocheted off it,
and ended up hitting nothing but air. Gravity then claimed it
and it splashed into the sea. But it didn’t sink. The line from
Flarq’s whaleboat jerked it back up like a hooked fish. It jabbed
Dickhead in the flipper.
The worst place possible.
With a roar, the whale ducked beneath the surface, except
for his tail, which he flung straight toward the sky. Thesaurus
blanched—which is like a regular guy having a stroke. “Cut the
line, Moses!” he screamed.
It wasn’t immediately clear what good that’d do. Then
Dickhead’s tail came down at us like a bull whip. I don’t think I
need to explain why being joined to a thrashing, twenty-odd-ton
whip is bad.
Fortunately, Moses was used to following orders without
understanding them and had cut us free. At the same time, I
jerked the throttle. The current from Dickhead’s tail sent most
of the equipment flying out of the boat—including the remaining
harpoons and line. The edge of a fluke grazed the portside
corner of our stern. Luckily, that was it.
Flarq, Duq, and Nelson,
however, were much less
lucky. A second swipe of the
skyscraping tail and their boat
was particled. And there was no
sign of survivors.

Flarq, Duq, and Nelson didn’t surface. Of course we’ve got no
lifejackets. Why not? Because having them would’ve been smart.
Over a minute passed. Still no sign of them. Just the
shards of fiberglass that had been their whaleboat. Thesaurus,
Moses, and me watched from the stern of our whaleboat, hoping
their disappearance was simply a matter of them trying to swim
underwater and get as far away as they could from the twenty-
some-ton spooked cobra that was Dickhead’s tail.
Suddenly, fifty yards from the bastard, Nelson popped up.
And Duq appeared right nearby. They were banged up a bit, but
okay. At least for the moment.
Incredibly, Flarq swam underwater all the way to our
boat—a good 150 yards (evidently he’s got sea lion in his line). He
surfaced and hauled himself aboard amidships. He was bloodied
and bruised but not bothered in the slightest by it. Tucked into
his waistband was a harpoon. He drew it and spun at Dickhead.
His look alone could’ve killed many a bastard. Then he noticed
Duq and Nelson still in harm’s way. He turned to me and said,
“We could use the harpoon to try to haul them from the sea.”
Saving them was an easy decision. Especially since we
were out of harpoon line. I aimed the boat for Duq first—he was
closest.
“Mind the debris,” Thesaurus shouted to me, adding
“from the other boat!”
I saw his mouth move but his last few words were lost in
the hurricane whoosh of Dickhead’s tail descending onto Duq.
We were still forty, fifty yards away—too far to do anything for
him.
All the sudden, Duq raised his lance from beneath the
water and flung it up at Dickhead. It may’ve been just a pin to a
giant’s size-8700EEE foot, but it was enough to cause the bastard
to recoil, saving Duq from a pancaking. Seconds later we were
close enough for Duq to grab hold of the harpoon. Flarq lofted
him aboard.
Meanwhile, Dickhead cocked his tail back for another
swat. Nelson was treading water ten yards ahead of us. The giant
flukes boomed down right at him. We fished him from the water
an instant before they struck. The splash was so big though it
tipped our boat onto her starboard side. Everyone braced for
capsizing. Except the gargantuan Thesaurus. Without regard for
his body, he plunged into the portside bulwark. And righted us.
We were then out of Dickhead’s stomping range and into
figurative calm waters. As you know though, on my watch, calm
never lasts more than a shake of a fish’s tail. Nelson, still clinging
to the harpoon off the portside gunwale and waiting to board,
reached to Flarq’s outstretched arm with his left hand in order
to come aboard. Problem is Nelson has no left hand anymore.
He toppled backwards and into the drink. The phantom limb
phenomenon—happens to me all the time. Thus least surprised
of anyone, I lunged, grabbed him by the Pittsburgh Pirates logo,
and hauled him onto deck.
Saving Nelson had a steep price, I’m afraid. I’d taken my
focus off the wheel for a couple seconds, and the result was a
grinding like we’d ridden into an industrial buzz saw plant. I’d
run the engine flush over a chunk of the other whaleboat’s hull.
My own boat’s propeller shot out of the water, careened off the
debris, then flew at my head like a frisbee. I ducked beneath it,
keeping my head, fortunately (some might argue otherwise).
The remains of the engine sputtered sick-like to a halt. We
were dead in the water. That’s a figure of speech, of course. With
Dickhead’s tail a’swatting though, it seemed just a matter of time
till it was literal.
“We’d better swim for it,” Moses said.
“Those dudes’d sure like that,” Nelson said.
Moses didn’t know what dudes Nelson was talking about.
Me neither. Nelson pointed aft to the flock of monstrous dorsal
fins slicing through the surface.
“The sharks,” Flarq explained, “are drawn to the blood of
the whale.”
“Any chance they’ll take him on?” I asked, hopeful.
“When they get a good look at this whale,” Flarq said,
“they will turn tail and leave the Caribbean.”
“Well, thank goodness for Stupid George then,” I said.
The five others looked at me like I’d inhaled too much of
the hemp smoke (Moses a bit enviously). Then Thesaurus broke
into a smile. And one by one, the others did the same. Speeding
our way, they saw, was our brig the Georgette. By telling Stupid
George to go nowhere near her controls, I’d known he’d go
nowhere else.
P.S. Here’s a scrimshaw of
Tammi the Tunette that
Flarq did for George in
gratitude (Nelson claims
credit for the lyrics). I hope
George puts it in a smudge-proof container.

The good news is, thanks to George and the Georgette, we got
away from the bastard. The bad news is the bastard got away
from us. He submerged, swimming south.
Based on sightings of his pod we’ve gotten word of, it
seems he’s fixing to rejoin them in Bill’s Triangle, the vast patch
of sea south of the Caribbean. Because there’s little ship traffic
there, it’s likely the pod would choose it as a meet-up spot before
heading either to Australia or around the Cape of Good Hope
for winter.
Like the better-known Bermuda Triangle to the north,
Bill’s Triangle has had scores of mysterious ship disappearances.
Bill Humphlinger, the guy who named it, went to his grave
grousing that his Triangle never got its fair share of attention.
This is due in part to the paucity of civilized islands in the
area. That, as much if not more than the specter of the ship
disappearances, is why my crew’s reluctant to follow the bastard
there.
“There’s nowhere to buy stuff between here and the
Triangle, and certainly not in the Triangle itself, Cap,” Nelson
said. “We’ve only got enough fuel in the tanks to get there. We
could end up stranded with no hope of rescue—or worse.”
Also, as Flarq and Thesaurus pointed out, we’ve now
only got one harpoon and very little rope. Plus our fresh water
supply is low. Plus our grub supply is two or three days away from
depletion—then mess would be whatever Duq catches, and he’s
into turtle. Worst of all, according to Moses, we’re nearly out of
liquor. He’s also alarmed that we’re out of the cleaning fluid for
the deck, which is odd as no one ever cleans the deck.
Bill’s Triangle is where Dickhead’ll be though. And if we
don’t take a shot at him, we may not get one again until next
summer. If ever. So the decision for me is simple.
I assembled the crew on deck and told them, “Even if
I was articulate, I couldn’t tell you how much I appreciate all
you guys’ve done for me so far. I know going to Bill’s Triangle
now is crazy. So we’ll plot a course for the nearest safe harbor or
whatever, and I’ll drop you off. I myself have got to keep after
the bastard even if it comes down to a single shot at him with my
one remaining fist.”
The men’s faces grew dark. I didn’t get it. Accordingly, I
made one of those faces that says, “I don’t get it.”
“Going to Bill’s Triangle is crazy,” Nelson said, “but crazy
is what we do.” The nods said he was speaking for all the men.
“Please don’t sack us, Captain,” said Flarq.
“We’re sorry we were nancies about the supplies,” added
Thesaurus.
They didn’t mean a word of it. The hardcases weren’t
capable of saying what they really felt, but my gut translated it for
me. They were willing to join me, despite perils greater than any
they’d ever faced, for a reason almost as old as the sea, as strong
as any tide, and more important to them than anything on the
planet: We’re shipmates, in every sense of the word (except the
actual mating sense, of course).

P.S. Here’s all that remains of the H.M.S. Rotunda, the most
famous brig lost in Bill’s Triangle. Possibly folks would remember
the tragedy more if her cargo had been something other than
breadfruit.