Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal (15 page)

We’re trying to get down to Bill’s Triangle fast as we can in
the not-too-swift (appropriate, given who she’s named after)
Georgette. She’s no secret now, by the way, as several other brigs
have seen us. One was a kindly fisherman. Good news there:
He sold us a few cans of food and some Manila rope suitable
for harpoon line. Bad news: The kindly part was an act. He
subsequently sold our location to the Tortolans, and a few
minutes later, one of their navy cruisers crossed our path. They
came within fifty yards. But they didn’t fire at us. Didn’t even
shout a nasty word across the sea lane.
For this we’ve got Sybil to thank. She’d sent Conch’s
royal attorneys to Tortola to get the extradition order against
me torn up on the grounds that it was—this isn’t the exact legal
terminology they used but it’s close enough—crap. As it turns
out, though, this could be a very bad turn of events. See, they
don’t do as good a job teaching Wiliness 101 at the Conch
School of Law as they do at the Ivy-assed places Mutherford and
his Bluepeace posse went. Those bastards immediately had me
brought me up on a new, much more serious charge.
As a result, starting today I’m being tried in absentia
(Mutherford exploited a loophole in Tortolan law, which was
written in 1831 by a senile ex-con—the only guy on the island
with legal experience) for an illegal whale-killing off Tortola in
2001. Cetaceanicide (legalese for homicide of a whale) is a pretty
heavy charge in these waters—ironically, because everyone wants
to stay on good trading terms with Conch. If I’m found guilty,
Vurman and his navy’ll be able to come fire at us at will, with
new, bigger and better weapons they got just for the occasion.
There’s never a good time to have a navy trying to kill you, but
as we’ve got little fuel and just one harpoon to defend ourselves
with, now’s a particularly not-good time.
Worse, Mutherford will be able to bring the U.S.
Navy in on the act—he’ll have grounds to extradite me for
those California whale killings he’s always yammering about.
Sidestepping Tortolan law enforcement’s one thing, but
America’s would be impossible, unless Sybil can score me a top
job at a big oil company.

At the time of that cetaceanicide in Tortola, in 2001, I was at
the cat food cannery in Oakland. Also I never even saw a whale
outside of an aquarium till the night in 2003 the blubbery
bastard ate my wife, kid and arm. So you’d think I’ve got a pretty
good case. But you’ve got to worry Mutherford has something up
his pinstriped sleeve.
Another worry: When you’re tried in absentia on Tortola,
they get someone to stand in for you. Moses, who once tended
bar on Tortola (the bar, the most profitable in the Caribbean,
started losing money the day they hired him, and they soon let
him go) knows the guy they got to play me.
“Herm’s his name,” Moses said. “We had to pry him off
the bar every night—a complete drunk.” Moses would certainly
know about that. My hope is his memory is off—a good chance.
We’ll find out right now.
Here’s the trial transcript as it comes in live via the
Tortolan Daily Ahoy’s website:
BAILIFF: Please state your full name for the court.
“OPENSHAW”: Herman Sinker.
BAILIFF: The name of the guy you’re standing in for, idiot.
OPENSHAW: Oh, right, Gus Openshaw. [hiccups]
MUTHERFORD: Mr. Openshaw, what is your occupation?
OPENSHAW: I work in a cat factory.
PUBLIC DEFENDER: Objection, Your Honor.
JUDGE: Yeah, okay.
OPENSHAW: Cat food. Sorry.
MUTHERFORD: Mr. Openshaw, do you not own a home at
Number 3 Wharf Lane in Mendocino, California?
OPENSHAW: Sorry, man, this always throws me. When you say,
“Do you not,” if I say, “yes,” does that mean “I don’t own it” or
“I do—”?
MUTHERFORD (perturbed): Do you own a house in Mendocino?
OPENSHAW: Yeah.
PUBLIC DEFENDER: Your Honor, I object—
JUDGE: Mr. Mutherford, surf’s up in an hour. Can we just cut
to the whale-killing stuff?
MUTHERFORD: This is crucial to it, Your Honor.
JUDGE: Okay, you’re cool then.
MUTHERFORD: Mr. Openshaw, is it not true that—let me
rephrase: Your house in Mendocino nearly burnt down in 2001, right?
OPENSHAW: Yup.
MUTHERFORD: A few days before the fire, did authorities near
Mendocino find a forty-ton sperm whale and a twenty-five-ton
sperm whale who had both been butchered by poachers?
OPENSHAW: Uh-huh.
MUTHERFORD: And is it correct that the fire inspectors
found that the fire in your house had spread rapidly due to the
presence in the house of illegal spermaceti—sperm whale oil?
[pause]
BAILIFF: Oh, shite, Your Honor, he passed out.
JUDGE: Bollocks. Okay, court’s adjourned while we get some
coffee into our Gus Openshaw.

Here’s the courtroom scrimshaw of “Gus Openshaw.” At least
he’s thinner than me.

“The smoking gun,” Mutherfold bellowed to the Tortolan jury
in his summation, “is spermaceti, or sperm whale oil. Traces
of it were found—literally smoking—in Mr. Openshaw’s shack
in Mendocino in 2001, and then again here on Tortola a short
distance from the cetaceanicide scene.”
As you might remember me saying in my testimony on
Guava, the place in Mendocino nearly did burn down. It was
indeed back in 2001, not long after my Uncle Walt had just left
it to me—and I was glad as the fire saved me time crating up his
crap; I only wished it had burned all the way so as to expedite
dumping the property.
I’ve got little doubt Mutherford’s evidence is genuine,
that there was sperm oil that burned there. Mutherford’s got a
whole 37-page report from some Mendocino fire expert guys that
seemed pretty legit (I’ll upload it if anyone’s ever having trouble
falling asleep nights). Mutherford’s a rabid-to-the-point-of-insane
fanatic, but an ethical one.
In any case, why would he or anyone’ve been plotting an
elaborate conspiracy back then against a poor cat food canner?
My theory: The oil just happened to be there from days gone
by when Mendocino was a whaling burg. I’d’ve had a hard time
convincing the jury of that though. For one thing, I’m out right
now trying to kill a whale—not good circumstantially. Also,
Herman Sinker, my stand-in at the trial, offered “the oil just
happened to be there” as his defense, drawing laughs from the courtroom.

A courtroom scrimshaw of a member of the jury listening to “my” testimony. I think she got selected on the basis that she looks like she’d like to run me over in her golf cart.

The jury deliberated for five minutes. That was just over what
to order for lunch. After lunch (conch salad sandwiches), they
delivered the verdict: “Guilty as Hell.”
This is no small blow. Now not only will Admiral Vurman
and his Tortolan navy come gunning, the U.S. will send boats
too, to extradite me for the California business. The good news
is I’ll likely get my shot at the bastard before that happens—the
extradition process’ll involve a government committee delegating
a subcommittee to pick a special panel to review the case. Bad
news is they will come eventually. “If only ’cause oil’s involved,”
Nelson said.
Right this minute, Stupid George is jumping around on
the bow as if he stuck a toe in an electrical socket. Again. Pardon
me for just a sec, I’ll see what the heck he wants.
“Thar blows a whale with a B on his noggin!” he’s saying.
I’ve got to log off.

Seconds after Stupid George sighted the bastard, Moses and
Nelson had the whaleboat lowered and were bobbing along with
her in a choppy Caribbean.
Duq staggered out from the Georgette’s galley under the
weight of a sack of cutlery and makeshift weapons—we had only
the one harpoon, remember. (I’ve got to say, Duq’s one inventive
fellow when it comes to pain. He rigged up our toaster so you
can release the lever and the spring-load thing fires out forks.
Also, I’d heard of martial artists who can throw everyday playing
cards so quick they act like weapons. But who knew from twenty
feet away you could kill a man with a spatula?)
I rushed cross-deck and climbed over the rail and into
the whaleboat just after Duq. With the engine busted, him, me,
Moses and Nelson would be rowing. I know, you’re wondering:
Why choose myself and Nelson when we’ve only got the one arm
each? Well, we tried teaching George to use an oar, what can I
tell you?
Flarq, who’d man the tiller and serve as assistant
harpooner, leapt aboard next, carrying a huge barrel with a mile
of coiled harpoon line in it like the thing weighed no more than
a beach ball.
Finally, Thesaurus thundered into the bow brandishing
our lone remaining harpoon. He’d spent many hours rubbing
the wooden shaft with a seagull bone to smooth out the smallest
bumps and splinters, ensuring it’d fly as straight as possible.
He’d also spent a lot of time tweaking the toggle (the thing on
the head that, after piercing your bastard, pivots at a right angle
to the shaft, preventing withdrawal), shining the iron, and, of
course, praying.
The shining part may’ve been a mistake. I know,
eliminating dirt improves aerodynamicness and all. But the
metal flashed like a firecracker in the rising sun and seemed
to spook the whale. He turned tail and swam faster than I’d’ve
thought possible short of the invention of Whale Wheaties.
“Start her, men,” I shouted (that being the correct nautical
term for “Let’s go!” in this case), and, oars creaking nigh the
breaking point, we launched into the whitecaps and after the
bastard.

For ten minutes we stayed
on his tail, all of us grunting
like oxes—Thesaurus and Flarq
paddling bow and stern and
me, Duq, Nelson and Moses
thrashing at the water with
oars, our sweat-soaked bodies
leaving wakes of vapor in the
early-morning chill. Problem is,
the whale wasn’t slowing any
and we were near busting lungs.
Also, he was swimming real low
in the water—much more than usual. Thesaurus feared he might
fathom.

“I have idea,” Duq gasped.
“Let’s have,” I said, then caught my breath and added,
“it?”
“Throw spatula.”
“I thought it’s only good from within twenty feet?” We
were well over a hundred feet behind the whale.
“New plan: Thesaurus throw it over bastard head. It flash
in sun like harpoon before. Bastard then turn around to us.”
Expressing the sentiments of the whole boat, Nelson said,
“Duq, man, anybody ever tell you you’re a genius?”
“Yes. George. The time I teach him how to remember
what shoe go on what foot.”
Flarq meanwhile retrieved the spatula from the sack. Then
he wound up and flung. A strong throw, but flopping end over
end. And falling short. It landed on the bastard’s head. But then
it skipped forward and fell in the water right smack in front of
his eyes. It caught the sun like a flashbulb going off.

Suddenly, it was as if the whale had yanked his emergency
brake. Then he turned. Not back towards us as we’d hoped
though. To his right.
“Even better,” said Thesaurus.
The reason: The bastard’s starboard side was exposed and
well within harpoon range.
I once read a magazine article by this pro rugby player
about the perfect pass. This guy not only spent every day of his
life practicing so he could come close to throwing it, he spent
his nights dreaming about. And he wrote his vision of it, for
nine whole pages, how the spiral would catch the light with each
revolution like in a Rembrandt picture, etc., etc., as if he was
describing a goddess descending.
I hadn’t thought about that article since, not till
Thesaurus loosed the harpoon at the bastard today. It soared so
straight and so swift you’d have believed one of those gods he’s
always praying to had descended and invisibly guided it. The
Manila line attached to it sizzled all around the whaleboat like
lightning. Then the iron struck, ten or so feet forward of the
fin—right where you want it—and lodged in good and firm.
As you’d expect, trying to loose it, the whale leapt up. At
once it felt like my heart might do the same.
“Cut the line!” I shouted to Flarq. “We got the wrong
whale!”