Lingerie For Felons (33 page)

Suppositories. I swear, until that moment, I would never have believed that shoving my own finger up my own behind could be so entirely pleasurable. Just knowing that doing so was going to make the vomiting stop was enough to make me moan with relief.

By the time the nausea finally stopped, it was evening.

The afternoon had been taken up for most of the crew in meticulously planning an operation they were undertaking at dawn. Two of the team were going out in a rubber boat to try to board the Japanese whaling boat to speak to the crew. It was audacious and fascinating, based on Gandhian principles of trying to engage with the oppressors. The technical people had been planning the operation down to the last detail to ensure that it was as safe as possible, and the weather was scheduled to be calm for the operation.

Another rubber dinghy was to shadow them, to take pictures and document the event. I was amazed by the courage of these people and, now that the nausea had subsided, I was really looking forward to spending the night with them to hear more about their plans and stories of other battles fought and won.

But of course, things never go to plan.

After heating up a few cans of beans and eating some power bars, the group started to sing a few rounds of really off-key peace songs — really, I thought my Mom was the only one who still listened to Joni Mitchell. They weren't terribly keen when I suggested some power ballads. Given how cold and wet it was, I thought ‘November Rain' might have been appropriate. And they were kind of disgusted when I enquired, in a fit of desperation, where they kept the alcohol.

So, in the end, I gave up, and snuggled down in my incredibly warm, tested-in-the-Arctic sleeping bag for an early night. The seas had calmed somewhat, and for the first time all day, I finally felt like I understood why the hell nature might be worth protecting. The sea was kind of humming to me, and I came over all earth mother as I started to nod off with the delicious effects of the suppository keeping my stomach even and the lap-lap of the waves against the hull calming my shattered nerves. Then, just when I thought I had really experienced the full effects of what we were here for, it started. The singing.

Baleful songs rising up out of the ocean like eerie, breathy power ballads. Normally you only hear the songs with a hydrophone, but sometimes, in the right place, at the right time, you can hear them above the surface, amplified through the hull of the ship. The noise was so full, so meaty, that it seemed to form spirals of sound and emotion that went right up into the stars. One whale started and then the song seemed to be repeated and echoed all around us. My God, how many were there? How many whales were outside, trilling and groaning and crooning to each other in this crazy harmony?

I swear I felt like those big, beautiful whales were singing directly to the whalers. Trying to convince them how magical and special they were. How utterly worth saving. How criminal it would be to destroy them. I thought about Eve, and how impressed she would be by this symphony. And I made a decision. I was going to go with them. In the morning. In the second boat. To watch, document, take pictures. I was going to put aside all my petty human fear, and sickness, and do what I had come to do. The right way.

I was going to make sure I could tell Eve that I had done all that I could do.

Over the top — The Southern Ocean; November 15, 2012, midday

The morning dawned clear and bright. In the cold light of day, without any whale noises to spur me on, I almost lost my nerve. But then I realized I still had six hours to kill, and it was either stay on board watching the action unfold, or get out there and be part of it. Well, you know, kind of part of it. Our observation dingy wasn't going to attempt any boarding stuff like the two guys in the other craft.

We were going to be staying reasonably out of the way, and just observing and filming. There were three of us in my dinghy: someone to drive, someone to film, and me. Footage was going to be beamed live via wireless satellite technology back to media in the US. Jorn had arranged a rendezvous with
CNN
, not that I imagined the whole thing was going to get that much coverage. And I was going to take pictures for my article.

Getting into the dinghy, I almost lost my nerve. Actually, that's kind of an understatement. Far from leaping heroically into the thing, which was so small it suddenly made the
Rainbow Serpent
look huge, I inched like some kind of caterpillar with a learning disability down the rope ladder and then sprang in terror into the arms of the cameraman at the last moment, almost upending the entire deal and causing God knows how many thousands of dollars worth of technical equipment to meet a watery grave. The guys on my dinghy didn't share the humor of the moment when I joked ‘oops, anyone for a dip?'

The crew was even more serious this morning. They were actually wearing balaclavas. I tried not to laugh, but declined the offer of one myself. I didn't feel I'd earned one. Actually, I was feeling kind of hysterical. I wondered if I'd overdosed on the suppositories. I was vacillating between terror, manic amusement and this other thing. This kind of martyr or hero thing that I recognized as a vain and petty emotion, but was having trouble suppressing nonetheless. The whole thing was pretty eco-terrorist. And I was working the part big-time. I'd dressed all in black, like Zorro. Momentarily, as I sat there, I wondered whether vanity was a significant factor in my decision to go out with the dinghy crews.

Possibly.

I was already imagining how I would recount the story when I got home.

As it turned out, I wouldn't need to.

Despite the calm weather, the little dinghies were bucking around quite a bit in the water as we sped towards the largest of the whaling boats. Everyone was silent as we came around from behind. I could see the crew in the first boat making hand signals to each other and to the guys on my boat. I suppressed the urge to giggle again. The whole thing did seem kind of melodramatic. These people were whalers, after all, not international terrorists. Well, you know, depending on your perspective on the whole thing.

We were to stay about 100 yards from the other boat, close enough to film but not so close as to be at any risk ourselves. The two dinghies were attached by this long line, so that if the crew of the other boat got into any trouble, their craft could be retrieved.

I must admit, I felt this surge of impressed pride as I watched their boat skim bravely up to the hull of the whaling boat. I felt, you know, breathy and tummy-fluttery, like how I felt when watching those athletes who run the 100m sprint at the Olympics — surreptitiously, because I really hate the whole concept of the Olympics, but can't resist tuning in for that event because it's when you most see human beings in this raw state of nature.

I was madly taking digital pictures as they drew alongside in the early light, tethered the craft and threw a specially constructed rope ladder attached to a grappling hook up over the side. Like clever little crabs, they started clambering up the edge, and were almost at the top when it all went horribly wrong.

Two other men wearing strange little caps and brandishing what looked to be guns appeared at the top of the ladder and hauled the activists the rest of the way up. As they reached the top, the whalers dragged them roughly on board and out of sight. Just before they disappeared from view, one of our guys — who I knew to be this earnest veterinary student from Seattle — turned his face to us and I captured him with my camera in vivid color in that moment, with this look on his face that was part resolve, part horrified terror.

He looked incredibly young. And scared.

I felt sick, but not as sick as I was going to feel a few minutes later.

Our guys seemed unsure what to do at this point.

I just sat there, shocked, still snapping off pictures of the hull and the empty deck as the guys on my boat tried to establish radio contact with the crew of the other dinghy.

The driver of our dinghy — not sure if driver is the right word, but it seems a little grand to call him the captain — re-initiated radio contact with the
Rainbow Serpent
in a frantic effort to decide what to do next. The cameraman, who was pale and shaken, was still running commentary for the live
CNN
feed.

‘They seem to have been taken on board by men wielding weapons… We have no radio contact. We've seen no sign of the boarding crew since they were taken away several minutes ago… Oh, hang on…'

Then the most incredible thing happened. Well, series of things, really. The same two sailors who had dragged the crew of the first dinghy on-board the whaling boat reappeared, and made their way down the rope ladder into the first dinghy. Like watching a mime in slow motion, we saw them find the lead attached to our dinghy, confer hastily, and then begin to pull it in towards them.

Oh my God, they were trying to capture us too.

Well, more accurately, they were probably trying to get our equipment. Our driver — still doesn't seem like the right word — started to gun our engine to prevent us being pulled in like hapless fish on the end of some sportsman's line. But, of course, the useless thing didn't work, did it. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't help starting to laugh maniacally — I always get kind of hysterical at moments of crisis — and said ‘Okay, who forgot to fill up before we left?' even though I knew it wasn't really appropriate.

You know how really brave people, when they get awards for courage and stuff, always talk about how, in the moment of crisis and courage, they just sort of developed this tunnel vision. Their whole perspective narrowed down into what had to be done and they just didn't think of anything else.

Well, it wasn't like that for me at all, not that I'm pretending I was brave.

I was absolutely terrified.

And above all, I just really needed to wee.

I kept thinking
maybe they just want to talk, explain what they're doing up there with our friends.

But as we came closer, it was pretty clear from the looks on their faces that they meant business. Whatever the hell that means. Let me clarify. They had guns. Well, gun thingies. I know now that they were harpoon guns, but the difference is academic when it's the first time anyone has pointed any kind of stick-shaped weapon at you.

Anyway, as they reeled us in, my brain started creaking agonisingly into gear. Like Rainman, counting and ordering things when stressed, I started to list off to myself all the reasons why they would not, could not, kill us.

One: we are American. I've always hated it how, in movies, people yell out ‘don't shoot, we're American' whenever they get into trouble. I've always thought that was the last thing you'd want to be shouting if you didn't want someone to blow your head off — let's face it, we don't have a lot of credibility in lots of parts of the world.

But I couldn't have cared less at that moment.

I would have screamed ‘we're American' from the rooftops of the world if I thought it would mean I wasn't about to get shot. And I suddenly realized why people yell that. Because, actually, the US does have a reputation for getting pretty pissed when people needlessly kill our citizens. You know, second only to the Israelis. For the first time ever, I actually wished I was Israeli. Maybe I could shout ‘don't mess with me, didn't you see
Munich
?' or ‘I'm from Mossad'.

Two: the Japanese are actually a really cultured, civilized people. They dress really beautifully and conduct all those ancient ceremonies and drink tea and stuff. Yeah, yeah, it's all coming back to me now. A really gentle, cultured people. Well, you know, apart from butchering whales and war crimes and stuff. And I'm sure I read somewhere they have a pacifist constitution. You know, after the war. I guess being incinerated from a mile high might wake you up to the horrors of violence somewhat.

So there is no way this type of people could hurt us. Me especially. A woman and all. I'm sure there's some code against it. And look, while it would be unfortunate and clearly distressing if they killed my comrades in arms, just please God don't let them kill me.

Three: I am sure there is some kind of Geneva Convention against randomly killing people at sea. Something about pirates or offering safe haven on the high seas. Or something. Or maybe I'm just getting the whole thing completely mixed up. And come to think of it, isn't there some treaty about whales too? Oh hell.

Looking back, I think the most awful thing about being reeled in like a paralysed fish was the indignity. I know, I know. There was the terror of being killed, and admittedly that was pretty awful, but it was actually kind of worse to be dragged across the ocean the hundred yards or so towards the other dinghy and have a few critical seconds to contemplate the fate awaiting the other end. It was just so…lame. It made me feel like a kid who has been called home for dinner and, tardy to come, been dragged home by the ear in front of all the other kids. Even worse, it didn't occur to any of us to untether ourselves. We just sat there like those surprised-looking clowns at funfairs. I guess we really are obedient little souls. Or maybe we just all respond predictably when confronted with guns. Because as soon as we reached the other boats and the sailors started ordering us to get on board their dinghy, we complied.

The sailors were speaking Japanese — well, I assumed it was Japanese, it sounded a lot like what the iron chefs yell at the helpers in
Kitchen Stadium
, but I digress. Their meaning was pretty clear, as they motioned with their weapons and yelled at us.

The cameraman from our group had ranking authority for the operation, even though, as the protestors had explained to me several times, they were a collective, so there were no leaders at all, really. ‘Just a group of equal comrades'
.

Nevertheless, as soon as we were aboard the second craft, the cameraman started blabbering to the two sailors. Senselessly. In English. Stuff about human rights, theft, unlawful deprivation of liberty. I could tell it was annoying the sailors, even though they couldn't understand a word of it. And it was then that I realized how young our captors really were, and I had this sudden realization that they were actually pretty scared too.