Randy White - Black Widow

“Interesting,” I said.

“Isn’t it?” Tomlinson was scratching at the bite on his thigh, excited. “Maybe I am getting the old mojo back.”

I attempted diplomacy. “I was never convinced you lost it. But don’t expect too much, okay?”

I added the warning because whale strandings seldom have happy endings.

I throttled onto plane, bow fixed on an elevated darkness that marked the entrance of Dinkin’s Bay. We angled into the channel, skirting oyster bars and pilings as I picked up markers to open water.

It was 1 a.m. Looking at my watch reminded me of all the work I had to do before tomorrow’s meeting… so I made a personal decision to stop checking my damn watch and concentrate on driving the boat.

Houses on the point were dark-all but the cottage owned by my cousin, Ransom, next to Ralph Woodring’s old Cracker house. Dock lights were on. I could see Ralph and Ransom moving on a flat vacancy of shadow that I knew was a loading platform.

Ralph owns the Bait Box on Periwinkle. The two had been in his trawl boat, netting shrimp.

Like it was no big deal, Tomlinson said, “Did Ransom tell you she’s flying to Seattle with me on Sunday? I’m doing a Zen retreat for the Starbucks people, plus America’s got a gig there. I play tambourine when they do ‘A Horse with No Name.’ It could be a new start for us, Ransom and me-”

I cut him off, saying, “I don’t want to hear about it,” then slowed as we neared Ralph’s dock, so I could yell out our destination. Ransom hollered a response, but I waved her off, saying I’d make contact later by radio.

Tomlinson said, “Your cousin could do a lot worse than me.”

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.”