Whalefall

by Daniel Kraus

Dive bros knew Mitt drank—hell, it was how you pumped the best stories from the guy’s gut—but they didn’t know he was a drunk, a periodic jailbird, a malcontent who couldn’t hold a job more than a couple years and acted like it was a testament to his principles. Principles: a nifty excuse for being an asshole.

The true wonder, maybe the true horror, comes later, twelve nautical miles into the blue: Monterey Canyon, a ninety-mile-long, mile-deep abyss the size of the Grand Canyon, a frigid black haven for the world’s strangest beings. A spindly stem called Carmel Canyon points at Monastery Beach like the Grim Reaper’s finger. What is it trying to say?

Jay sinks. Cool, quiet. White sand shifts as if concealing a stingray. A large, lumpy rock flutters with violet algae. He’s at the bottom. Jay arcs his back, riding the inflator, going horizontal, not dipping now but swimming. More than that. Carried along in an invisible palm. A child in trusted arms. A leaf in a calm breeze. He’s flying.

Want to know your dive time? Wear a watch. Your safety stops? Three minutes at fifteen feet, what else is there? Your temp? You’re either cold or too cold. You want your pressure gauge reliant on batteries? Are you nuts?

He’s not here to stargaze. He’s got a bone bag clipped to his BCD.

He’s never dropped weights in his life. Mitt made good and sure he knew each quick-release pouch ran thirty bucks and each weight another twenty-five, but Jay was drilled in the skill regardless. His hands haven’t forgotten.

Truth never outweighs mercy.”

“The more lubbers we take out, the more boats. The more boats, the more nets whales get caught in. The more rotors to chop them up. The more litter for them to eat, whole bellies full of plastic. The more noise, Jay, all this sonar, it drives them mad. Then the whales don’t shit where they’re supposed to. If they don’t shit right, they don’t fertilize the water for the plankton. Plankton offsets more CO2 than the fucking rain forests. Then we all die. And who loaded the gun? Me and you—all so some fat-ass cornhuskers could post a selfie.”

“Inuit whale hunters lived apart from the rest of the group. Went out in canoes. Little bitty canoes. And these weren’t unfair fights, they didn’t have whale cannons like people came up with later. You fought for that whale. You died for it. Every whale you killed, you got a tattoo. That’s how important it was. So important that if you died, they mummified you and brought you on the next hunt anyway.”

Drumming through the squid’s jelly are what feel like three hard little fists. Jay knows what they are. A giant squid has three hearts. Jay has but one. Man versus ocean. It’s not a fair fight. It never was.

“The Bible’s got. A story for everything.” (Steinbeck is better than God) “Come on. You only read Cannery Row.” (You only read Cannery Row) “Okay. Hit me. With some Steinbeck.” (Steinbeck trained as a) (Marine biologist)

Over how many years, even decades, has the beast patiently collected every item Jay Gardiner would one day need? How far ahead do angels of the deep track the collision courses of terrestrial bodies? If there was any way for Jay to return the gift, he would. All he can do is thank them. If only he had the breath.