“You liked it?”
“Incredible. Like a pint of carburetor cleaner got pumped through my cerebral cortex. Now all my neuroreceptors feel real sparkly.”
I was eyeing one of the new tanks, a low-turbulence Kreisel aquarium. It contained miniature jellyfish shipped to me in polyp stage from Australia. Carukia. The sea jellies were lucent parachutes, quarter-sized, with four retractable tentacles armed with a neurotoxin more potent than cobra venom. The stingers injected minuscule amounts, but could still be deadly.
It was a dangerous association to investigate, but I had to ask.
“When you were alone in the lab, did you follow safety procedures? Never lean over the tanks without safety glasses… or reach into the water without rubber gloves-”
“Have you confused me with Wally Cleaver? Of course I didn’t follow the rules. But even drunk, on acid, I know better than to stick my ass into an aquarium full of fucking jellyfish. How stupid do you think I-”
There was the clack of a mic key, then a woman’s voice came from the radio. Tomlinson turned up the volume.
“Hey, it’s her again!”
“Someone hears me? Thank God! We have a rental boat, and I’m not sure how to work the radio. Is this the channel people talk on?”
Tomlinson grunted, frustrated again. The woman didn’t release the microphone key when she was done transmitting. It was pointless to respond until she did. We could hear a child shouting in the background, then we heard a scream, then more clicking.
I asked, “Where are they?”
“I don’t know. I got her first transmission as you came up the steps. She said something about sharks. It sounded like she said sharks were attacking the beach. But that can’t be right. She’s not faking-she’s scared. It’s tarpon season. The oceangoing meat-eaters have come shallow to feed. I’m afraid some midnight swimmer got whacked.”
Walking toward the phone, I said, “I’ll call the Coast Guard just in case,” as Tomlinson tried again. “Sanibel Bio to the rental boat on channel sixty-eight. Listen to me! Press the button to talk. Release the button to listen. Tell me your name and location. Over.”
The woman was already transmitting before he finished. “… I’ll say it a third time! My name’s Lynn. My daughters and I are camped on an island. We’re on North Captiva, about a mile from the southern point. It’s really dark because there’s no moon, but we have flashlights. We’re seeing what we think are sharks. Did you hear that? Sharks. Big sharks swimming with the waves right up on the beach. It’s like they’re trying to get to our tents. Everyone I talk to thinks I’m joking but damn it, I am not joking! Sometimes the sharks make it halfway. Then the water pulls them back. But they keep trying. It’s like on TV when sharks chase seals. We’re afraid to go near our tent!”
I told Tomlinson, “Those are not sharks.”
He nodded as he lifted the mic. “I copy, Lynn. I’m here. Stay with me. I’ve got a question. How big are they? How big are the fish you think are sharks? Over.”
“Big. Three or four times bigger than the porpoises we saw at Sea World. That’s what I’m telling you! They’re great white sharks, we think. Just like on TV. But they’re black…”
In the background, a girl shrieked as the woman added, “My God, now two of them are out of the water! They’re almost on the beach by our tents, slapping their tails. Why are they doing this?”
I finished dialing the phone as Tomlinson tried to calm the woman. “You’re not in danger. Trust me on this, Lynn. Listen to what I’m about to tell you…”
Then I couldn’t hear him because I was moving fast out the door, across the breezeway, talking on the phone as I stuffed medical supplies and towels into a backpack. I called the Coast Guard. Next, I called Pete Hull, of Mote Marine Lab near Sarasota. Called him at home because it was the fastest way to get in touch with a leading cetacean expert, his wife, Kim.
When I was packed, Tomlinson was waiting for me on the dock next to my flats skiff-an open boat designed for running fast and dry in shallow water. He, too, had assembled supplies.
“Beer?” he asked, offering me a bottle. He had a cooler aboard, a backpack, and a couple of shovels.
“Not now-when we’re under way. Do you believe her story?”
He nodded, already drinking my beer. “She’s consistent. They’re bigger than dolphins. They’re black, not gray. Lynn counted more than a dozen with her flashlight while I talked her through it.”
I said, “They’re whales, not sharks.” I was picturing pilot whales or false killers, sleek as dolphins, the size of my boat, with teeth. Rare.
He was nodding, distressed. “Yep. They’re killing themselves. Two are already ashore. The others are trying to follow-a mass stranding just getting started.”
He was referring to a little-understood behavior, sometimes associated with disease, or underwater noise pollution. Whales ground themselves and die together, sometimes in pairs, sometimes by the hundreds.
“Doc? Strandings are a chain reaction-whales react to distress calls from an injured whale. That’s the theory.”
I said, “That’s one theory.” I was idling away from the dock, more interested in navigation than conversation. Wind was gusting out of the stars on this black night. Visibility was poor.
“That would explain the radio contact. If we can save the sick whale, we might save the others.”
“You lost me.”
“I should’ve understood right away. Lynn and her daughters are from Canada. She doesn’t know anything about the sea, but she has a radio. Get it? That’s why the whales came to her. They used Lynn to contact me. It’s classic third-party transferal communication.”
“You’re telling me the whales knew you’d be in the lab, monitoring channel sixty-eight…?”
“You’re being too linear. Universal Mind is connective. Whales are tuned in, man. They sense kindred beings who can help. If you embrace the destination, Universal Mind provides the pathway. I won’t be the only healer they contact-watch. Other enlightened souls will arrive.”
Over the years, I’ve heard so many ridiculous claims about the psychic and intellectual powers of dolphins and the family Cetacea that my response has been pared to a single word. I use a flat monotone to discourage discussion.
“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.
5
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.”