GLOSSARY OF TERMS

THE DEEP

The world as the brethren of the sea know it.

THE WATERS OF LIFE

All the salt waters that fill the deep.

THE DRYSIDE

The land above and beyond the Deep.

FEATHERED-FURIES

Seagulls and sea hawks.

FLIPPER_FINS

Seals, sea lions, walrus and other brethren to the whale.

SQUIGGLE-FIN

Octopus and squid.

TIDES

The measurement of time. Two tides equal one day.

THE SONG OF THE SEA

The unique and specific history of a pod passed on genera-

tion-to-generation, Scribe-to-Scribe.

GOLDEN LIGHT

The light of day.

SILVERSIDE

The dark of night.

POD

A generation-to-generation community of whales.

SANDWALKERS

Mankind

SHELL-SHARKS

Sandwalker devices that that skims the surface of the Deep.

CHAPTER TWENTY -NINE

Harmony sighed as he released a mercury-colored balloon of

air into the sea. It coalesced and twisted around in pursuit of the

dryside and freedom.

“The sandwalker is guilty. Therefore, it is now condemned!”

He paused. “Go forth!” he cried to the Conclave. “Go forth and

hide. Go to the deepest of the deep and wait. In time, the commu-

nity of sandwalker will destroy themselves. In a short time, they will

kill everything on the dryside, sandwalker included. They will crowd

themselves to the very edge of the sea. With nowhere to go and

with nothing to eat, they will turn on themselves and, like the sea

snake that thinks its tail another snake, will begin to devour them-

selves. Then, and only then, will the song be sacred again. Then,

and only then, will the waters of life be sweetened by All That Is

Right in the World.”

Harmony, with all the grandeur of his countenance, turned in

the water and slowly swam from view. The Conclave now broken,

all the whales, dolphins, and flipper-fins began to disperse. I turned

to Laughter Ring and Little Brother. “What does it mean?” I signed,

relieved that, for the moment, I was still alive.

“It means,” toned Little Brother morosely, “that it is over.”

“I . . . I don’t understand what Harmony meant. What is the

punishment? We are just to be left alone?”

Laughter Ring answered, “You are banished! Yes, you are to

be left alone. Without the interference of the love or consciousness of

the sea, or of All That Is Right in the World, the sandwalker will die.”

They were right. The human race was on course to destroy

itself. The Conclave had merely sealed the fate already self-deliv-

ered. Their answer was to do nothing but wait and hide, knowing

that the sandwalkers’ greed and supreme desire for immortality

would be his demise. Harmony was right: the sandwalkers were

damned by thier own desires. “Is there nothing I can do?”

In unison, they shook their heads and sang, “Nothing.” The

somber moment was broken by the torpedo like return of the dol-

phin-child, Giggles. She swam around and around, pleased to see

me and, happier still, to be reunited with her parents.

“I must go to Peter,” I signed, “and tell him of all that has

happened.” With a heavy heart, I rose in the water toward the light

of the nighttime summer sun. I had failed.

As I neared the surface, I felt a twisted whisper like the hiss-

ing of a snake, “Not so fast, little dryside sister!” I n the distance,

I could see the ghostly outline of a Narwhal of the Horn, his ivory

tusk waving defiantly in the crystal waters.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! The Conclave is over for all, save you. It

is not as easy as Harmony decreed. We need blood in the water to

seal the verdict. We need your blood, sandwalker. For you know

the song, and it must not be sung to the others . . . the sandwalk-

er. The sandwalker might learn to listen. The sandwalkers might

change thier way. I do not want them to have the opportunity. The

sandwalker’s song will end here!”

Godwin swam closer and closer, his horn dancing back and

forth, reflecting bits of light that shot errantly all about. “Yesss, you

will die now!” With that, he surged forward, his horn lowered like

a lance, and slashed by. At first, I was relieved that it had been a

clean miss and spun to face him again. So sharp was his horn that,

were it not for the water turning to a pink cloud, I would not have

known that I was injured. On my right shoulder was a gash that cut

through the multiple layers of the dry suit and into the flesh.

Again and again, he sliced by me in the water, each time

cutting a bit more. Then on the next path he neatly sliced the hose

and my regulator bubbled and frothed as the oxygen sprayed.

“This is good!” he chanted over and over and over. “This is

good! Slowly you will die. Painfully, my sweet, painfully slow.”

I ripped the straps from my shoulders and the tank dropped

spiraling down into the depths. I released my weight belt and in

one desperate surge, I forced myself to swim up and away from the

demented Narwhal. I finally broke to the surface, and strong hands

grabbed me, lifting me into the boat. I had seven lacerations like

fine razor cuts over my abdomen, legs, and arms. Peter ripped the

goggles from my face, and I breathed deep of the sweet-scented air

of the dryside. Relieved that it was over and safe in Peter’s arms, I

pulled the hood back and shook my hair free, my heart pounding in

reflex to the fear.

For the moment, I felt safe.

Suddenly, an iridescent horn lanced through the bottom of

the boat. Fred, finally confronted with an attacker, closed his strong

jaws around this bit of bone–this lethal dagger. The shock of not

being able to readily pull free caused Godwin to breach, elevating

the boat like an airborne pancake. Only then did Fred reluctantly let

go, and the whale allowed us to fall back to the surface.

We sat in the water, spinning around. “What was that?”

mouth-shouted Peter.

“That was part of the Conclave I didn’t tell you about. Pe-

ter, let me introduce you to Godwin, the Avenger. He’s a Narwhal,”

I signed wildly, looking about for the next attack. Once again, it

came from below as the horn erupted through the bottom of the

boat. Again and again, it slashed, seeking solace in flesh. Knowing

that there was no recourse, yet not fearing death, I turned to Peter

and signed, “The odds are we won’t survive this.” With that, I put

my arms around him and kissed him full on the mouth. I refused to

die with any regrets, and I would never regret that kiss.

Our embrace was broken apart as the horn shafted between

us and then retracted for its next assault. But the attack was cut

short by a monstrous breaching right beside the boat. The air

vibrated with challenge, and I could hear Harmony’s call of anger.

“Back off, Godwin of the Narwhal. The Conclave spoke. The ver-

dict was to let them be!”

“No,” whisper-whined the horned whale. “She knows of the

song. If she sings it to others, they will save themselves from their

deserved fate.” His tone dropped lower and he spoke in staccato.

“She will die now. Their song will die now and forever! Be aware

white whale, if you interfere, you will die, too.” With that, he turned

back to us and lowered the horn.

Chastised, Harmony settled below the water, the Narwhal

slashed his horn back and forth, causing the sea to foam and boil in

turmoil. “Now, you die! Now, you die!” he whisper-screamed. Ly-

ing full on the surface, he began the final rush toward us. Peter, the

dog, and I huddled, knowing we could do little more than wait for

the end.

He nearly reached the boat when a great sucking in of the

sea preceded the powerful breaching of the great white whale. Full

he breached from the sea, and full he fell on Godwin. The fiery eyes

of the Narwhal widened in surprise and shock and then went blank.

He was dead! His back broken by the mass of Harmony’s breach.

Beyond relief, we sat in the boat, numbed by the proximity of

death and the violence of action. Only then did I notice that Har-

mony floated oddly still in the water, the dead Narwhal very close.

Slowly the water around them grew slick with an ever widening band

of blood. I grabbed Peter’s arm in horror and pointed. There, im-

paling Harmony was the great, evil, twisted horn. It had run Harmo-

ny through, lancing out his back.

The weight of the now-dead Godwin shifted with an ocean

swell causing the ivory horn to slowly but sickeningly pull free.

The Narwhal dropped down like a spiraling leaf to the end . . . the

beginning.

Without thought, I leaped into the water and swam to Harmo-

ny. “Why,” I signed, “why risk all for a sandwalker?”

“Because,” he softly sang, “the Narwhal was right. If the

sandwalker can learn to sing the Song of the Sea and to grasp its

full meaning, then there is hope for whale and sandwalker alike.

There is a tradition with the whale that a Scribe, a recorder, of the

Song of the Sea, must carry the song. The Scribe must never be

involved but instead must stand off and watch and record so that

nothing will be lost from the song. I was a Scribe, a recorder, but I

stepped away from my responsibility and became very involved for a

time. I now pass the song on to you, Sharing, so that you may sing

it to others.”

With reverence, he began to sing the most wondrous song I

have ever heard, the history of the world through the heart and soul

of a whale. I listened to the song of Harmony. From Harmony, I

heard the song of Laughter Ring and finally heard my own song . . .

Sharing.

When he finished, Harmony softly cried, “Go, Sharing. Go

to the dryside and sing the song to any who will listen. Do not

weep for me. Many, many tides ago, I loved and lost my love to the

dryside. I now go to where she waits for me. Our spirits, our souls

forever entwined.”

He slowly began to settle in the water. Floating down and

down to the crystal-cold waters below, his last words echoing into

the deep. “Oh, Melody, how I love you. I now am part and parcel of

the song.” And with that, Harmony joined the end . . . the begin-

ning.

I drifted on the surface of the bay. Peter and the dog watched,

not fully understanding but surely feeling empathy and compassion

for the moment. I finally swam back to the boat and, with Peter’s

help, crawled over the water-slick sides. Sobbing I explained to

Peter what had happened and we sat for the longest wrapped in the

reprieve of Harmony’s final justice. The sandwalker, mankind, has

a chance albeit though a small. We must all learn to embrace this

new philosophy, to sing the song and change.

The oars long-since lost, we finally began paddling by hand

the long journey back to the dryside. We had to circumvent the gla-

cier, since traversing it would have required more effort than we had

strength. Our dear friends, Laughter Ring and Little Brother, again

came to our rescue. Always playful and with Giggles at their side

they nosed the small craft along the icy shore and pushed it scrap-

ing up on the gravelly beach.

Sure that we were safe, they began to swim away, Laughter

Ring called to me, “I hate goodbyes, my sweet friend. So, there is

a place called Winsome Bright, and there lives a wonderful Beluga

called Momma Love. If you seek us or need our counsel, she will

know where we are. You found this place, you will find Winsome

Bright.” Then, they swam into the shimmering midnight sun.

Hours later, Peter and I were rescued by a group of very

curious environmentalists and a gaggle of reporters and taken back

to the little town of Gilroy. We have been here now some three

months, and I have tranScribed all of the song as best remembered.

As a sidebar, a tiny melody to an already complex symphony,

Peter and I were married the week after the Conclave. Bonded as

we were already by the events, it was only natural that we bond for

life. He has heard the song, and I have heard the song; once heard,

it must be sung. We now sing the song for any who will listen.

Now it is late, and tomorrow we will begin a journey that will

last our lifetime. I came out to walk the beach alone, to gaze at the

now-empty sea and to wonder at the grandeur of it all. The night

is not bright but well lit nonetheless in this early northern fall. Cot-

ton-gauze clouds filter the half moonlight as I walk my silent walk.

Mercury waves slip and slide like long, twisty snakes, hissing up

and down the pebbled shore. The air, cool and crisp, bites at my

cheeks, exploding into silver vapor streamers as I exhale my breath

long-held. This is Alaskan September, fall in a place of early hard

winter. I look back to where the gravelly shore refuses to mark my

passing with lingering footprints. It is as if I were placed where I am

coming from–nowhere … having nowhere to go.

For I am now of the Song of the Sea for I have heard it sung.

I am the one in billions of humanity who must try to teach the oth-

ers to sing. Failing to do so, man will earn the punishment he has

so freely passed on to others . . . extinction. Like my footprints, we

will leave no trace on the jagged edge of the dryside near the waters

of life.

If you hear the song, sing it again and again. Fear not the

Narwhal or others who, for their own narcissistic devices, do not

choose to listen, let alone sing.

May you find Harmony in the singing of the Song of the Sea

CHAPTER TWENTY -EIGHT

Once again, there came a bumping on the bottom of the boat

when a form threw itself at the side. This time, it breached and

landed up on the gunwale. The rubber-sided boat crumpled under

the weight. We were looking into the low-angled sun, and, for a mo-

ment, we were blinded by the contrast of brilliant light and silhouette.

A voice vibrated in my inner ear: a good voice, a welcome

voice, a sweet voice, the voice of Laughter Ring.

One form was joined by another as Little Brother, too,

plopped himself on the edge of the boat. Even Fred seemed to

understand that these two odd creatures were friends. “Sorry we’re

late!” toned Little Brother. “Fortunately, we got here in time for the

main course. In this case, coming just for dessert would have been

a disaster.”

I translated for Peter as Laughter Ring chided her mate for

his tasteless remarks. Peter laughed and then grabbed his side,

wracked with pain from his injuries. Sitting there, it suddenly

dawned on him that the dolphin had indeed been speaking and, with

sign, I had been talking back.

“They do talk!” he croaked in mouth-speak. “And you talk

to them.”

“Well, score another point for belief and believing,” I signed in

mock indignation. “You thought I was making this all up?”

Peter grinned sheepishly.

I turned back to Laughter Ring. “What is happening now?”

I signed.

“There is a great debate raging beneath us even as we

speak.” she toned. “Harmony called the Conclave, but the Nar-

whal of the Horn are trying to establish rules to ensure their con-

trol. Harmony is wise to the Narwhal’s twisted sense of fair play

and, with our help, has created his own alliance with the blues, the

humpbacks, and the dolphins. He had enough to control the Con-

clave with the support of the dolphins alone, but he felt he needed a

mandate. The decisions here will be hard, and the results far-reach-

ing.”

I paused to digest the fact that politics was universal in our

world of twisting values and philosophies. “You say the decisions

will be far-reaching. Far-reaching to what extent and to whom?” I

asked tentatively, sure that I already knew the answer.

Laughter Ring turned her eyes downward and vibrantly toned,

“For eternity, the decision will affect the sandwalker and all his chil-

dren’s, children’s, children.”

“Then I claim the right to speak for the sandwalkers and to

sing their defense.” I gambled that somewhere in the Song of the

Sea was a rule or value that allowed the accused to present their

own case. I sat in the boat defiantly, feeling like a drowned rat.

Little Brother turned to Laughter Ring and said, “I do not

know the song that well, but I will take her message to Harmony if

he wins the mandate. If not, I will have to put the question to the

Narwhal of the Horn.”

Though it was very late the sun still burned in the sky, adding

a twisted, dreamlike quality to an already crazy day. As we waited,

the sun dried our clothes, and the chills dissipated. In fifteen-min-

ute intervals, I opened the tourniquet on Peter’s leg, allowing the

blood to circulate in hopes of avoiding complications later.

The waters around us teemed with life; the sea snapped with

anticipation. Every so often, Little Brother or Laughter Ring would

slip off the side of the boat to seek news of the debate. Each time,

they returned shaking their heads in dismay.

Nearly an hour later, Laughter Ring again went to seek news.

It wasn’t but a minute before she leaped back to the boat. “Harmo-

ny will have his way. The Narwhal of the Horn are very, very angry.

Godwin the Avenger, their choirmaster, proclaimed the Conclave

canceled and urged all to leave, but none would. Now, they are

bound by the Conclave and its great import. The Narwhal have

remained, but they are dangerous still, very dangerous. Watch them.

Never turn your back.”

“But what of my demand for the sandwalker’s defense?” I

waved angrily, caring not for the petty political dissent.

Laughter Ring paused, “Godwin agreed and there was yet

another debate. At this point Harmony was against anything the

Narwhal were for. He said, ‘No!’ and dove to the deep. Moments

later, he rose and acquiesced. No matter his prejudice, he is hon-

or-bound by his duty to the Song of the Sea.”

“For, you see, many, many tides ago, he was a Scribe, a dis-

passionate recorder of the song. His pod, an old, old group of Great

Whale with a song nearly as old as the Song of the Sea itself, died

the Thousand Deaths of the Sandwalker. With that death came the

death of his greatest love and his greatest enemy. He believes the

Narwhal killed his family, his friends –if not by deed, then by intent.

The Song of the Sea echoes within his empty soul, and his blood is

on fire as he seeks the final answer to the final question. He has now

proclaimed you the leader of the sandwalker . . . the symbol of all the

dryside near this sea and throughout the dryside all over the world.”

In relief, I laughed but in anxiety. I signed, “Ah, I have just

been made queen of the dryside earth.”

Laughter Ring shook her head gravely, “This is no laughing

matter. What happens here will reach far into the future, for all the

tides that remain in the waters of life. Here, you will speak for the

sandwalker. You will be the first to hear the decision. You will be

the first to suffer the punishment if indeed punishment is rendered.”

Sobered by her comments, I explained to Peter what was to

happen. Moving Fred-the-dog from atop my duffel bag where he had

made an impromptu bed, I spread out and checked my equipment.

Peter checked the regulator and the tanks while I quickly slipped

out of my jeans, my dry suit worn below. With the multiple layers of

the suit, even the cold waters of this northern inlet wouldn’t bother

me for a while. Long before hypothermia could set in, I would be

out of air. Long before I froze, the Conclave would have decided.

Geared up, Peter strapped the tanks to my back while I pulled on

the flippers. I asked Laughter Ring, who was now in the water with

Little Brother, where I would meet the great Harmony.

“That,” toned the dolphin, “I don’t know. Harmony will send

for you, I guess. There has never been such a . . .”

Her comments were cut off as the world seemed to explode

right before us. Like a geyser gone mad, the water first twisted and

boiled, sucking into itself, and then shot into the air. Out of this

foam and froth breached the most powerful form I have ever seen.

Against the backdrop of the never-dying summer sun was the great

white whale, Harmony!

He breached so high that he appeared to stand on his tail

some eight meters above us and was so close I could touch his

pearly, opalescent skin. In contrast to the explosive breach, like

velvet he dropped, rushing softly back into the sea. I could hear the

mighty vibration in my inner ear as he toned loudly, “Tell the spin-

dly-finned sandwalker, my sweet dolphin friends, that Harmony will

speak to it now!”

With shaking hands, I pulled the mask over my face and

bit down hard on the mouthpiece, my source of life-giving oxy-

gen. Holding the faceplate, I leaned back and rolled into the sea.

Though the suit insulated me, it still seemed an icy shock to slip

into those waters. I dropped down and down as I gained my bear-

ings. I spun around, weightless in nearly twenty feet of water.

There, before me, suspended in the crystal waters of life with

shafts of sunlight forming a curtained background, was Harmony.

His tail and fins moved effortlessly, keeping him exacting still in the

water. I, on the other hand, had to wave my arms and legs wildly

in an attempt to maintain buoyancy and position. Behind him in a

cathedral setting floated a wall of dolphins, flipper-fins, and whales.

The water vibrated with snaps and buzzes of language as

Little Brother explained to Harmony that I could hear the song and

that he could speak to me directly.

Harmony seemed unimpressed and unmoved as he angrily

sang, “You say she can hear our song? After all of eternity, there

now is but one sandwalker who has bothered to listen? To see if we

sing? To see if we think? To see if we feel?”

Floating in the water, I listened as this great whale sang his

powerful accusations my heart pounding in my chest.

“We have reached out to the sandwalker since the beginning

of time,” he continued. “We offered our song to him and have been

rewarded with death. We have welcomed him to our seas, and he

has turned the seas sour with his greed and our regret. We have

offered the laughter of the dolphin, and the sandwalker has ripped

him from the sea in their woven webs. We have offered to the sand-

walker the whale and his singing of the song, and we have received

in return an audience that refused to listen and opted instead to

devour the choir.”

In the distance, I could hear the insistent, hypnotic whisper-

ing of the Narwhal, Godwin, “This is good! This is good! Kill the

sandwalker! Kill the sandwalker!” Faintly, others echoed the chant,

the Narwhal sentiment, but no verdict had yet been reached.

Harmony, disregarding the Narwhal, continued his song. “The

dolphins, Laughter Ring and Little Brother, have brought to us great

tales of the ability of the sandwalker, and now, for the first time, they

bring one to hear the song. After all that has transpired since the

beginning of time and from the first tide that rolled from an other-

wise still sea, the sandwalker has decided that possibly this is the

tide to reach out to his brethren. This is the tide to sing the Song

of the Sea.”

From afar came the piercing whisper of the Narwhal, “No!

No! No! Not true! Not true!”

Harmony paused, turning slowly in the water, tail slightly

down. The light cast from above drove a silvery spike shimmering

through the water. The last vestiges of his song echoed off into

the distance.

He then continued, “Well, the sandwalker is here. This sand-

walker has appeared in the defense of all the sandwalkers. Hear

me, all who live in the sea and sing the song. The sandwalker has

defiled the sea for the final time. The sandwalker has killed the last

creature of song for sport, not to eat the meat, but to let it lie fallow

and rot in the sea, violating all that is holy. The Conclave sings

now and will cast their lots. My ruling is, and I ask for your voice

in the chorus.” He paused dramatically and I held my breath fear-

ing the worst of verdicts. He slowly turned in the water and looked

down at me and then in nearly a monotone he softly toned, “I find

the sandwalker guilty! The sandwalker should die, his death to be

allowed as preScribed by All That Is Right in the World and recorded

by the Song of the Sea!”

The silence was stunning. In the distance, like lightning

crackling down a copper wire, came the delighted, static whispering

of the Narwhal of the Horn, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Before the proclamation could be mandated by the mammal

mass of the Conclave, I signed to Laughter Ring, who translated,

“No! I have the right to sing the song. I have the right to offer de-

fense. I call upon my right. Of all that is holy, let me sing!”

The little dolphin’s voice vibrated loud and true in the crys-

tal, still waters. Harmony, who had turned away during the passion

of his proclamation, slowly focused his attention back on me. He

nodded his head in a quizzical movement, “She said that? I heard

nothing. Yet, dolphin, you say she has called for the right to sing

the song? What proof have you that this is not some silliness, a

jest at a very inopportune time? I warn you this is not a time of

laughter, dolphin, and–friend or not–your lot can be cast with those

you support.”

I signed again, “Watch my hands, my arms, all of my body. I

cannot sing out loud. I have not the voice and you could not hear it

if I did. So instead, I sing with all of me, but, still and all, the song is

sung. Please listen and watch as I try to explain the evil and wrong

that has been committed against all that live in the sea and all that

live on the dryside, too!”

Harmony moved closer and closer as I signed. He listened as

word after word was instantly translated and broadcast into the sea.

“We were wrong,” I signed. “We have done monstrous evil in

ignorance of our action. For greed alone, we have destroyed that

which was never ours to own, but only to borrow. For Earth belongs

to Tomorrow. If Earth is the gift and Tomorrow the receiver, then we

give nothing. For we are destroying the gift itself.”

“Stop,” roared Harmony in a tone so heavy with vibration

that my head wanted to explode, “Don’t speak in riddles! Don’t

play games with the song as it is being sung! Do not, sandwalker,

mock us!”

I sucked in a large gasp of the canned air to still my pound-

ing heart and continued, “I do not mock the song. I play no

games. I, a sandwalker, am here to plead our case. We, the sand-

walker, are guilty!”

Closing in, the Narwhal’s whisper scraped like a knife on a

rock. “Ohhh, yesss! Yes! Yes!”

The waters echoed silent-still. No movement. For a mo-

ment, there seemed to be no other life than mine, isolated and

alone in the presence of All That Is Right in the World. Then my

body tingled as a thousand voices spoke at once–a cacophony of

sound and vibration.

“What?” roared Harmony in disbelief. The waters once again

settled into silence. “You come here to us and admit guilt. Should

I not then place my verdict at the sandwalker leader before me?

Should I not taste blood as the sandwalker has tasted the blood of

my family, my friends?” The great whale began to move closer in

the passion of the moment. “Should I not, little puny-finned one,

bite down once on that head of yours and thereby silence the only

sandwalker witness to the Song of the Sea?”

Tensely, like a plucked string on a violin, Godwin twanged

gleefully, “Oh, yes! Do it!”

“Silence!” toned Harmony forcefully. All again was quiet-still.

“You plead guilty?”

“Yes,” I signed.

Calmed now and curious, Harmony continued, “Answer these

questions–some of personal curiosity, others of a philosophical

nature. Will you answer them from the heart for all sandwalkers?”

“I will,” I signed solemnly. Laughter Ring and Little Brother

translated my movements into the words sung to Harmony.

Although he did not understand all of my movements and

signing to begin with, he began to understand a little and then more

and more. Out of deference to his friendship with the dolphins, he

allowed them to continue to translate, although they probably were

not needed. Harmony studied me. His eyes were deep, etched round

with lines of memory, memory of sights he had seen and the song

he carried in his soul. He paused and rose slowly to the surface to

vent and then, after a brief time, settled down into the water until his

buoyancy matched mine, and we were once again eye-to-eye.

“In the sea,” he sang, “we have the sharp-fin, a natural preda-

tor to all except us and, at times, even to our weaker members. But

that is the mandate of All That Is Right in the World. On the dry-

side, do you have predators?”

“We have.”

“What are they?” he asked quietly.

“We have creatures called bears, lions, tigers, wolves, and

coyotes. We have eagles and hawks that soar above the dryside on

feathered wings.”

“Do these predators prey on the sandwalker?”

I paused. There was no need for deception; I had already

pleaded guilty. “They did, but we vanquished them. For the most

part, they are all gone. We have killed many of them.”

“What, then, preys on the sandwalker? What is the balance

point on the dryside? Are there natural things, or do all sandwalker

survive?”

“We are eliminating disease, the balance point, the natural

predator. Nature herself, often called All That Is Right in the World

in the Song of the Sea, is being vanquished.”

“Do you wish to live forever?”

“No!” I answered, confident of my personal beliefs on mortality.

“Does the sandwalker wish to live forever?”

I sighed and then signed, “Yes.”

“In the Song of the Sea,” he sang in beautiful, rich vibration,

“it is sung that in the beginning we who live in the sea were to go

forth and multiply, balanced by All That Is Right in the World. If

the young, old, or infirm were meant to live, they would live. If they

were meant to die, they would incorporate with the end . . . the

beginning. In that way, nothing would ever die. Death honors the

living, and the living honor the dead. But the sandwalker multiplies

and multiplies and multiplies. Where will he go when he has no

more flat land dryside?”

My mind raced, seeking answers to an enigma. Man indeed

survives. “He will have nowhere to go but to the mountains.”

“And when the mountains are filled?”

“To the deserts,” I answered.

“And when they are filled?”

I paused and then slowly signed, “To the sea.”

Harmony floated there before me. The water was flat, and, for

a moment, the tides froze. There was no movement from any of the

whales, dolphins, or flipper-fins. In a majestic tone, Harmony be-

gan to sing. “The sandwalker is guilty by action. The sandwalker is

guilty by deed. The sandwalker is guilty in the pleadings of this lead-

er, Sharing. Therefore, he is guilty. How does the Conclave vote?”

In somber tones like the keening of a bell, the Conclave rang

out in unison, “Guilty!”

In the not-far distance, I could feel the tinkling laughter of

Godwin, “Yes! Oh, yes! Yes! Yes!”

CHAPTER TWENTY -SEVEN

The sleepy Alaskan fishing village seemed small and quaint

from a distance. But as we drove down the winding gravel road into

the little town of Gilroy, Alaska, population 350, we found it had

burgeoned into some sort of media Mecca, population 1500 plus.

It didn’t take us long to discover that they were all here for

the same reason we were—the anomaly of the gathering of so

many whales.

“You know, it’s odd,” I signed as we wound the car through

the rushing crush of humanity, “that all these people got here before

we did. I didn’t see that many cars on the Alcan.”

My answer was soon to come. As we parked the truck near

the wharf, there came a droning that pervaded the cab and even

struck my deadened sense of sound. Seaplanes by the tens and

twenties moved about in the harbor like a flock of ducks preparing

to take flight. We could have flown here overnight.

Peter stalked the docks in search of a boat to take us to the

Bay of Blue Ice, while I wandered about town with Fred-the-dog in

tow. I eavesdropped from afar with my lip-reading. The snippets of

conversation I gleaned in my walk were eclectic: All the major news

services were here along with all the science cable folk. There were

as many amateur marine biologists as there were professionals.

None of them knew what was going on.

I looked wistfully north and wondered if my friend, Laughter

Ring, was there and if she had found the great Harmony. Come on,

Peter, I thought to myself impatiently, I need to be there now. As

much as I wanted to see my friends I wanted to hear, to feel the

song as it was meant to be sung, by the master singer himself, Har-

mony, the whale who had prophetically called for the Conclave.

Other bits of sneaked conversation read from afar were a bit

disconcerting. Greenpeace and several other conservation splinter

groups had joined forces to form an environmental navy. They were

patrolling the entrance of the bay to prevent the media boats from in-

terfering with this natural phenomenon. The bay itself was open to

the sea, and through these waters paraded this grand procession of

all the singing water mammals. They came, and they continued to

come, until the waters of the Bay of Blue Ice were frothing with life.

They all seemed to be waiting, as were the people who were observ-

ing and trying to understand this phenomenon.

The problem of the environmentalists was twofold: acting

as self-elected marshals, they were attempting to keep the media

boats out of the Bay of Blue Ice, while they, themselves were being

denied entrance, also. Every time they tried to venture into the bay

they were forced back by the gentle giants, the blue whales that

had formed a great log boom of living flesh–a floating, impenetrable

fence. The sandwalker was not welcome here, nor were they soon

to be invited to the festivities.

All of this I related to Peter when he returned, arms loaded

with a variety of odd-shaped packages. “Well,” he signed, “maybe

that’s for the best. There’s not a boat to be had in the town any-

way. The media have them all chartered. I did, however, find a rub-

ber, two-man dinghy at the hardware store.”

“Right,” I signed sarcastically. “And we’re going to inflate this

little raft with our own lung power and then row the five or six miles

up the coast to where first Greenpeace and then the whales are

going to let us through?”

“No,” he said as he dropped his large packages to the

ground. “We’re going to hike the five or six miles and then, yes,

we will inflate the little raft with our lung power and float it into the

bay. But we won’t have to worry about Greenpeace or the guardian

whales at the entrance to the bay. We’re going in over the glacier

itself. In football, this would be called an end around.”

“In the real world, this would be called stupid,” I spat. “Let

us assume that we get to the glacier on foot. It’s three miles long

at its shortest point to the sea. I don’t know about you, but I don’t

ski well on millennium-old ice.”

“We aren’t going to ski,” he grinned. “We’ll use the boat like a

sled. Whoosh! Splash! Right up front in the good seats. Actually

we won’t be in the water, but we’ll slide close enough that we can

launch the rubber raft from where we stop.”

I was doubtful that the plan had any merit, but there was no

other. I helped him gather the packages, and we struggled back to

the truck. “What about Fred?” I signed as the dog happily wagged

his tail, looking from Peter to me expectantly.

“What about Fred?” he retorted. “He’s come this far. I’m sure

he’s ready to go all the way, aren’t you, Fred?”

I could feel his bark, and his excitement was contagious. I

have done crazier things in my life, but this was getting close to

being unique: a Native-American, a black lab, and me–all sledding

on a glacier.

Having packed, we climbed back into the truck and drove

slowly out of town, winding through throngs of people milling about

the streets. W e followed the road through the little town and to the

last vestiges of civilization, where the road itself came to an abrupt

end at the trail’s head. There, as a form of sandwalker farewell, were

several old mattresses, a sofa, some plastic garbage sacks–filled

with who-knows-what–and a variety of beer cans strewn about. I’ve

got to hand it to us humans: if we think we own it, we’ll sure use it.

Peter extracted two backpacks from the pick-up and quickly

filled them with our gear. I stripped off my parka to enjoy the early

morning sunshine that warmed and sweetened the air with the smell

of pine and cedar. I started to throw the coat into the truck, but Pe-

ter warned, “It’s warm now, and it will get warmer later. But, sooner

or later, you’re going to need that coat.”

I bowed, conceding the expert’s point. Packed and loaded,

Peter placed the lighter of the two packs on my back. After care-

fully adjusting my straps to ensure that the load wouldn’t slip, he

tossed his pack casually over one shoulder, grabbed my duffel bag,

and with Fred leading the way, we began our trek to the glacier.

The trail was soft, covered in layer after layer of moss, tree

needles and leaves. There was life in the air here, a veritable magic.

There is no way to explain the full impact and the wonder of nature

accepted. She owns all, Nature does; people are but passengers on

her mysterious journey. Our step quickened as we felt the snap and

the thunderous crack of the glacier.

By the time we had walked three or four miles, my pack

seemed a lot heavier, the air a lot warmer. We emerged from the

forest onto the broken rocks and chunks of ice that preceded our

entry onto the glacier itself, and there we rested for a short time.

Peter produced a small camp stove to heat some water, and we had

a cup of beef broth and some trail mix. I think I know why they call

it trail mix, for this particular batch tasted like it had been mixed

with parts of the trail. I think I ate an old shoelace–energy you can

tie up and save for later! Fred refused my offerings of a nut or two,

instead opting to hunt the neighboring woods. He returned in short

order, munching on the remnants of another creature’s kill.

“Fred!” I mouth-spoke. “Drop it.”

“No,” Peter laughed, as he touched my shoulder and turned

me toward him. “Dogs are natural scavengers. He will eat what

the others don’t want, and the others will eat what he doesn’t.

The parts none of them want will be carted off by the insects or

absorbed back into the soil. Those parts will replace the nutrients

removed by the trees, which will be eaten by the squirrels, which will

be eaten by the bears and the scavengers to follow. It’s balanced.

One cleans up after another.”

I sat, absorbing this simple lesson I had taught over and over

as a teaching assistant in college. Lessons memorized are not nec-

essarily lessons learned.

By this time, it was mid afternoon. I questioned the advis-

ability of attacking the glacier this late in the day. Peter laughed

and reminded me that the sun would barely set this summer’s night.

It was June 21, the night of the summer solstice, the longest day

recorded on earth and at this northern part of the planet it would be

light all night long. Using stands of white birch as a dressing room,

we undressed and pulled our dry suits on. The dry suit is the warm-

est of skin-diving gear and should we find ourselves in the water,

would afford the greatest of protection. Peter had no plans to dive

but the rubber raft was small and sure to take on some water and

these were the coldest waters on earth. The dry suit, now under

his clothes, would keep him warm. Satisfied but still cautious,

we repacked our gear and garbage and stowed the packs beneath

some rocks, taking with us only the bare essentials — my air tanks,

face plate and flippers.

With the rolled-up rubber life raft under his arm, Peter led me

onto the glacier. Fred-the-dog was sniffing behind, probably look-

ing for a cute little snow bunny to eat. Nature has a unique way of

balancing beauty with ferocity.

It was difficult to say when we moved from the shifting rocks

to the glacier itself. Glaciers are not pristine and clean as one might

imagine. One minute we were on rocks and dirt, and the next, we

were on rocks and dirt and glacier ice. The outside edge becomes a

collector for the slowly moving monstrosity that claws its way to the

sea. It has spent lifetimes slowly grinding the earth, molding and

moving even mountains.

We angled up and soon entered the smoother ice field itself.

Here, over a period of years, the glacier had eroded. I looked up and

could see a smooth track of avalanche, where tons and tons of snow

had slipped quickly and devastatingly down the glacier. My eyes

followed the smooth track down; the beauty took my breath away.

Below us, the Bay of Blue Ice was wrapped in emerald green,

tinted by blues so blue that words cannot deScribe the depth and

magic of their color. The ice, as it neared the sea, sparkled with

a kaleidoscope of prismatic color and shape. In the bay itself, tiny

dots moved about with the tides. I realized that these were not

dots, some two or three miles away by ice, but the whales, dolphins,

and flipper-fins.

The Conclave.

I turned back to Peter. He, too, was caught in this moment.

Even Fred-the-dog sat on the ice and did nothing but look down on

this awesome sight. Peter snapped his head around to force himself

to the task at hand–inflating the raft. I watched as he huffed and

puffed, and slowly the raft began to take shape. It seemed pitifully

small in contrast to the glacier now looming monstrously tall.

“Are you sure,” I signed, “that this is going to work?”

“As sure as I am that my middle name is Abraham,” Peter said

confidently. “Look, we’ll stop near the bottom of the ice, and then

re-launch into the water. It’s a no-brainer.” He resumed his blowing,

and soon the small raft was totally inflated. He stood back to admire

his handiwork. Then, with a flourish, he waved his arm and gallantly

motioned that I was to have the place of honor–the front.

I swallowed hard, put my duffel bag in the very front, and, af-

ter taking a deep breath, stepped into the boat. Peter followed and,

placing his legs on either side of me, wrapped his arms around my

waist. With one hand, he cumbersomely signed, “Sorry about the

intimacy, Doc, but it’s a small boat.”

I didn’t mind. In fact, in a different situation, I might have re-

turned the embrace in kind, but this situation was beyond different,

nearing bizarre. I wanted to sit there for a moment, taking it all in

and allowing a moment to steel my resolve. But my wishful thinking

was for naught as a black bundle of fur leaped into my lap, setting

the sled in motion. Fred quickly faced forward, sitting between

my legs and the duffel, as we slowly began to slide down the ice.

I mouth-spoke loudly so Peter could hear me over the crunching

snow and ice, “Your middle name is Abraham?”

“Are you kidding?” he signed, “With a last name of Twofin? I

don’t have a middle name.” So much for confidence.

Slow became fast became faster became out-of-control, as

our rubber toboggan bumped over the ice.

Concerned, I asked, “What happens if the glacier doesn’t

beach with the water? What happens if there is a sheer cliff and

a big drop?” If he answered, I wasn’t able to hear anyway, but the

answer was soon to come. The raft listed, and then turned and

spun around so we could behold all those places we had been. We

had covered nearly all the distance down the glacier when we spun

again and I found the answer to my question. We were airborne!

The boat sailed off the ice like an errant Frisbee and main-

tained a form of aerodynamics as it spun crazily out over the sea.

As quickly as our adventure had begun, it ended. Splashdown! I

was thrown forward by the abrupt plunge in the water, but with Fred

cushioning my head, I was uninjured. I sat up and looked around.

You did not have to be a hearing person to feel the silence that

spread like a blanket over this inlet, this bay.

The water was as still as glass and inky in its appearance,

although it was very clear. In the water around us were dolphins,

whales, flipper-fins, and some other creatures that I never would

have thought of as singers of the Song of the Sea.

Peter urgently tapped on my shoulder, and I spun in the tiny

boat. His face was as white as a ghost. “What is this?” he mouthed.

“What are they all doing here?”

I signed, “So much for ‘I believe in you.’ Peter, this is what

I have been talking about. This is the first time since the begin-

ning of time that the Conclave has ever been called. It can only be

called when a species feels threatened by extinction. It had nearly

been called over the extinction of some whales. At one point, the

Narwhal of the Horn tried to call a Conclave, fearing their own ex-

tinction, but never has it actually been called before.”

I waved my arm around the bay, which was ringed by the blue

ice of the glacier and filled to silent-still capacity with thousands of

thinking creatures–a veritable seething maelstrom of life. “This is . .

Conclave!”

The whales and the dolphins stared at us with baleful eyes

but did nothing. Time seemed to freeze in space as we sat looking

at them, and they at us. The impasse was broken when we were

rushed from behind by a large Orca, who swam through the satin

waters and brushed the boat. His wake caused us to rock precari-

ously, and Fred, still held in my arms, began to bark angrily, warning

all to stay back. The hackles on the back of his neck were raised,

and I could feel him growl–deep and menacing.

The little boat floated still in the water. Two Orcas swam

quickly toward us from opposite directions, again tossing the little

boat about in the water. The bone in my inner ear began to ring

with the vibration of the low tones of one, then two, then ten, then

a hundred voices softly chanting together, “Conclave . . . Conclave .

. . Conclave.” As suddenly as it had begun, it stopped, and my inner

ear was silent once again.

I twisted my head, felt another tingling, and sensed a new

sound. This was quieter. I turned this way and that, trying to home

in on the vibration.

“What is it?” furtively signed Peter.

I froze him with a wave and tensed again, seeking the source

of the sound. It was getting louder. It seemed to be one or two

voices intently calling, “Sandwalker. Sandwalker.” I spun my head,

and there, not fifty feet away, was one of the Orcas that had brushed

the boat. He called again, “Sandwalker. Sandwalker.”

Then, behind me, I heard another and spun to that sound.

He, too, called, “Sandwalker. Sandwalker.” And then faintly I could

discern, “He who walks on spindly fins on the dryside. He who

holds dominion over the song sung in the sea.”

Peter spun me to him, “What is going on? Are we in danger?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t sound good. But it’s hard to hear

clearly without the resonance and the amplification of the water.” I

turned back around, my brows knit and my head cocked slightly in

concentration.

There was a moment of silence, and then, almost in chorus,

the other Orca took up the ominous chant, “Sandwalker. Sandwalk-

er. The creature that left the sea and returns only to kill the breth-

ren. Sandwalker!”

Suddenly a new voice — like ice itself — joined this duet. The

sound cut me through to the heart. It was whispered, yet loud. It

was sweet, but bittersweet. It was an icicle, sharp and deadly the

vibration like fingernails down a blackboard. It ended its speech in

diphthong, as if it was a question, but sarcastic of nature, “Sand-

walker?” the voice called. “Sandwalker?” I spun to the side and

gripped Fred for fear he would leap into the water and attack. Not

ten feet from the boat silkily breached an alabaster-skinned Narwhal

of the Horn.

“Ahh, the Sandwalker,” he whispered silkily, “he who came to

us in the water in shells. The creature to whom we tried in vain to

teach the Song of the Sea. He who, to reward the song, killed the

singer of the song and ripped from his head . . . his horn.”

Softly, but with great intensity, the water seemed to boil with

sound as the creatures of the Conclave chanted in response, “This

was not good!”

The Narwhal continued in his hypnotic, icy tone, “With the

bloody horn, the sandwalker killed another, and then he had two

horns. He coveted the horns as prize. He did not eat the meat,

violating all that is holy in the sea and the simplest rule of All That

Is Right in the World.”

The water danced electric snapping blue, silver, and green iri-

descence just at the surface. In unison, they again cried, “And this

was not good!”

The two Orcas, overlooked by the chanting of the Narwhal,

suddenly charged the little boat again, rocking it perilously. Peter

and I grabbed the sides to steady the craft against the wake of these

two fleshy torpedoes. Fred snapped his head to and fro, seeking an

enemy worthy of his jaws.

A maniacal laugh came from the Narwhal, and then he began

again. “We, the Narwhal, were forced to hide. We, the Narwhal,

alone carried the message, warning the others of the sandwalk-

er’s lack of soul and spirit. We hid in the icy corridors and palac-

es where our reflections in crystal strengthened our resolve. We

sought others to teach them the story. And they came. And they

listened. And they changed the Song of the Sea forever.”

In powerful harmony, the bay rippled with, “And this was good!”

The vibration stopped, and time seemed to freeze like the

blue ice that surrounded this bay of decision and change. “We have

died for the sandwalker in a thousand deaths. We have cast our-

selves in protest to the dryside, there to become one with the end .

. . the beginning. There to rot and demonstrate to the sandwalker

that he does not hold dominion over the sea. There to send a mes-

sage to the sandwalker that we control our own destiny. We can, we

will, and we did call upon our own deaths and a return to the end . .

. the beginning.”

So loud now that my inner ear ached, they chanted, “And

this is good!” From this forceful vibration, I could read in Peter’s

face that he, too, at strong intervals, could hear, although he did not

understand what the vibrations meant.

Breaking the stillness, two angry voices, in counterpoint

in front and behind, intoned by whispered vibration, “Sandwalker.

Sandwalker.”

They started and then stopped, “Sandwalker. Sandwalker.”

“Sandwalker! Sandwalker!”

Again and again, they started and stopped and stopped and

started. The result was terrifying. I kept turning back and forth as

each one called out, “Sandwalker! Sandwalker!” Never in all of my

life have I been so frightened, for the whispering carried an unspo-

ken message: “We’re coming–we’re coming.”

Peter was watching my face and realized that something was

about to happen. It obviously wasn’t going to be a matinee at the ma-

rina with dolphins and whales leaping to the delight of the audience.

Abruptly, there was a surge in the water like a bulge, a mon-

strous ripple moving forward. I looked behind, and there was an-

other doing the same. The two Orcas smashed into the boat and as

they struck they screamed with a force of vibration that chilled my

blood and froze me in place.

“Sandwalker!!”

This time, they didn’t skim by. This time, the full force of

their fury tipped the boat almost onto its side. Try though I might,

I could not hold on. Every muscle in my body was frozen by the

horrible, intoned death-keen of the Orca. I hit the water, and even

the shock of its coldness didn’t break the spell. I simply couldn’t

move. Straight ahead and slightly below me under fifteen feet of wa-

ter were the two Orcas. Mouths open with long, ivory-colored teeth

forming an unconscious smile, they floated, waiting and watching.

A moment, an hour, I know not which, went by before I could con-

trol myself again.

I had just begun to kick myself to the surface when they

intoned again, “Sandwalker–Sandwalker!” The vibrations now un-

encumbered by the dryside, the force was unbelievable, and again I

was frozen.

The sultry vibration of the Narwhal of the Horn called to the

Orca, “Take them now, my sweets. Take them now to the end . . .

the beginning. Take them to All That Is Right in the World.”

A movement in the water caused me to look up, breaking the

reverie of the eerie call. What at first looked like a rippling shadow

on the surface turned into the full form of a man leaping headfirst

into the water. It was Peter. Surrounded by the silver bubbles of the

dryside that followed him on his erratic dive, he saw the Orca first,

then turned and spied me. He swam in hard strokes, reached down,

and grabbed my swirling hair. With all his might, he yanked me to

the surface and now was between my attackers and me.

What happened next was simultaneous and confusing. He

grabbed me by the back of my now anchor-weight parka, and, with

Herculean strength, threw me into the boat. Still paralyzed but

beginning to feel sensation, I laid there with my feet stiffly pointing

off the side. What struck me most was as he pushed me from the

water, I had felt the greatest of all the calls when the two Orcas, in

concert, bellowed their death call, “SANDWALKER!!!!!”

Peter, who up to this point had felt a bit of the vibration and

its gentle subtleties, took this one full force. I could feel, even as

I was being pushed from the water, that his muscles went slack in re-

sponse to the death call. I sprawled there, helpless in the bottom of

the boat, trying to will my body back to action, but it was as if I had

been severed from my conduit of reality and control.

A grating sensation wiped my face from jaw to forehead like

wet sandpaper. Over and over again, it ground across my face. It

was an anchor of feeling, and I responded slowly to the release of

the nerve blockage. I could feel again, and with the feeling came

nerve and muscle control. I swung my legs around and sat upright

in the boat, dazed by all that had happened.

The swipe of a very rough, wet tongue snapped me back to

reality–the bay, the Conclave, and Fred-the-dog. I hugged him and

then remembered how I had come to be in the boat. “Oh, my God!

Peter!” I cried. I flopped over and leaned across the round, rubber

side of the boat, peering down into the crystal waters below. At first,

I saw nothing, and then I saw all.

Five feet below the surface, slowly spinning, was Peter, his

eyes frozen open by the paralyzing call. Then, almost in slow

motion, one of the Orcas turned sideways and grabbed Peter full-

mouthed by the hip and thigh. The water swirled in a cloud of

pink. I fell back into the boat unable to move, frozen by the horror

of watching someone, who just moments before had saved my life,

die in my stead. I watched over and over in brief memory flashes as

the man I loved but had never told shut his eyes in pain when those

powerful jaws of death closed around him.

I lay in the sloshing water on the bottom of the boat, my

tears mingling with the waters of life. I couldn’t just lie there. Peter

deserved a better memorial. I sat up again and looked out over the

now-still waters that were misted in a swirling, red cloud.

From nowhere, a form arched from the water like a missile

being fired from below. My first thought was that the Orcas were

breaching–to fall on the boat and reclaim the other sandwalker for

the Song of the Sea. But the form was not an Orca; it was the body

of Peter Twofin being thrown from the sea. In a low arc, he flopped

into the boat. I was sure he was dead–but this corpse began to

cough. He was alive!

As he pulled great gasps of breath into his lungs, I tended to

the wounds. I took off my coat and yanked the nylon cord free that

acted as a drawstring on the hood. I wrapped this around Peter’s

leg just above the wound in his thigh, twisting it around and around

to form a tourniquet and stem the flow of blood. The wound in his

hip was a deep cut that appeared superficial, although it probably

would need stitches later.

“Well, Doc,” he groaned, “welcome to Water Whirled of the

Northern Pacific, home of dolphins and whales who will tell you

tales that they will rip your heart out. Literally.” He laughed, then,

winced as I twisted the tourniquet tight.

He looked at me quizzically, “How did I get out of the water?

Last thing I remember is feeling like a frozen filet of cod, and then

suddenly I am flying back into the boat.”

Almost in answer, a form threw itself at the side of the boat.

The whales were back! I threw myself across Peter to protect him

from what appeared to be yet another attack.

CHAPTER TWENTY -SIX

As I walked back to the marina the next morning I began

to plan in earnest the release of this innocent family of dolphin.

I would be hard-pressed to manhandle one dolphin by myself, let

alone three, and my thoughts naturally led to an accomplice or two.

But whom should I involve? Involvement meant risking their job

and security, also.

Deep in thought as I moved through the maze of the ponds

and pools my questions of complicity were answered by the old

bristle-faced walrus himself. Happily he announced that Peter and

the two part-time collegiate assistants were also fired. “Clean sweep,

Shar-oon. Wipe that old dusty blackboard clean as a whistle.

Then nobody will be there to blow it . . . if you get my drift.” And

then, like a bad odor, he, too, drifted away.

I found Peter in the lab, commiserating with the graduate

fellows about their abrupt dismissal. I slowly told them what had

happened to the Beluga and the evidence I had held so long and the

blackmail. I related the coercion as far as it went and the ultimate

theft of the specimens and the pictures.

“Sorry, my friends,” I signed. “I never intended to get you fired.”

“That jellyfish,” mouth-spoke Peter, “I’d give my eyeteeth

just for the pleasure of watching him being eaten by a shark.”

“Even with that,” I signed, “he’d probably charge admission

and sell the television rights. I do, however, have an idea that might

bite the doctor where he is most sensitive–his wallet.”

Peter and the students leaned forward eagerly as he mouthed,

“Lead on, MacDuff, we’re all ears . . . or rather eyes.”

I began to sign, explaining my half-hatched plan regarding

the liberation of the dolphins: under the cover of darkness, using

the sling load all three onto the marina flatbed truck and take them

down to the wharf. There, we could lower them into two marina

boats that were always docked there. Peter and I could then ferry

them back to the cove where Laughter Ring had been captured.

There, they would have the best chance to rejoin a pod. Everyone

began excitedly adding details to the plot, but our conspiracy was

nearly nipped in the bud with the interruption of Dr. Lambert himself.

Surprisingly, he wasn’t curious about the four people he had

just fired having an impromptu meeting in the lab. Instead, he was

nearly frothing at the mouth in excitement. “You wouldn’t believe

it!” he splattered, saliva flying. “Less than a mile from the coast,

there’s a veritable parade of dolphins and whales moving north. All

the major networks are calling me, looking for background. Hot dog!

You’ve all just been unfired. We are going to go catch a few whales

and half a dozen dolphins. I’ve got orders from two marinas on

the East Coast, and the phone’s ringing off the wall. Big bucks!

Big bucks! Peter, take the flatbed and be down at the docks in an

hour. Dr. Shar-oon, you stay here with a butterfly net and watch for

flying fish.”

As Lambert turned on his heel, Peter rolled his eyes in dis-

gust and said, “What do you suppose he means by ‘a parade of

dolphins and whales’?” He sat there for a moment then grabbed

his cell phone. “I’ve got a friend with the Coast Guard up at Pelican

Bay. I’m going to give him a call.”

Peter talked for a bit on his phone, and then hung up. “He

says it’s the damndest thing. There are hundreds of whales and

dolphins moving slowly up the coast to the north, some sort of

mass migration. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Let’s worry about this oddity of nature later,” I signed quick-

ly. “For now, this will be a great cover to get our dolphins out of here

now.” We rushed about, gathering the necessary supplies: tubes of

ointment to protect their delicate skin from the sun and neoprene

wraps to hold the moisture close to their skins.

The flatbed was pulled in beside the tank, and I leaped into

the water to explain what was about to happen. I ended by sign-

ing about the migration up the coast. Little Brother let loose with a

burst, a phrase I had never heard before. “What does that mean?” I

asked, my hands moving quickly in the water. “Conclave,” they replied

in unison. Before they could explain, Peter signed from the platform,

“Come on Doc we have got to go now!” I made a mental note to ask

Laughter Ring later about the word Conclave and its meaning.

Using the sling and the portable hand crane, we lifted Little

Brother, Giggles, and Laughter Ring onto the flatbed truck. We

slathered all three in ointment as we began the exodus from the

park. Peter and I rode with our precious cargo as we began the

slow, perilous journey through busy streets to the wharf and the

open sea. I sloshed water on their backs trying to soothe their anx-

iety about the trip. They seemed to take all of it well, and, rather

than being anxious or concerned, they reveled in this eclectic col-

lection of sandwalkers.

Being out of the water left me at the distinct disadvantage of

not being able to “hear” or “feel” their vibrations as they spoke. It

was with great shock that, after I signed to Giggles, “Don’t worry,

my little one; everything is going to be okay,” she responded. I felt

the sensation, “What means okay?”

I shook my head in disbelief, and she sounded again, “We

swim soon? Waters of life, soon?” Albeit faint and without the

positive vibration of being in the water, it was mind-speak. I could

feel the sound. I signed to Little Brother, asking him to speak to

me, and he responded, “What do you wish me to speak? A song

or silly syllables to break you into gales of laughter?” His eyes twin-

kled as a tear streaked slowly down my cheek.

Peter tossed me a strange glance but continued his ministra-

tions. I still didn’t know if he truly believed in my unique ability to

sense these conversations with the dolphins and the whale.

The truck brakes squealed as we stopped for the final time

at the end of the long wharf. Using the small sling that the marina

maintained for just this purpose, we lowered all three of the crea-

tures into the Zodiac Bay boats–Little Brother, the largest, into the

boat Peter would pilot; the mother and child into mine.

Once the boats were loaded, Peter cast the mooring lines

free, and we carefully threaded through the congestion of fishing

and other pleasure boats tied to the dock. Our escape was relative-

ly uneventful save for some odd stares from the deckhands moving

about on the boats.

We rounded the point, and, although there was a bit of ac-

tion from the waves, the little boats handled it well, and we surged

ahead. The fear of being caught was replaced by the exhilaration

that can be found only in the biting, saltwater snap of an ocean-

borne breeze. I scanned the horizon, looking for the mysterious

migration of whale and dolphin. But all I saw were the unmistakable

antenna whips of a fleet of fishing boats, working the banks just

outside the harbor.

Occasionally, as Peter and I raced our little boats side by

side, I could see Little Brother arching himself up to look over the

gunwales of the rubber boat. He, too, seemed exhilarated by the en-

tire event. Laughter Ring and Giggles looked small and so defense-

less as they lay at my feet. How often had I taken pride during my

college expedition days when we captured all sorts of dolphin and

seal. What fear they must have felt, being carried away from their

homes to be experimented on by the superior beast–he who walks

the dryside and cannot sing the Song of the Sea.

As we followed the shoreline, it wasn’t long before we brought

the boats into a broad and sweeping bay where Laughter Ring was

originally captured. Here, she and her family would find their way to

the open sea and a pod of dolphin to join in community. I shut the

engine off, and the humming vibration stopped, a soundless per-

son’s reflection of silence.

With both of the boats rocking gently in the protected waters,

Peter lifted and rolled Little Brother into the inky waters. I groaned

with exertion and slowly rolled Laughter Ring over the side of my

boat–carefully, for I still feared some injury from the surgery. But

she seemed as hale and hearty as could be. With the two parents

waiting expectantly, I picked up a now squirming Giggles. As I pre-

pared to slip her gently into the water, she twisted out of my grasp

and plopped into the water with all the grace of a rock. None the

worse for wear, she swam around in tight little circles, delighted at

the sensation of her baptism in the open sea.

I slid over the side of the boat into the cold, biting waters to

be closer to my friends. I needed to feel for the last time the bright-

ness of Laughter Ring, this very special dolphin. “You will be well,”

I signed slowly in the murkier waters of the non-sterile sea. “Your

wound of childbirth will soon be completely healed, and you should

have no complications.”

“Thank you,” she stammered, not knowing what else to say.

Small tears squeezed from my eyes and joined the waters

from which they had come. “Stay in this cove until you are acclimat-

ed with the sea once again,” I continued. “Giggles will grow stronger

every day. You have no reason to fear for her.”

There was a long, painful pause, and then Laughter Ring

blurted, “Oh, Sharing, we will miss you so, but we must now join the

others of our kind.”

I climbed back into the shell and, after staring for some time,

turned the little boat to float off, back to the dryside. Peter moved

in tandem until we reached the edge of the bay. There, I turned the

boat and again shut the engine off–wanting to somehow ensure

their safety just by being near. I signed to Peter that I wanted to

watch for a time and make sure they were adjusting well. He, too,

sat back in his boat and watched in wonder.

In the distance, we could see Little Brother breach high out

of the water and powerfully swim away. Like a dutiful father, he re-

turned a short time later, a large fish clamped in his jaws. Then, as

before, he dove and swam away again. I saw a small fishing boat

cruising from the other end of the bay and continued to watch with-

out concern as Little Brother swam very close to the strange boat.

Suddenly, Little Brother turned quickly, leaping from the water and

swimming rapidly away from the new boat. The fisherman rose in

the bow and, to my shock, lifted a rifle to his shoulder and fired a

shot that easily struck the fleeing dolphin.

I sat there in the boat, numbed, shocked into inaction. I

looked at Peter in horror and signed, “Why would a fisherman

shoot a dolphin?”

“That’s no fisherman,” he mouth-spoke angrily. “That’s

Lambert!”

I snapped my head back to the scene and realized that Peter

was right. It was Lambert, and he wasn’t shooting a regular rifle; he

was shooting a dart gun. Without thought, I fired up the engine of

the little Zodiac, and, like giving a horse its head, I raced back into

the bay. Lambert moved closer to the now-still Little Brother and

was preparing to shoot again when he heard my engine racing to-

ward him. I could see the greasy smile on his face as he recognized

me and waved. “Come on, Shar-oon,” he mouth-spoke, “I got this

one and there are two more over there.” With that, he drew the rifle

back to his cheek.

He was just preparing to fire a second dart into the motion-

less form floating in the water when he realized I wasn’t slowing

down. With the wind snapping the tears from my eyes, I slammed

the accelerator full forward, and the little Zodiac shot across the

flat bay like a drop of water on a hot skillet. My boat hit the side

of Lambert’s, and my rubber bow caught him full in the chest and

smashed him into the water.

Knowing Lambert was temporarily incapacitated; I rushed to

the inert form of Little Brother. I killed the engine, and, grabbing a

syringe from my kit, I leaped into the water at the same time Laugh-

ter Ring and Giggles arrived. Cradling his head, I gave Little Brother

a shot that would neutralize the tranquilizer.

“I can’t believe it,” Laughter Ring cried. “He died seeking to

cheer me up with fresh fish. Oh, that silly fool! I loved him so and

now he’s dead.”

“Not quite,” I thought to myself.

Little Brother’s eyes snapped open, and he asked simply,

“Am I dead?”

“No, my little friend,” I signed, “You were only stunned.”

“My dear friend,” Laughter Ring asked incredulously, “you

would attack one of your own to save a life in the sea?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I signed. “The sandwalker must learn he

does not hold dominion over living things. He must learn life is to

be cherished with the laws of Nature.

Laughter Ring paused and looked at me queerly. Then, halt-

ingly, she began, “There is much that we have not told you. As you

know, the dolphin and whale who wait for you in the sterile ponds

came to you, not by capture, but out of their own choice. As you

learn from them, so do they learn from you. All this knowledge has

been passed to a whale or a dolphin that was to be set free. Once

freed, they carried this bit of song to the mysterious Narwhal in the

colder waters.”

“But there is even more,” Laughter Ring continued. “Some-

thing wondrous is about to occur — a Conclave of all the singing

creatures in the sea. There has never been such a gathering except

at the very beginning when ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD

allowed us to be as one.”

“Tell me where the Conclave is to take place,” I eagerly

signed. “I must see this with my own eyes and feel the song as it is

truly sung by all who can sing. Please tell me. I must know.”

“Wait, Sharing, you need to know the real reason for the gath-

ering. The great white whale, Harmony, has called for the Conclave

of all, and all are moving up the seas to the colder place where the

Narwhal live. Here, the tears of ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE

WORLD have frozen in time in the Bay of Blue Ice. There shall be

enacted a plan to save the seas from the greater evil.”

I paused and stared at her, then signed, “But what is the

greater evil?”

“The greater evil,” she continued, “is you, the sandwalker.”

I took a deep breath and then continued, “What do they hope

to achieve?”

“I know not,” Laughter Ring patiently explained. “Only Har-

mony knows. But I know the Narwal of the Horn hope only for the

end of the lives of all the sandwalkers that walk on the dryside.”

“Why do you tell me of this now?” I gently asked.

She paused, looking at Little Brother and Giggles who swam

nearby. “You are more than a common sandwalker. In a small way,

you have learned to sing the Song of the Sea. Sharing, you must

come to the Conclave, not as an interloper or an unwanted guest.

You must come as a singer, for a singer you are.”

“I will be there! If I have to walk, I will be there.”

Without another word, they turned and swam away. It was an

odd feeling, but, having felt the Song of the Sea, the ocean was no

longer lonely. The sea is, was, and always shall be filled with life

and the memory of that song . . . that Song of the Sea. My pledge

will be honored: I will find that Conclave. I will be there.

I crawled into my boat and, as Peter pulled up alongside,

openly wept.

“Don’t cry,” he mouth-spoke. “Lambert’s not dead. I saw him

drag his soggy ass up on the beach.”

I smiled through my tears. “I am not crying for him. I cry now

for a song.”

When I was composed and assured of the dolphins’ safety,

we turned back to the open sea. The Conclave . . . the Bay of Blue

Ice . . . this riddle of the location rattled about in my brain as we

raced our Zodiacs back to the wharf and the waiting graduate assis-

tants. Peter and I clambered up onto the flatbed for the bumpy ride

back to the marina. We didn’t talk, my thoughts isolated around

the Conclave, as I tried to imagine the impact of such a thing in the

scientific world alone.

When we got back to the marina, I didn’t speak to anyone.

I simply clambored off the back of the truck and in a daze contin-

ued to walk up the street to my house. So distracted was I by the

question of the Conclave location that it wasn’t until I had opened

the front door that I realized Peter had followed me, stride for stride.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around on the porch.

“Sharon,” he mouth-spoke, “what’s going on? Why are you in such

an all-fired rush to get home?”

“Peter,” I signed, “I know you think I’m crazy, but I have been

talking to the dolphins. In the water of the bay, the female, is called

Laughter Ring and she just told me of something wondrous, some-

thing inexplicable in all of science. In all of our years of research,

we have concentrated our attention on what we could do for the

mammals of the sea. It never, ever dawned on us that, if they were

intelligent, they might be wondering the same about us.”

Peter just stood there and stared, not knowing what to believe.

I rested my hands at my sides, took a deep breath and then

continued, “Laughter Ring told me the reason for the mass migra-

tion of all those whales and dolphins: It seems that a very unique

whale has called a Conclave, a gathering of all the intelligent ‘think-

ing’ creatures of the sea.”

Peter scratched his head, trying desperately to figure out

where I was going with this outrageous story.

Realizing how unbelievable all this must sound, I sighed and

then continued, “At the Conclave, the dolphins, whales and the

other sentient beings of the sea will decide once and for all what to

do about us, the sandwalker, mankind.”

I paced around the porch, my thoughts racing and my hands

waving. “Think of it, Peter. They are going to meet to decide our

fate. Believe me, they were here before us. They have been good

neighbors, and we have repaid their hospitality by annihilating them

en masse for their body parts and a few drums of oil. We have kid-

napped their young for our own entertainment, and now they are

mad as hell. Now, they are going to get even. And you know what,

Peter? I can’t blame them, and I am going to be there to watch.”

I stormed into the house slamming the door but was followed

closely by an irate Haida Indian. Once again, Peter turned me forci-

bly around and mouth-spoke, “Sharon, I don’t know if I believe this

stuff about talking to the fish. But,” he paused, looking deep in my

eyes, “I do believe in you. I’ll help you.”

I shrugged out of his grasp and snapped, “I don’t need

your help.”

“Yes, you do,” he answered smugly, too smugly.

“No, I don’t.”

“Okay, little Miss Doctor Doolittle, how do you get there? You

don’t have a car. You have never been out of the state of California.

Where is this meeting of the whales anyway? Well, like it or not, I

am going with you just to make sure you don’t get lost. I don’t want

you to have any excuses to avoid having to eat a bit of crow when

we can’t find this great meeting. I’ll go pack the truck.” With that,

he stormed out the door. Amazing, how easily he got angry. But

even angry, he made me smile.

Like it or not, he was right. I didn’t have any transportation.

I had very little money, and the far north, to me, had always meant

Portland. Oregon. I pulled out my dad’s old army duffle bag, filled

it with my dry suit and double tank, and lugged it to the front door.

Then I quickly packed some extra clothes in a rucksack, grabbed

a hooded parka and a pair of long johns I used for cross-country

skiing, and went outside to wait.

Peter was already there sitting stoically in an old, quite dent-

ed, primer-red half-ton pick-up. He didn’t look at me, just kept star-

ing straight ahead. In the bed of the truck stood a big black dog,

at least part Labrador retriever, steely black eyes staring straight

ahead, too, but tail wagging.

“Who’s that?” I signed, indicating the four-legged passenger.

“That’s Fred-the-dog. He goes where I go. He kind of invites

himself.”

I groaned as I muscled my gear into the truck bed, and as

Fred-the-dog quickly made a nest of my belongings I opened the

passenger door. Before I was completely in Peter put the truck in

gear and began accelerating down the street. We careened down

around the marina and easily entered the ever-constant flow of Cali-

fornia traffic.

Feeling like a child being punished by a controlling parent, I

said nothing. The deaf are really good at the game of silence. Peo-

ple who can hear, the listening ones, like nothing better than to

listen to themselves chatter. Silence is something they can’t stand.

I folded my arms across my chest, scrunched down in the seat, and

waited for him to break–and break he surely would. I was the queen

of silence and he was but a minion.

We wound out of Santa Marina and eventually merged onto

Interstate 5 and kept going. Ever silent, he stopped the truck twice

to refuel, once just north of Sacramento and in Redding where they

seemed more concerned with selling olives than gas. Oh, Peter was

good at the silence game! Fred-the-dog didn’t say anything either.

As we were leaving Redding, climbing up beside magnificent

Mount Shasta, I felt him say something. I turned quickly, but he had

hidden the fact well behind that quirky smile of his, more smirk than

smile. I turned my gaze back to the road, but again I got the feeling

that he had spoken.

“What did you say?” I asked sarcastically in mouth-speak,

satisfied that in speaking twice he had lost the game.

He turned his head and smirked. “I didn’t say a word.” he

enunciated very carefully. “Nope, looks like you spoke first!”

“I distinctly heard you speak,” I snapped indignantly.

“Sharon,” he continued patronizingly, “you are deaf, remem-

ber? How could you hear me speak?”

“Well, I meant, I felt you speak. I felt you speak first.”

“Wrong again, Doc.”

I turned back to the road and once again felt him speak.

This time I snapped my head around to catch him in the act but

instead found Fred-the-dog’s head inside the sliding back window,

barking loudly. As I turned, he pulled his head back outside and

stood there, sheepishly wagging his tail. How low will this man go?

Using a hapless dog to win.

The game over, I asked, “Do you have any idea where we

are going?”

“Well,” he smiled, “seeing that all the whales were heading

north, I thought we would drive that way. North of north is where I

come from, remember?” He paused for a moment and then contin-

ued wryly, “If I were a whale or a dolphin and I were to have a con-

vention . . . “

“Conclave,” I corrected.

“Conclave,” he continued. “If I were to have a Conclave and

the Conclave were to be serious, not one of those ‘get together and

have a few laughs’ Conclaves but a really serious Conclave, I’d go

to Alaska–the natural Conclave place for the discriminating, think-

ing whale. Plus I heard on the radio that the Alaska coastline was

inundated by an unseasonable amount of whales!”

Angrily I turned back around and stared at Mount Shasta

wrapped in a cloak of purple sunset. “May my tongue fall out and

my hands cramp if I ever speak to this infuriating human again,” I

pledged angrily.

My pout was broken by a long, wet tongue that slurped

across my face. I turned and was eye to eye with a peace-seeking

Fred-the-dog. The humor of the situation finally took over, and

laughter exploded from me like a bursting balloon. Peter joined me,

and we laughed until we cried. With a shaking of my head and a

long glance at a proud profile, I finally leaned my head against the

cool window and as first Black Beauty and then Shasta blurred by,

fell fast asleep.

Some time later when it was very dark, I awoke with a start.

The truck was idling, and in the green glow of the dashboard light,

I could see Peter rubbing his eyes and kind of slapping himself in

the face. He flipped on the dome light and looked at me, his eyes

haggard and red. “Look, Doc, I’ve got to sleep just for a bit. You

drive.” He jumped out of the cab and walked around to my side. He

opened the door and nearly shoved me under the steering wheel.

“We’re just outside of Portland, Oregon. I fueled up thirty minutes

ago. Keep the nose pointed north. I’ll take over when we get to

Seattle.” He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest, leaned into

the door, and fell asleep.

I turned to the task at hand. Carefully, I gripped the wheel

and looked back down the road. There wasn’t another vehicle in

sight. The freeway was mine, and mine alone. Good! I turned the

wheel and pressed down on the accelerator to ease the truck back

onto the road, but nothing happened. Silly me! I forgot to put the

truck into gear. I pulled the shifter down, and, after bouncing be-

tween N and R. I finally settled the indicator on D.

We were off! Now safely on the hard surface of the freeway,

we raced on to the north, always north. The night was bright, and

the stars were snapping in their brilliance. There is something

about driving at night. My only companions were the stars above.

My reverie was broken, however, as I was overtaken and passed by a

diesel truck and trailer the size of Nebraska, which blew by the pick-

up as if it was standing still. The broken air of the speeding truck

buffeted the pick-up, and it was all I could do to maintain control.

That was close! I regained my composure. After assuring

myself that no other killer trucks were on the immediate horizon,

I concentrated on the tricky road ahead. Well, not horribly tricky-

-mostly straight–but I had to watch for those casual bends and

twists in the road. Half an hour went by, and I felt confident that

with no one else on the road I could kick up the speed a notch or

two. We were really sailing now.

I hadn’t driven at the faster speed for more than ten minutes

when, once again, out of nowhere came another semi. With lights

flashing, he blasted by me, showing no regard for the safety of

anyone else on the road. I had barely caught my breath when I saw

another set of headlights in the rearview mirror. Oh, my lord, anoth-

er truck?

This truck, fortunately, turned out to be a highway patrol-

man, who obviously was pursuing the trucks that had passed earlier

on their death-defying dash up the freeway. I was confused when

the patrolman pulled in behind me and turned on his flashing blue

lights. They must need me as a witness, I thought. I carefully

pulled over to the side of the road, shut off the engine, and waited.

Peter, in the meantime, had woken. “What happened? Oh, no,”

he groaned as the patrolman walked up to my now-open window,

“you’re getting a ticket for speeding?”

The state trooper must have spoken while I was reading Pe-

ter’s lips, for I turned to see him say, “… over the limit. Just keep

this pick-up at the speed limit, and we won’t have any trouble.”

I thanked the officer and sat there feeling a little shaken by

the whole experience. Peter got out of the truck and walked back

to the patrolman’s car. There I could see them yammering away, but,

because of the position of the mirror, I couldn’t lip-read what they

were saying. Peter came back to the driver’s side and after getting

me to slide over to the passenger seat got behind the wheel and put

the truck in gear.

He didn’t say much as he pulled back onto the road. Finally,

after a time, he asked, “How fast do you think you were going?”

“I don’t know,” I mouth-spoke. “ Really cruising. Pretty fast.

So fast, I didn’t dare look down at the speedometer. How fast did

the trooper say he had me clocked? Boy, if I got stopped for speed-

ing, those truck drivers should get prison sentences for breaking

the sound barrier.”

“Sharon,” Peter began, “I don’t know how to explain this to

you, but you weren’t getting a ticket for speeding. You were going

to get a ticket for going too slow. You were doing twenty-five miles

per hour. That’s not a speed that garners a lot of speeding tickets.

How long have you been driving?”

“What time is it? You fell asleep, so I must have driven for an

hour or so!”

“No, no, Doc. I mean, how long have you been driving in

your lifetime?”

“I told you, about an hour or so. Daddy started to teach

me, but it just made him crazy, and I really didn’t need to have a

car anyway.”

“You mean,” sputtered Peter, reminiscent of Dr. Lambert’s

spraying speech patterns, “that you don’t know how to drive?”

“No, I know how to drive, now. I mean, in the last hour, I

learned a lot.”

For the rest of the trip, Peter didn’t talk much about my close

call with the cop. He drove through Washington, on through British

Columbia and up the long and dusty Alcan Highway stopping only

occasionally for a catnap in rest areas or after we had stopped for

gas and food. He must have been very tired at times, but he never

asked me to drive again.

Peter did, however, make an odd observation as we neared

the lands where he was raised as a child. We were stopped in the

middle of the road, watching a herd of white-tailed deer run across

the roadway. He said, “The deer were bigger when I was a boy. The

bucks, the males, seemed larger, and their racks of horns grander.”

“You’re right,” I signed. “They are small.”

He looked at me with a cocked eye, “I thought you had

never been north of San Francisco? How do you know about the

deer up here?”

“Because,” I continued, “throughout the world, man hunts the

wrong wild creatures for the wrong reasons. We hunt because we

feel it’s our right to be predator, to be the caretaker of nature. Then,

we hunt the prize–the biggest, the strongest–and with our superior

minds and clever weapons, we eliminate the prize from the herd.”

“So?” he prompted, as he slipped the truck in gear, and we

resumed the bouncy ride.

“So, in nature the bear, the wolf, the coyote hunt the herds.

They balance the great numbers of the antelope and deer, and, in

that way, the ones left have plenty to eat and don’t starve. But man

has removed the predator.”

The truck vibrated as the tires kicked up the loose gravel,

grabbing for purchase on the shifting roadbed. Peter looked at me

and politely countered, “Now man has become the predator. Eat or

be eaten, the law of nature. So, what?”

“Not quite,” I now signed as Peter kept one eye on my hands

and the other on the quickly changing road. “Man doesn’t hunt like

the predators he replaced. The wolf will attack the young, the weak,

or the sick, the straggler who isn’t as clever as the big bull leading

the pack. Man kills the big bull for the prize. Generation by genera-

tion, the gene pool gets weaker and weaker, and the deer get smaller

and smaller.”

Peter became so intrigued by my digital soliloquy that his head was

turned full in my direction. “Look out!” I screamed.

My voice brought his head back around, and we narrowly

avoided sending the truck straight ahead on a hairpin turn. The

truck slid to the right. Peter brought the wheel around so he was

turning with the slide and not against it. Slowly, he regained con-

trol, and, in a great boil of dust and rock, we came to a stop.

The dust settled in a swirling mist around us and then sud-

denly cleared. We were perched high on a mountain curve. Below,

the mountain dropped abruptly away, and there was the inland Alas-

kan Ocean, deep green and alive. In the distance, nestled amid the

trees and pushed against the ocean, was a small town with wharves,

docks, and boats clashed with the velvet spread of nature’s beau-

ty. Just the beyond the town was a glacier, dirty at the top but with

shear walls of blue ice knifing into the waters of the bay. The glacier

was spectacular but paled in comparison with the bay, water churn-

ing to froth by hundreds of whales.

We had arrived.