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.