A work of fiction in which a grandfather shares with his granddaughter his unique connection to the sea…
by: Arvilla Fee
He’s a salty man, my grandpa. Not angry or sour, but actually salty, like the taste of the ocean on my lips. That’s probably because he has spent over fifty years of his life on a boat looking for whales. When I was little, I begged him to let me go out with him on his two-motor contraption, and while he’d been inclined to say yes, Grandma was always a hardline no. Too dangerous, she always said. Grandpa couldn’t really argue, as he’d nearly lost his life and his boat twice during storms. He said the ocean has a mind of its own, even on the best of days. But, now that I’m 10, the age required to board Grandpa’s boat, he finally lets me go. Grandma reluctantly agreed.
Some might say my Grandpa is just another Alaskan tour guide, but he’s not. He is a certified humpback whale watcher — meaning he can let the scientists know exactly which whales are where at any given time. He never went to college, but he knows the whales’ names, their tag numbers, how many babies they’ve had, and what injuries (if any) they’ve obtained over their life spans. No one really knows how he does it, but he seems to have a special sixth sense when it comes to these giant creatures. Most people take his cruises just for fun and for the opportunity to catch a whale in full breach. Grandpa says there’s nothing like seeing a whale’s body come up out of the water, but it only happens 10% of the time, so odds are low of ever seeing anything but the whales’ backs or tails.
Today is Grandpa’s day off. He says we’ll take our own private tour. I’ve been on his boat many times while it was docked, so it feels as comfortable as my old brown boots, but as soon as we pull away from the dock, I feel a thrill unlike anything I’ve felt before. As the busy port of Seward fades away, I can see the entire ocean until it drops off the end of the earth.
The air is still chilly, as it’s only mid-May, but my puffer jacket, beanie, and gloves keep me comfortable. After riding out for nearly a half an hour, Grandpa kills the engines, grabs his binoculars, and looks to the left, which I know is the port side. I beg to see, but he says wait.
Finally he turns to me and grins. “They’re here,” he says.
I squint into the bright gray-blue distance. I don’t see anything. He tells me to be patient.
Suddenly I see a butterfly-wing-shaped tail bigger than my entire bedroom. It’s just there, sticking up from the water! I squeeze Grandpa’s arm but don’t shout or squeal.
“That’s Bruno,” Grandpa whispers.
Then, next to that tale, a huge black form breaks through the water like a boulder. Higher and higher it rises, like a slow-motion film, one fin extended from its side as if it’s waving hello.
“That’s Bella,” Grandpa says, as proudly as if she’s his daughter. “And look, next to her. That’s her calf, Louise.”
A baby humpback. No more than 10-feet long. I press my hands to my mouth, tears running down my cheeks. I don’t even know why I’m crying—except this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The most rare, magical, beautiful thing.
When I’m finally able to speak, I say, “How did you know they’d be here? In this exact spot?”
“I pay attention,” Grandpa says.
I lean against his side, grateful to be related to the wisest man I know.
Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio with her husband, three of her five children, and two dogs. She teaches for Clark State College, is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine, and has been published in over 100 magazines. Her three poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. Arvilla’s life advice: Never travel without snacks. Visit her website and her new magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/
