over the whale’s body. For the next hour or so, the men moved over and around her like a group of ants commandeering the corpse of a big, black beetle. In the end, satisfied the net of ropes was sufficiently fixed to her, they called on everyone to assist in the pulling. Gideon and I stepped forward and lined up to grab our section of the rope.
One of the men shouted a count, and we pulled. We dug our feet into the sand and urged each other on with grunts through clenched teeth. As time moved on, however, it felt as if we’d convinced ourselves we could reposition a mountain with little more than the determination of madmen. Others joined—bigger men than myself—and I gave up my position. I joined Daniel on the hillside, where he had been observing us the entire time. Sweating and drained, I collapsed next to him.
“How do you get a fifty-ton beached whale to move?” he asked offhandedly, leaning on an elbow and chewing a piece of grass. I didn’t say anything. He stared out and said, “You ask it really nicely.”
I turned to watch. Down on the beach the seventy-odd men appeared Lilliputian beside the colossal whale, and despite their efforts, hadn’t moved her at all. She moaned and the sounds of her distress reached us in a high-pitched wail. Even the small movements in her tail had ceased.
“She won’t go,” Gideon said, walking up to us. His shirt was spattered with dark patches of perspiration. “We can forget about this. She won’t go anywhere.”
I was afraid to agree with him. I watched as the biggest and strongest log-herders in the commune heaved and pulled to no avail. Too much time had passed—she was slowly being crushed under her own weight, waiting for it all to be over.
By the time the clouds parted to reveal the clear patches of a starry night, the group of large men, exhausted and without any new ideas, finally gave up. One stood and said that it was no use. That they had tried their best. They’d hoped the rising tide would assist in floating the whale back out, but it had sunk too deeply into the sand. There was nothing more to be done. In the morning the whale would be put out of its misery, doused in oil, and burned. If they couldn’t move it, they’d raze it to the ground, he said, since there was no other way to guarantee it didn’t become a decaying health hazard. Everyone agreed and then swiftly decided: they’d end her and set her alight at dawn.
With no need to consider it further, they rolled up their ropes, left the mother with the carcass of her unborn calf, and marched up the beach to their tents for the night.
The rest of the night was peaceful and soundless.
I was lying in my tent and staring at the blank ceiling. I pulled my blanket up to my neck and clutched it firmly with my hands. The image of the calf hanging from its mother wouldn’t leave my mind. This image was spliced with another: a terrible memory of my own, few of them that I had left. As I lay there, caught between sleep and wakefulness, memories and images slipped into and around each other:
My wife is running from the side of the road with our daughter in her arms. It’s dark and I can hardly see them. But my daughter’s body is limp in her arms, and my wife’s high-heeled shoe comes off her foot as she hurtles towards me through the small bushes. She’s screaming. No, not screaming. It’s a suffocated yelping I’ve never heard her make. Between the yelps, she’s saying, Oh my god, oh my god, oh god, oh my god … and then I see that calf in the whale. I see my daughter. And my wife’s standing in front of me. She shows me my daughter … and it’s the whale calf, and my daughter.
And they’re dead.
I opened my eyes in the dark and breathed softly.
Amid the silence of a sleeping commune, I heard someone cough. The coughing stopped. All that could be heard was the purring of a quiet ocean. I turned to my side and stared at the silhouettes of my few belongings. I felt incredibly
One of the men shouted a count, and we pulled. We dug our feet into the sand and urged each other on with grunts through clenched teeth. As time moved on, however, it felt as if we’d convinced ourselves we could reposition a mountain with little more than the determination of madmen. Others joined—bigger men than myself—and I gave up my position. I joined Daniel on the hillside, where he had been observing us the entire time. Sweating and drained, I collapsed next to him.
“How do you get a fifty-ton beached whale to move?” he asked offhandedly, leaning on an elbow and chewing a piece of grass. I didn’t say anything. He stared out and said, “You ask it really nicely.”
I turned to watch. Down on the beach the seventy-odd men appeared Lilliputian beside the colossal whale, and despite their efforts, hadn’t moved her at all. She moaned and the sounds of her distress reached us in a high-pitched wail. Even the small movements in her tail had ceased.
“She won’t go,” Gideon said, walking up to us. His shirt was spattered with dark patches of perspiration. “We can forget about this. She won’t go anywhere.”
I was afraid to agree with him. I watched as the biggest and strongest log-herders in the commune heaved and pulled to no avail. Too much time had passed—she was slowly being crushed under her own weight, waiting for it all to be over.
By the time the clouds parted to reveal the clear patches of a starry night, the group of large men, exhausted and without any new ideas, finally gave up. One stood and said that it was no use. That they had tried their best. They’d hoped the rising tide would assist in floating the whale back out, but it had sunk too deeply into the sand. There was nothing more to be done. In the morning the whale would be put out of its misery, doused in oil, and burned. If they couldn’t move it, they’d raze it to the ground, he said, since there was no other way to guarantee it didn’t become a decaying health hazard. Everyone agreed and then swiftly decided: they’d end her and set her alight at dawn.
With no need to consider it further, they rolled up their ropes, left the mother with the carcass of her unborn calf, and marched up the beach to their tents for the night.
The rest of the night was peaceful and soundless.
I was lying in my tent and staring at the blank ceiling. I pulled my blanket up to my neck and clutched it firmly with my hands. The image of the calf hanging from its mother wouldn’t leave my mind. This image was spliced with another: a terrible memory of my own, few of them that I had left. As I lay there, caught between sleep and wakefulness, memories and images slipped into and around each other:
My wife is running from the side of the road with our daughter in her arms. It’s dark and I can hardly see them. But my daughter’s body is limp in her arms, and my wife’s high-heeled shoe comes off her foot as she hurtles towards me through the small bushes. She’s screaming. No, not screaming. It’s a suffocated yelping I’ve never heard her make. Between the yelps, she’s saying, Oh my god, oh my god, oh god, oh my god … and then I see that calf in the whale. I see my daughter. And my wife’s standing in front of me. She shows me my daughter … and it’s the whale calf, and my daughter.
And they’re dead.
I opened my eyes in the dark and breathed softly.
Amid the silence of a sleeping commune, I heard someone cough. The coughing stopped. All that could be heard was the purring of a quiet ocean. I turned to my side and stared at the silhouettes of my few belongings. I felt incredibly
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