The Tourist Trail by John Yunker Page A

was piloting the Zodiac, she was hauling in the line. Dangerous work. Every fifteen feet there’s a razor-sharp hook the size of your index finger. Anyway, the trawler saw what we were doing, and they ran right at us. We should have tossed the line and got out of there. This trawler was huge—about twenty times bigger than us. But I thought I could dodge it and keep on pulling in the line. I cut across the front of their bow, too close.” He took a long drink. “I should have left her on the ship,” he said again.
    â€œDid she drown?”
    â€œNo. She got caught up in the long line. Pulled into the water. She was sucked into the props.”
    â€œOh my God.”
    â€œWe never found the body. In all my time doing this sort of thing, from the Arctic to the Antarctic, we’ve never lost a life. Came close plenty of times. But we always were a bit luckier than we deserved. Until that day. I only wish it was me who went into the water.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œOne wrong move, and I’m no longer an activist,” he said. “I’m a terrorist.”
    â€œWhat about your crew? Won’t they be arrested?”
    â€œThe ship will be boarded, if it hasn’t already happened. But it’s me they want.”
    * * *
    The next day, they made good time on their circles. Aeneas was a reliable partner, quiet and focused, but always quick to make a joke when the opportunity arose. Angela could see why a woman married him. Yes, he belched and cursed like a sailor, but he also listened like a therapist as she rambled on about oil spills and overfishing. She told him that she hadn’t dated a man in three years and not many men before that. But he didn’t judge her, or if he did, he kept his thoughts to himself. For lunch, they sat on a berm overlooking the beach, not far north from where she first discovered him. They watched the wind blurring the tops of the folding waves, blowing spray into the air.
    â€œDid you always want to protect penguins?” Aeneas asked.
    â€œI used to think I was going to study the albatross.”
    â€œMakes sense.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œThe albatross keeps to itself.” He stopped, but she knew where he was headed, and she resisted arguing. He was right, after all; she, too, was a loner.
    â€œActually,” she said, “my vision isn’t all that good, so my professor at the time told me to focus on birds that I could get a bit closer to.”
    After lunch, he helped her attach a satellite transmitter to a male penguin. He had an impressive grip that held the bird steady as Angela applied the device.
    â€œSince we started using these transmitters five years ago,” she said, “the penguins have been traveling farther and farther away from the colony. Some travel more than a hundred miles each way.”
    â€œOne hell of a commute,” he said.
    â€œIt’s because of the fishing trawlers. You know how they operate—they take all the fish close to shore. And we can only measure distance. We can’t measure the fear these penguins feel when the fishing grounds they have known their entire lifetimes disappear overnight. Or the stress a female with its young undergoes because the male must travel farther and farther out. All we can measure are the paths they travel. We need more measurements. We can watch them around the clock when they’re on land, but we know so little about their lives out there. And the more we know about penguins, the more we will know about the oceans. If the ocean is healthy, they are healthy. And if the ocean is dying—”
    Angela stopped herself. She was rambling, her voice shaking, and she did not want him to see her so upset. She’d finished attaching the transmitter, and she released the penguin and watched him scurry off toward the water. Aeneas was silent. She was thankful until she raised her eyes and realized that he was not watching the