Sea of Tranquility by Lesley Choyce Read Free Book Online Page A

handouts to help them through the death of the Atlantic cod and the decimation of the fishery, Moses Slaunwhite’s boat had a fresh coat of paint, and he had on clean shirt and pants and a kind of one-off captain’s cap designed and hand-sewn by Viddy. He also had a whole load of mainland tourists crossing on the ferry to the island dock to gleefully hand over a fair sum of Yankee doodle to have Cap’n Moses lead them to the blues, the fins, the minke, and the right whales.
    Moses had been kind to the whales. Careful as an Old Testament shepherd to his flock of sea creatures. Never too close, never noisy, always full of respect and caution. How many times had he heard a Brooklyn accent say, “Can’t you take us closer so my kids can pet one?”
    Moses smiled, never let his feathers get ruffled. He pointed out the barnacles on the backs of some whales, the ones he had named Joshua, Rebecca, Naomi, and David. Although he wasn’t particularly religious, there was something about giving whales Biblical names, if they were to have names at all.
    â€œWhere’s Jonah?” someone would ask.
    â€œInside one of them, no doubt,” Moses would answer.
    A specialty eco-tourism agency in Chicago got wind of Moses’ operation and made a business proposition that he couldn’t refuse. His excursions were suddenly part of a world circuit of tours that sent nature-starved city dwellers to the seven seas toobserve whales, dolphins, sea turtles, and flying fish. Moses even came up with a specialty bonus of taking visitors to sea on calm summer nights to see “devil’s fire,” that brilliant, green, glowing phosphorescence of certain diatoms that turned the Atlantic into something eerie, beautiful, and awe-inspiring.
    Some islanders begrudged Moses’ success. Some spoke of creating competition, but none followed through. Moses bought a second boat, hired on several island men and a couple of women, paid good wages, and was ever careful not to push his visitors too close to the whales. On bright summer days, when he had his boat anchored near the point, he’d see Sylvie sitting there on the shoreline watching the whales. He gave her free rides to sea but she said,“The whales only talk to me when I’m sittin’ ashore. They know me there. I know them.”
    Sylvie baked fresh bread and cookies for the tourists and set up a table by the docks. People paid her well for her creations — the bread, the cakes, the little cinnamon cookies, the homemade ginger snaps. She loved the children the most and gave them freebies when their parents weren’t looking. Sylvie was glad other people came to share the whales with her, glad they came to share the beauty of her island.
    The only glitch was that the new wave of tourism brought a little too much attention to Phonse’s Junkyard, his shoot ‘em up theme park. The travel office in Chicago received some complaints from folks who had returned to Des Moines or Poughkeepsie and told of an environmental time bomb clicking away in Moses’ otherwise picturesque island. They’d seen the wrecked cars, the oil laden-pond, and heard the
carwong
of bullets hitting things. Only a matter of time, they said, before toxins would leach into the soil and out into the sea or until the rifle-bearing maniacs would start using whales for target practice.
    â€œWe’d like to see if you can bring government pressure on closing that place down,” Chicago told Moses. “You need to protect your investment up there. Eco-tourists don’t want to hear elephant rifles pumping lead into washing machines. They don’t want to see junk cars rusting away in the sun. These people want nature in its purest state. If they wanted junkyards, we’d send them to New Jersey. If they wanted gun fights, we’d send them to Detroit or Washington D. C. They don’t want that. They want nature. They want
the real