Chasing at the Surface. Sharon Mentyka

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      CHAPTER 1

      Orca Day 1, October, 1997

      The cool early morning air blowing across the inlet carries a sharp, tangy smell that pricks at my nostrils. I lean over the side of the boat and peer down. Below, the water swirls with tails, fins, and churning froth. I dip my hand in and drag it along the surface. It’s numbingly cold, just the way the fish like it.

      It’s salmon season here in Dyes Inlet and the chum are running strong, hundreds of fish heading upstream to the creeks for their fall spawning. When you grow up on the shores of one of the watery fingers stretching out from Puget Sound, following the run becomes a yearly ritual. Good news if you like fishing for salmon. Bad if you’re bothered by the stink of the ones that die along the way.

      A spray of cold saltwater hits my back. I watch as my best friend, Lena, ties off her line and hauls a hefty salmon into our boat. Her long hair covers her face as she works, lifting the fifteen-pound fish like it weighs nothing.

      “It’s almost too easy,” she laughs. “They’re everywhere!”

      The chum’s silvery shape, with its brilliant red and green stripes, flashes by as she thunks it down onto the deck. It flaps around my feet, mouth opening and closing, until finally it shudders and quiets.

      Alongside, the water ripples and another wriggles by close enough for me to reach out and touch. “Marisa … grab it!” Lena shouts, pointing.

      I lean over to make a feeble attempt and miss. “Too bad,” I say, settling back in the boat. “More for you, I guess.”

      Lena gives me a look. We’ve been fishing together too long. She knows I can do this.

      I ignore her. My heart’s not into catching fish right now and it’s a relief not to pretend. Instead, I close my eyes and try to relax, letting the splashing sound of fish traveling upstream fill my ears. Pretty soon our rowboat starts to rock and I hear Lena flip her line into the water again. Chum won’t chase a lure, but with dozens of them passing by every minute, it doesn’t matter. During salmon season, the slow sport of fishing becomes a chase.

      When I glance up and across the water, I spot a long line of black boats, cruising toward the small bay at the mouth of Chico Creek. But … something’s not right; they’re traveling way too fast. Reaching for my pack, I rummage around for the binoculars.

      “Uh … this doesn’t make sense,” I whisper, peering through the lenses.

      “What?” Lena swivels around to look.

      I blink and try to focus. I check again and a strange queasy feeling starts crawling around inside my stomach.

      Whales shouldn’t be here, not in an enclosed inlet.

      “Marisa?”

      “Those aren’t boats out there,” I tell her. “They’re orcas.…”

      “What? No way!” Lena grabs for the binoculars and scans across the water. “Oh my gosh, you’re right! There must be a dozen … no, more. Hey,” she whispers, leaning in close, “let’s chase after them.”

      “Chase them?”

      “Yeah, why not? C’mon, when was the last time you saw this many killer whales?”

      And in a flash, she’s off and running with one of her crazy ideas.

      The last time I saw killer whales? Hmmm, good question.

      Mom had tried to plan our annual summer trip to see the whales. But I kept putting her off. Since she left, I’ve racked my brain, trying to remember what I was doing then that seemed more important.

      I straighten up and shake my head no. But before I can protest, Lena lowers her oars into the water again and starts rowing—fast, with big sweeping strokes. The sudden movement makes my stomach feel worse. Quickly, she maneuvers our boat a full 180 degrees, and next thing, we’re headed straight toward the pod.

      “Wait … Lena … no.…”

      She really means to chase them, and she’s a good enough fisherwoman to do it.

      “Calm down,” she laughs, not bothering to even glance my way. “I can do this.”

      I stay rooted to my seat and try to focus on the pile of dead salmon lying in the bottom of the boat. Lena’s rowing hard now, trying to move us across the inlet to reach the swimming whales. But the October wind is strong and our little rowboat’s not made for racing.

      “C’mon!” she yells. “Get over here and help!”

      For half a second, I consider grabbing the oars and starting to row, but in the opposite direction—away from the whales and back to shore. But I don’t. Instead, I grip the sides of the boat and watch, frozen in place. We’re almost three-quarters across the width of the inlet now and the water is eerily quiet. The whales are all bunched up now near the western shoreline. Even from forty feet away, I can see babies tucked in close to their mothers, the group packed so tightly together they form a solid line, making it hard to see where one whale stops and another begins.

      Lena stops rowing. As we watch, the pod begins to dive and surface, one by one. Each time one whale comes up it faces a different direction. The biggest sends a great plume of water up into the air—pfoosh—and I feel the cool mist rain down on my face.

      Suddenly, dangerously close, two whales breach, jumping high up from the water’s surface. Our little boat pitches and rocks.

      “Whoaa!” Lena yells, laughing.

      But I’m not paying attention. Because as the water settles the smaller of the two whales has risen to the surface, his flank facing me. Our eyes lock. A chill runs through me and I shiver. Looking into his round, black eye feels like falling backward, into the deepest water, the most hidden place inside me.

      “Marisa? СКАЧАТЬ