Icy
seas engulf the setting sun. Fisherman
turn their boats to shore, bellies full, their murderous day is done. Scores of frightened eyes stare to darkened
skies in search of help that will not come, from hardened hands and hardened
steel that disembowel the catch and feel the final throb of life.
The
happy journey home is filled with laughter, beer and talk of gains, as sharks
and gulls and diesel fuel absorb the guts and bloody bits of life’s
remains. The ocean’s calm and evening’s
glow belie the frenzy and the rage of giant mammals, thrashing through the
night, tens of murky fathoms far below.
As
hours pass and darkness falls, the herd expands, confusion reigns. The ocean’s floor becomes a maze as
frightened whales await the break of day’s first light. Without a sign, without a sound, the maze
begins to move as one, united in its common, though befuddled cause. The Black Armada sets its course.
A
pre-dawn haze gives way to morning sun.
The beach awakens to the sound of waves that run their never ending
course, joined soon by waves of laughing children, racing back and forth, to
taunt the ocean’s pulse. Mothers keep a
watchful eye from folding chairs and blankets strewn nearby. Lifeguards perched upon their stations scan
the scene, poised to warn of dangerous situations. Swimmers unaware.
Music
blares from boxes all around. The smell
of tanning lotion fills the air. Books
are read, shells and other ocean treasures found. Drinks and food are served, trash is tossed
about. Summer’s daytime ritual playing
out, in much the way it always does.
But
this play holds a different scene, quite bizarre, beheld by very few. Rehearsed the night before, the stage is set,
the curtains rise, Black Armada now in view. The players charge the audience who view the
play with disbelieving eyes. A mass of
angry whales breach the surf and slam upon the shallow waters, slashing out
against their foe, until the Army dies, one by one.
A
startled group of swimmers tries to help, to no avail. The Army’s fate is sealed. It flounders in the surf and gasps for
air. It dies in vain, its purposed
unrevealed. Fallen soldiers wash ashore,
the final scene a sad and tearful sight.
The evening news declares “Beware. The whales are mad. Keep your children home tonight”.
Scholars
roam the battlefield in search of clues, finding none and failing to
agree. In sheltered coves nearby, men
sharpen knives and mend their nets and mount their boats to point them out to
sea. The day gives birth to yet another
rising sun.