Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal Read Free Page A

just a
life ring, maybe three foot in diameter—once upon a time. Now,
thanks to seaweed, it’d expanded by a foot. My guess: A few
months back, it was tossed overboard to save someone, in which
case it didn’t do the job.

Thesaurus inspected it and came to the same conclusion,
then said, gravely, “We must drop anchor for the night.” He then
flung the ring far from the yacht and explained, “It means that
our crew will number one fewer before nightfall.”
Dropping anchor would’ve meant stopping, which of
course would’ve meant flinging our chance at the blubbery
bastard over the rail too. Crazy, right?
Well, you’ve got to understand that no group’s
superstitions are stranger than sea folks’. (Save bridal parties
maybe. For them, just about anything that can go wrong on a
wedding day, from a thunder shower to a piano falling out of a
building and onto the uncle of the groom, means good luck.)
Our other harpooner, Flarq, believes a red sunset means a good
day on the morrow. Stupid George swears being hit by seagull

crap means good fortune—and most seamen would say he’s smart
in this case. Duq spits on the first fish he catches each morning
so’s to ensure luck the rest of the day. I happen to know that in
days gone by, Scottish sailors thought it was necessary to hoist
a male goat up to the masthead in order to get wind. And to
this day, many West Indians like my deckhand Moses think that
eating fish heads reduces your intelligence, cause fish don’t got
sense enough to avoid hooks.

If I tried to get Thesaurus to go against his superstition
about the life ring, he’d harpoon me through the head plain
and simple. And the crew would think poor of him if he
didn’t. Although the closest any of these guys ever goes to a
church is going to a whorehouse near a church, they hold their
superstitions more sacred than life.

At that moment though, if I let the bastard get away again,
I’d have needed a harpoon in the head to put me out of my
misery. So I confronted Thesaurus.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “The life ring says one of
us is going to buy it today.”

“Yes, Captain.” Thesaurus has got a voice like a foghorn.
“Not matter what?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“So what’s the point of stopping?”

“In case the ring is wrong.”

“So, either way then, what’s to lose by going whaling?”
“A good point y’have, Captain,” he said.
A few seconds later, the engines bubbled to life again and
we were back on our bastardward course. Sometimes, it’s just
good to talk stuff out.

P.S. Here’s a scrimshaw of Thesaurus.

Wednesday, 23 June 2004 4:44 PM
Meet Dickhead
    “Thar two she’s blow,” cried Stupid George from the bow.
We were about three miles east of Venezuela. Ahead, a
couple whales were frolicking at the surface. But neither more
than forty tons—shrimps compared to the blubbery bastard.
All of a sudden something—a speeding train, it seemed—
slammed into the starboard part of our hull, knocking the whole
brig to port. Everything not bolted down flew that way. Just
when it felt like she’d capsize, gravity righted her.
“A torpedo?” Nelson guessed.

The whole crew was mystified. Except me.
From the second of impact, I was sure the bastard had
somehow known it was me aboard and attacked preemptively.
I know, you’re thinking: Openshaw, sperm whales don’t attack,
never mind preemptively, never mind for personal reasons. Well,
check out maritime history. Sperm whales do attack sometimes.
And what Dickhead did next should dispel any doubts about
personal reasons. He reared up out of the water like a stallion,
his eyes found mine on the bridge, and he grinned. At the sight
of him, hate burned in every cell I’ve got.
“Well, what say you we harpoon the bastard?” I said to the
crew.

They were already running to the whaleboats.
A word about harpooning whales. If you want to just pop
your bastard from the deck of