about his whale-watching cruises that were going to begin in the summer of 1993. In two years, while all the other fishermen were grovelling for government 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.
“Where’s Jonah?” someone would ask.
“Inside 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 to observe 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.
“We’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 thing.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Moses said, and he felt a new cramp forming in his arm this time, the one he steered the boat with. That night, after sending the kids over to stay at Sylvie’s for the night, after making love for the second time to Viddy, he discussed the problem with her.
“I can’t tell Phonse to close down his place. It’s his life. He’s not hurting anyone.”
Lying in bed with his wife, Moses felt a huge responsibility settle upon him like someone lowering a steel-hulled ship on his chest. Phonse had been his friend since childhood. Phonse had been there to throw a coat around him after he’d retrieved Calvin Whittle from Scummer’s Pond. Moses thought his heart was going to cramp up, and Viddy massaged his chest with her hand as if on cue. “The island has to come first,” she said. “You have to do what’s good for the island.”
Right then, Moses didn’t think that helped at all. What he thought she was saying was that he should listen to Chicago. He knew that if he wanted to get the government involved, he could have Phonse closed down in the blink of an eye. Phonse’s salvage yard broke just about every environmental and safety regulation and statute in existence. And, in truth, to clean up Phonse’s hell-hole would be cleaning up the island. But it was all wrong.
Sleep came to him like a dull, senseless rain — cold, with pellets of ice collecting on the back porch of his brain.
In the morning, however, he had an idea. He talked to Phonse about fine-tuning his operation and opening the gun range to some of the eco-tourists.
“I’m always open to new ideas,” Phonse said. “Innovation has been the key to my success. Acadians were always open to new ideas. We come over here and the Mi’kmaq tell my people to eat this root. We eat it. Prevents scurvy and tastes almost good. They tell us how to hunt the animals, we hunt ’em. We survive good because we always adapt. Now we don’t have to hunt the animals no more. And that’s a good thing, too.”
“You understand the nature of eco-tourism?” Moses asked. He was never comfortable with that large, floppy, uncomfortable word the people in Chicago used when they spoke to him. But somehow he had heard himself say it out loud to his friend.
“I understand it if you understand it, I guess.”
“Good enough. I just wanted to make sure you were with me on this.”
Phonse probably didn’t have the foggiest notion as to what was going on, but yes, he was in. Phonse was always in on a new idea, ready to adapt just like his ancestors.
At first Chicago thought the idea was outlandish.“A theme park showing the ravages of cars and industry and neglect?”
“Yes. And tourists can, if they wish to pay extra, take up firearms and shoot at symbols of environmental offense. Cars. TVs. Absolutely no hunting, though, of course. No shooting at anything living. Only manufactured things worthy of an ecotourist’s anger.”
“Shouldn’t that stuff all be recycled?”
“This is a form of recycling. And I’ve already convinced the owner to use only non-lead bullets. Simple iron pellets or bullets will work. Won’t harm the ecosystem. Put a little iron back in the soil is all.”
“I don’t know,” Chicago said.“This all sounds pretty radical.”
“Think of it as cutting edge. Our timing will be perfect.” And he was right. The plan turned out to be a hit. Viddy helped design the new brochure. Phonse fine-tuned his junkyard tourist attraction. Pacifists and eco-freaks turned out to love pump-action rifles and guns with infrared scopes. Oickle’s Pond brought satisfactory remarks of haughty disgust and financial donations to clean it up once and for all. Locals sat side by side with tourists from Pennsylvania, all wearing ear protection, and together they laid waste to products of the industrial world. Phonse brought in a car crusher on a barge once
