“Huh?” Colin, as usual, stood attentively close—too close—as though mother-of-pearl wisdom would fall from Ray’s hard mouth and he would be there to catch it.
“Puker boat. You know, what they call those sport boats that take tourists out fishing, and everyone spends the whole trip puking over the side.” He gave the gangly young man with watery eyes a sort-of grin, as if to say: Not like us, serious seagoers doing serious work, nothing so trivial as slapping around for sport.
He was trying as much as he could to make the best of a bad situation.
He and the others who had roused for the transfer watched as the boat, its white cabin roof bristling with an array of fishing rods, slowed. The opening into the Gulf of Alaska was righteously calm, with just the rise and fall of its oceanic swell. The mainland behind them formed a dark line like a charcoal smudge between the blue-green sea and paler sky. A couple of gulls, trailing the puker boat, flapped sullenly.
Their captain, up on the bridge wing, faced the ship into the swells as the smaller vessel jockeyed to its side. On the boat’s bow, a man in clean yellow fishing bibs dangled a pink buoy over the side to protect the precious puker boat from smacking. Yellow, pink, white fiberglass—it was all very Easter-egg bright on a blue morning.
Ray avoided looking at Oakley, who was giving some final instructions, presumably, to Helen, his (Oakley’s) star student. Ray was trying to mitigate his anger with relief. While on the one hand, Oakley’s abandoning ship and his duties with the chemical oceanography part of their research was unforgivable, the man would be gone. As his daughter, Aurora, might have said about a school bully, “good riddance to bad rubbish.”
The two vessels came together with barely a bump: a sea louse nudging the side of a salmon. Oakley’s duffel was pitched through the open gate, and then Oakley himself stepped through, down onto the smaller boat’s bow. The vessels separated, and Captain Billy tooted his horn. Oakley, heading for the cabin, raised his hand in a gesture that was somewhere between a Marine’s salute and a queen’s wristy wave.
The last thing Ray saw as the other boat turned toward port and sped up was someone reaching out of the cabin to hand Oakley a bottle of beer. Or at least Ray chose to believe it was a bottle of beer. It wasn’t orange juice. He resisted the temptation to perform his own good-bye wave, which would have been a middle-finger salute.
“Well, that sucks.”
Colin again. Ray wasn’t sure how much Colin or any of the other students knew about what had transpired in the last few hours, less than a day out on their weeklong cruise. The official story—what he and Oakley had announced in the galley—was that Professor Oakley had been called back to the university. They’d assured the eight students that nothing would be disrupted. Oakley had arranged for a boat owned by a friend to pick him up so they wouldn’t lose research time returning to port. Helen, who’d been on several cruises already and knew the sampling protocols, would take over responsibility for the chemistry work. Alex, of course, was still overseeing the wet lab. They’d be a little short-handed, but everyone would chip in.
And they would. In his nine years of co-leading the University of the North’s twice-yearly research cruises on the Gulf of Alaska, Ray had never had a problem with student slouches. They might occasionally pause to vomit over the side in rocky seas—it did happen—but nothing would keep his team from filling their bottles, netting their specimens, counting their copepods, getting the work done. Joyfully.
In Ray’s opinion, nothing would be lost by losing Oakley. Nothing they couldn’t do without.
“We’ll make the best of it,” he said to Colin.
If things were a little more complicated, and perhaps more personal, than the official explanation—well, things always were, weren’t they?
For years, Ray and others in the School of Ocean Sciences had been advocating for more attention to ocean acidification. With more coastline than the rest of the United States put together, it only made sense that Alaska institutions should lead the science. Not just in understanding what happens to ocean chemistry as the ocean absorbs carbon dioxide from the overloaded atmosphere, but across all the scientific disciplines. Biology, certainly—you can’t change ocean chemistry without affecting what lives in the ocean. Even physics is affected by chemistry; pH influences how sound travels underwater. So when the university president expressed an interest and came up with money to fund an office dedicated to the subject, Ray and his colleagues were thrilled—or as thrilled as a bunch of science nerds could be. The next thing they knew, the president was bragging about the “top-notch” chemist he’d recruited to head the new office.
That would be Jackson Oakley, the man from Texas. The press release that went out praised his “pioneering work in developing calibration instruments for measuring ocean pH.”
Ray liked to think that he was open-minded, liberal in the best sense of the word, but he couldn’t help it if his thirty-six years in Alaska had put him off Texans: their clichéd but ubiquitous cowboy boots, their syrupy drawls. If oil development had—admittedly—been good for the state’s finances, it had exacted enormous costs on the environment and social fabric. Many perfectly nice Texans must have come north with the industry; he just hadn’t known any. In any case, his prejudice was not something he generally shared. Only his wife, the eye-rolling Nelda, ever had to listen to him.
It had been just over a year since Dr. Jackson Oakley—“Oakley” like the tree, Ray always thought—came to campus, and Ray still wasn’t sure what he did in the new Office of Ocean Acidification Science. The man rarely had anything to say in meetings when the departments came together, instead seeming preoccupied with his laptop or tablet or phone, scrolling and tapping. He was younger than most of the professors—the aging boomers, like Ray, who had started at the university during its own boom time, when oil money had first gushed loose. He wore nicer clothes—shirts with collars, lambswool sweaters. (Ray only knew about the lambswool because Nelda had pointed it out, perhaps admiringly.) He had a headful of beach boy hair and cheeks that were always smooth and shiny, the proverbial baby’s bottom, as though he’d not only shaved within the hour but then rubbed in some kind of lotion. Ray had noticed that Oakley smelled like coconuts, confirming, for him, the lotion theory.
In the elapsed year, Oakley had not, to Ray’s knowledge, spoken out about the dangers of ocean acidification.
Ray had made overtures, on several levels. He’d shown Oakley a few of his pteropod photos and offered them for any publications or posters the new office might produce. He told him about the farmer’s market and the ice museum, testing his interest in local attractions. He asked if he liked winter sports, and Oakley said he was a skier, which Ray misunderstood as cross-country (understandably, he thought, since that was what people did in Fairbanks, on the many trails) until he was corrected. “My former wife and I had a place in Park City, but now I go to Banff,” Oakley said, which is how Ray learned that Oakley was accustomed to travel and resorts and had, in addition, apparently come to the campus in an unmarried state. Oakley did not ask Ray about himself or his work.
The students seemed to like him well enough. The thesis students said he was smart and that he texted them his comments, very modernly. An older chemistry professor had retired, and no one was sorry to see someone more up-to-date take over his advising.
When Ray complained to a colleague that Oakley seemed “smug,” the colleague said, “That’s because he knows he’s brilliant.”
Now, as their ship resumed its course, they all moved back inside. Ray found himself following Helen, the grad student who worked most closely with Oakley and now was left with his responsibilities. The two
