Terrible Mysticetes of the North (1)
By sean mcnulty
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The first storm hit with a definitely northern attitude on their third night and that was when the first sick went over the side. It was Father Geissel who found himself paralysed with the nausea; he was hanging over the rails, his right arm securely roped onto the bars, his mouth held wide open to greet the heaves. Try as he did to keep the sick away from his face and off deck, it was an unforgiving wind that was upon them, so his attempts more often than not failed and he suffered badly the blowback. It was not a nice look for him. All that lumpy sick on his face. It would not have made for a suitable headshot if the photographers had been around to snap him for the cover of Ireland’s Own.
He could hear whales calling out somewhere beyond the tempest. Though he had not heard whales sing before, and he had looked forward to the experience, the alien murmurs echoing in the darkness now had only the effect of setting off a further round of retching. He wondered why the whales were out and about on such a dreadful night; this storm must not have been such a big deal for them. It was not a big deal for Dolores either as she cut valiantly through it all – even though she was taking quite a battering in the process. And after unstrapping himself from the rails, wiping his face off with the St Anthony-branded handkerchief he had received as a Christmas present last year, Geissel saw that Dolores wasn’t the only one taking the storm in with some stride. On his way to the cabin, he looked into the wheel room, and there was Captain Littlewood, as at ease with the weather as his beloved vessel was. He was steering them directly into the waves that rolled maniacally out of the squall, yet he stood there at the wheel swaying gently in the chaos, whistling a little tune to himself, as if all in the world was right. Geissel had asked him prior to the journey: ‘And what about storms?’ To which Littlewood had replied: ‘Ah, not a bother.’ And no statement could have been truer now to see the Captain and Costello carving lumps out of the blasting sea tendrils.
Littlewood beckoned for him to enter the sacred cockpit once he’d spotted the ailing Geissel out the window.
‘How are you, Father?’ the Captain asked, as the priest struggled to squeeze through the wind-oppressed door. ‘You’re looking the worse for wear.’
‘I’m grand, Captain, thank you.’
‘Why didn’t you say you were sensitive to the old seasickness before we set off?’
‘Because I don’t get seasick. I never have. It’s the storm. Storms make me sick. Even on land.’
‘That’s one I haven’t heard before. Why do you think that is?’
‘I’ve never understood. But if I was to guess, I’d say me and nature have a primordial bond.’
‘Oh, you’re in cahoots, are you?’
‘Not cahoots. Nature calls the shots. It’s always been this way. I won’t feel better until she’s had her business with me.’
‘Well, this storm isn’t for keeps, Father, so we won’t be stuck in it for much longer. It’s digesting us at the minute. Don’t worry, it’ll soon poop us out.’
Then Littlewood noticed a rare stench in the cockpit and said: ‘Oh, God, Father. I can smell the sausages we had earlier from you.’
‘Yes, I know, I’m sorry. Though I must say, even in this condition, I do not regret having those sossies. They were delicious.’
‘Well, I bloody regret having them now. You’ll have me getting sick too.’
‘Where are we now, Captain?’ Geissel asked, trying to get off the subject of sick.
‘Far from your home.’
‘Past Scotland?’
‘Not yet. The top of it should be over there somewhere behind all that noise.’
‘Yes, it is indeed noisy out there. Those are whales, yes?’
‘Yes. Those are whales, Father.’
‘What do you think they’re talking about?’
‘Not even God knows. Sorry, I said that wrong, Father. I meant to say, yes, God knows. But he’s the only one who knows. Nobody apart from God, you know?’
When he got inside the cabin, Geissel found his younger colleague also talking of whales. Father Stinson was on the sofa with his arm wrapped around a small steel baluster (one of many structures planted around the boat for stormy occasions such as their present finding) and in his other hand, he had Terrible Mysticetes of the North open, and he was whispering excerpts from it. Masterson was in his bunk in the back. Possibly asleep. But it was difficult to tell with his uncommon breathing vibrations. When he saw Geissel entering, Stinson looked up from the book and said, wide-eyed: ‘Can you hear it, Teddy? It’s a whale.’
‘I sure can, my boy. Isn’t it a fine thing?’
‘Extraordinary. How are you feeling?’
‘Better. Somewhat.’
‘I’m reading here about the whales. Listen: Humpback whales, the Megaptera Novaeangliae, can grow to 400 feet in length, and weigh up to 500 tons. They are found in most parts of the world, but in the north, they are spotted mostly in the Bering Sea, Inaccessible Island, and near the Afghanistan coast.’
‘What?’ snorted Masterson from his bed. He was awake after all.
‘It says it here,’ Stinson shouted over to him, and then continued: ‘Humpbacks have a unique style of breaching. They propel themselves from the ocean, and often stay suspended in mid-air for up to 10 minutes before diving back to water. It is thought this is a hunting technique whereby humpbacks hide themselves from their chosen prey, residing above water for a time until the fish gather unwittingly below; then the whales begin their surprise attack.’
‘Who wrote this muck?’ asked Masterson.
‘The author is Professor Lotte O’Rahilly of the University of Ramsgate.’
‘Is there a university in Ramsgate?’ asked Geissel.
‘There must be,’ replied Stinson. ‘It says it here.’
‘Well, that’s definitely a load of rubbish, so I can’t imagine there’s legitimacy to it. Who published the book?’
‘Cambridge.’
‘Are you joking?’
‘No, it says it here.’
‘What would a sea captain be doing with something so obviously false as this?’ asked Geissel. Although he was questioning the captain in front of his fellow clergymen, deep down, he had a huge amount of respect for the man. In fact, Littlewood was a man of stunning intelligence and charm, in Geissel’s fundamental opinion.
‘Well, I’ve heard the fishermen are a superstitious bunch,’ said Stinson.
‘Not only that, they’re reading the wrong leaves for truth,’ said Masterson, rising from his pretend slumber. ‘Sure look at the bible he’s got.’ He held up a large maroon slab of a book. ‘I found this sticking out of one of the mattresses back there.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Stinson.
‘Well, it’s certainly not a formal translation. I could tell just from looking at the spine. Mary Magdalene’s probably called Gypsy Rose in this one.’
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