Watching

Whalers by J.M.W. Turner

Rocking and rocking as seawater slaps against the hull until at last she hears otherworldly groans and cries—“Oooh!”—the beautiful arc of a dive—the sharp, briny scent of churning ocean—“A tail!”—and then delighted laugher—“Look over there!”—a playful calf frolicking around its placid mother when a sudden jolt knocks Margery off her seat into the bottom of the small boat—did they hit a rock?—no, she hears the hissing of air from a blowhole and sees glistening grey skin with crusty patches of barnacles, but before she can scramble back up onto her seat, the whale turns and lifts its huge, muscular tail high in the air and powers it downward, hitting the two men who had been sitting behind her; she scrambles up to help them as the whale swims away while another passenger says she’s a nurse and starts checking for a pulse, “This one is dead— the blow to his head—the other one—he’s still breathing, but I think he’s having a heart attack”—and Margery can only watch—it could have been me—it should have been me—I’m 85—it should have been me—but I want to live—there is still so much to do.

by Nina Zolotow

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