The Walrus


- By Lisa Moore

And in the afternoon?

Stealth. A rumour. A momma and two cubs. The Zodiac swings on the crane, an ink blot in the middle of the sun. Hits the water, and the chain coils up, and another Zodiac sways down. The drivers zip out. The ocean is a bed of harsh, sharp sparkles. Everything lit up, hyper-bright. The bay is calm; it should be cold but it isn’t. Five Zodiacs, another hanging up there, and swaying like a cradle. Engines idling, drivers standing with legs apart, braced against the tiller, silhouette­s. Splat of radio static, but the drivers are talking low. The drivers are using bedroom voices. Copy that. Nineteen Zodiacs in all, load them fast, hurry up. Fast, but quiet. That’s the first ten. Copy that. Go, Tina, to the left. That’s the next ten. Let’s keep our voices down. Go, go, go. We won’t get too close. So, we zoom up to the waterfalls. Fans of spring melt, thick as concrete where it spills off the black rock, and then shrapnel, bullets or feathers or glass beads far flung dazzle, icy cold. Drilling the water below, drilling down to where the phytoplank­ton at the bottom of the food chain gorge on whatever billowing energy the tumbling water stirs up and the other sentient beings, blind or numb scoot around the boiling turmoil to feast. There was a polar bear in the water as we entered the fjord, swimming. The smooth pellet of a head, tiny in the distance, imagine the churning paws, the drive and power, holding up all that weight maybe a mile from shore. All that power concentrat­ed in the work of keeping his black nose up above the surface, held high, sniffing. The Zodiacs approach the shore. How blue and eyehurting the ocean is in the binoculars when you touch the focus dial, and a single sparkle bursts like a bomb in one of the lenses and a tiny bump makes the mountain blur in a slo-mo jerk, so the solid rock goes unsolid and seems to pour. Squish the two sides together, fold them in and the visual shock of the shore, as it becomes crisp, close, and clear. Vivid, sharp enough to cut. You can see each blade of grass for an instant, then another bump on a wave and it all goes liquid and runny again. We stop, we idle. Nineteen Zodiacs and you can hear, on the wind, passengers saying: I can see them. I see them. A momma and two cubs. And the shuck-shuck of the camera. But, oh god? The elegant, awkward clambering from the water, standing now, and the shimmer the binoculars make of mist and distance. Standing now and turning her head, looking back over her shoulder. Shaggy and shapeless and bigger than you thought. Much bigger. And the cubs, someone says, have got to be two years. The cubs are big. Turning to sniff the air, turning to acknowledg­e. And the cubs beside and there is no hurry. Hand the binoculars over. There, there. But it’s yellow, it’s not white, and bigger than I thought and slow/fast. Dangerous and peaceful. Mother and monster. Silent and arrogant. Powerful and endangered and solitary. The fur has no pigment. Each hair is hollow. The skin beneath is black. So what is that colour, why white? Why does it look ancient? It might be made of ice.

 ?? Andrew Stewart ??
Andrew Stewart

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from Canada