By E.C. Haskell

The ocean lies calm around us, blues and greens, shifting shadows, glinting in the morning sun. We’re drifting with a steady breeze, our sail full and taut. I’m almost sleeping, lost in a daydream, when Huckleberry leaps from my lap.

His claws dig into my thigh, the equivalent of an electric shock. Jolted from my reverie, I watch as he scrabbles onto the teak deck. Tail high, he makes a beeline for the bow. A soft whine trails behind him. 

“Come back, Huck!” I yell after him.

He pays no heed. No surprise there. A small sheltie who I rescued from a hoarding situation several years ago, Huckleberry has a mind of his own. And a will to match. I open my mouth to call again, but Huck’s stopped cold at the tip of the bow. He hunkers down, staring forward, shivering. Huck is no coward, and no fool either. That shiver means trouble.

Leaning on the tiller, I bring our 20-foot Flicka into the wind, then jigger the sail so we stall, backwinded. I jump up and head for the bow.

Without warning, a sudden wind whips my pony tail sideways across my cheek. The boat shimmies sideways. I gasp and flatten myself on teak. The mainsail rockets across the cockpit, missing my head by inches. The mast shrieks its disapproval. 

The wind has shifted, enough to jibe the sail. I’m lucky the mast hasn’t broken, to say nothing of my head. I look to Huck. He hasn’t budged.

But the mainsail’s jawing, jiggling the boat like a penny arcade. That needs my attention. I crawl back to the tiller, pulling on sheets to trim the sail. Once that’s done, I grab my binoculars, skimming the water.

At first, I see only dancing waves. Then the shimmer of a porpoise, moving fast. It bounds from the waves, only to dive deep, disappearing. A gull cries overhead. I scan to starboard. 

A black dorsal fin appears, then vanishes, replaced by a black and white tail rising, up and up, a tower of pure muscle. Without warning, it flips against the ocean’s surface, sending seawater stinging in my eyes.

My breath lets go with a whoosh. 

“Orca,” I whisper. Then raise my voice. “Huck! Come!”

This time he listens, scurrying across the deck, pressing his little body against mine, still shaking.

I scan the waters, but the orca’s disappeared. I find myself counting the seconds, wondering when, and how, the whale, a female by the shape of her fin, might reappear.

It’s not even a minute, when that incredible creature – as long as the boat and far faster – shoots through the ocean’s surface, water drops glistening like diamonds around her. 

Huck and I huddle closer together, watching as she dives again. I’m not surprised to see an orca. They’ve been frequent visitors to the Strait of Juan de Fuca for centuries, if not longer. But lately their numbers have grown. They’ve become more aggressive. And more lethal, killing even some of the massive gray whales that visit our area in spring.

I keep a close eye on the waves around us. The female isn’t alone. Cruising just 15 feet behind us is the tall dorsal fin of a male. Then a second fin, a third and, with the smallest fin of all, a fourth. It’s only a baby, about nine feet long, its big brother sticking close by.

Counting the mother, this whale pod numbers five.

For some time, they linger, the mother leading the pack, occasionally spy-hopping as she sticks her black and white head out of the water to survey the area around her. I know she’s seen us – orcas have excellent eyesight both in and out of water – but we’re just a little boat, no match for her speed or power, especially when crewed only by a small woman and even smaller dog. 

As if to emphasize our insignificance, the mother whale lets out a blow, a cascade of white water that sprinkles our hull.

Is she playing with us? I’m not sure. But whatever, it ends abruptly. The massive muscle of her body coils. Her progeny spread out in a circle, well-drilled soldiers all. Tales of orcas attacking boats streak through my mind. But it isn’t us they’re stalking. Silently, they dive, black and white missiles headed for the deeps.

As we drift closer to the spot where they’ve gone down, a chill wraps itself around us. The ocean roils, a heaving, rocking motion. Huck snuggles closer, tucking his nose into my armpit.

Something pops up in the water beside us. A shredded mass of porpoise lung, trailing blood.

I tighten my grip on Huck. A cold mist rises from green waters, redolent of living and loss, decay and hunger and animal energy. Altogether it conjures the darkness that hunkers deep in all creatures. Even something as sublimely beautiful as an orca.

 I hold my breath, and an orca shoots up, black and white body draped in a sheath of streaming water. A second orca appears, two more, and finally the baby, twisting in delight. 

For nearly half an hour, they celebrate their meal. Breaching, spy-hopping, porpoising, splashing, whistling, jaw clapping, chasing each other down, then shooting up in a breathtaking ballet in black and white.

Finally, they settle and sink beneath the surface. I think them gone. But no. The mother’s head appears, not five feet off starboard. Her facing eye – a deep reddish brown encircled by blue – takes us in, two small creatures afloat on the surface of her world. Then she speaks, a whinny, punctuated with jaw claps and guttural pops. 

I stare at her. Not moving. Uncertain.

A nasal grunt and she opens her mouth, lips drawn back. Long rows of teeth – pointed, sharp and still bloody – glisten in the sun.

Her meaning is clear. I salute, and trim the sail to leave her be. 

*   *   *

E.C. Haskell lives on the edge of the Salish Sea with her family, three rescue dogs and a cougar who cries at night. After years writing nonfiction, including ads, documentaries and science based articles, she turned to fiction as a way to explore multiple realities. Thus far, she has contributed short stories to several publications, such as The Fantastic Other, Bright Flash and Adelaide. She is also at work on a novel.