Zippy
09-15-2005, 04:54 PM
Zoom. Freeze frame. Pull-back. Freeze frame. Zoom.
One-hundred feet above Prince William Sound, Donald Logan adjusted his camcorder. The cabin of the helicopter vibrated noisily, making it impossible to get a clear picture.
He put down the camera and rubbed his face with his hands. He hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours, not since he’d got the call from head office.
Something big had happened, they’d said. A disaster. Get up there as soon as you can. Investigate and give us a ball-park figure. Lloyds would want to know as soon as possible.
It had sounded exciting on the phone. A trip to Alaska. A mini-adventure. Something a bit different from the insurance investigations he was used to. But this was the jet age, a time when you could reach anywhere by jumping on a plane. Hermetically sealed, sipping tepid coffee from a plastic cup, watching a movie, watching the stewardesses, stealing aftershave from the toilet in business class – they’d sucked the romance from travelling like modern day succubi, leaving bland convenience in their wake.
The helicopter wheeled around sharply and began to hover. The pilot tapped Donald on the shoulder and shouted over the sound of the rotors.
“Bligh Reef. There she is, down there.”
Donald craned his neck and looked to where the pilot was pointing.
There she was alright, all 987 feet of her. The Exxon Valdez sat motionless, a beached leviathan, bleeding crude oil in a slowly spreading stain.
*
A group of workmen, busy erecting tents, cursed as Donald jumped from the helicopter. They fought against the draught from the rotors, struggling with the canvas like tag-team wrestlers.
This was Esther, an island near the disaster area with nothing to offer except a couple of buildings and a hatchery. A small fleet of boats – trawlers mostly – were moored off-shore, bobbing queasily in the pitch and swell.
He picked his way around puddles and patches of mud and headed towards the nearest building. It was being used as forward HQ by the NOAA – the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration – who were in charge of the clean-up.
Dr. Mike Forrester cut an imposing figure. He looked like something out of Alaska’s past - a trapper or hunter perhaps – but Donald knew from his notes that Forrester was the top man here; a scientist and environmentalist who cared passionately about his work.
“Doctor Forrester,” said Donald. “I wonder if I could have a moment of your time?”
Forrester was on his feet, zipping up his waterproof jacket. “I don’t have a moment,” he said. “If you want to talk you’ll have to come along.”
They went outside and down to the shore. A wooden rowing boat lay on the loose shingle and Forrester went to it.
“Here, give me a hand with this,” he said. “There’s a storm coming and we’ve got to get this on land.”
Donald went opposite the doctor and took some of the weight. The boat was filthy, caked with sand and sea weed, he grimaced as it brushed against his trench coat.
“I’m Donald Logan, doctor.”
“Yes, the insurance guy,” said Forrester. “Like I told your office, Mr Logan, there isn’t enough money in the world to pay for this.”
The boat slipped from Donald’s grasp, he brought his knee up to bare the weight before taking a firmer grip. “We, uh, need an idea of the…extent of this thing. Can it be contained? What about damage limitation?”
They lowered the boat and stretched their backs. Forrester rubbed his hands on his trousers and looked out towards the horizon; at the buffeting waves and the darkening clouds, marring the sky like an angry bruise.
He turned and looked Donald in the eye. “No one was prepared,” he said. “Exxon, the coastguard – no one. There were no contingency plans, no equipment in place – nothing. Did you know the government lets the oil industry regulate itself?”
“No, I didn’t, but surely –“
“- Experts have been warning them that something like this might happen for over ten years now. I know, I was one of them. But they don’t give a damn. The companies don’t give a damn, the employees don’t give a damn – and what’s worse, people don’t give a damn. You know, I believe that’s the great sickness of our time, Mr. Logan. No one gives a damn.”
The sky had darkened in the time they had been talking. The bruise had become blackly livid, hemmed with purple, flecked with blue and yellow.
“I’ll help any way I can,” said Forrester. “But I won’t have tourists. If you want to see the damage then we could do with help, Mr. Logan.”
“Call me Donald.”
They shook hands. “It’s about time someone gave a damn,” said Forrester.
*
The storm couldn’t have hit at a worse time. They could do nothing but shut themselves in and watch as it passed. The wind churned the sea, and the sea churned the oil, pushing it towards land and the countless seabirds that sheltered on the shoreline.
The next morning, Donald, wearing a borrowed pair of boots and waterproofs, ventured out.
There was a shortage of equipment, explained Forrester. Exxon had promised skimmers and floating booms to contain the damage, but so far all they’d delivered were high pressure hoses and a couple of supply ships. They loaded the hoses onto the trawler and set out towards Whittier, a point on the Kenai Peninsula hit heavy by the spill.
The air was fresh after the storm. Standing on the deck, soaked by the spray, Donald felt like a new man. He indulged himself in fantasies of being a captain. Of embarking on a bold new direction, becoming an explorer, privateer or pirate – some long dead occupation which time had softened the edges of; stripping away the hard veneer of reality until only legend remained. The feeling didn’t last.
Whittier was a scene from hell. Along the coastline, dead and dying seabirds littered the rocks. Donald followed Forrester, examining the animals that had washed up with the storm. Sea otters and seals; salmon and herring; even a pair of Orca whales lying prone, gasping ineffectually for air as the oil splashed around them. They unloaded the hoses and washed down the beach. The water pounded off the rocks, sending oil and spray tumbling into the air, creating a rainbow that was both beautiful and melancholy – a reminder of broken covenants. Slowly and methodically, they moved down the beach, grim reapers harvesting the dead.
It was almost six. They had packed up the hoses and were returning to the trawler. Donald and Forrester had hardly spoken since arriving at Whittier. What they'd seen made words inconsequential. Words were thoughts made concrete, and their minds were too disturbed, too unbalanced to voice their thoughts. They trudged on in silence, their eyes drinking the damage. They had worked all day and had barely touched it – their efforts a single drop in the limitless ocean.
“Doctor,” a voice called from far behind them. “Doctor Forrester.”
They stopped and turned. Across the shore, scrambling amongst the slippery rocks was a man. Donald recognized him as Stan – one of the NOAA’s work team who’d come on the trawler. He was splashed with mud and oil, his face scarlet, almost purple. He came closer and Donald could see that he had ripped a hole in his jeans. Blood seeped from his knees, painting the denim red. He didn’t seem to care that he was injured, just ran forward, puffing with exertion.
“Doctor,” he said. “There’s something you should see.” He gasped for breath, but was barely able to keep still.
“What is it?”
“Can’t…can’t explain…have to see it yourself.” He pointed back the direction he had come. He was close to tears. “I…I’ve never seen anything like it!”
*
The sky is close. Mottled clouds, white and downy as a swan’s breast, stretch off to the horizon.
They follow Stan as he hurries, slipping on the oil that clings to the beach. He can’t seem to stop glancing behind him, as though he fears they are being watched.
They climb a small cliff, scratching their hands on the shale. Ahead is an inlet, the sea like the breath of some immense creature; sucking and blowing between the narrow rocks, shooting spray in a foaming flourish.
Stan steers them to an enormous rock, standing upright like a finger pointing to the sky. “Behind here,” he says, leading them around.
There is something there, glistening in the light. They gather around and look at it. But they can’t seem to grasp what they are seeing. It is an amalgam; a cryptogram; meaningless and yet meaningful.
It is large, six feet long, it's tail scaled and serpentine. A sleek fin – like a shark’s - protrudes from it's back. It's upper body is pale, patches of oil standing out like a stark Rorschach on its skin.
As they watch, the creature flips – a beached fish fighting for air – and turns so that it is facing them. They look into it's eyes - pale and watery blue as the sea itself. It has the face and body of a woman.
Mermaid. Donald feels ridiculous as he thinks it. It can't be possible, yet here it is. There is no doubting what is in front of them. This is no trick or special effect.
Forrester unzips a pocket and removes a handkerchief. He crouches and slowly, tenderly wipes the oil from the creature’s face. It looks at him with those eyes, seeking meaning; a reason in a reasonless world. But none of them have an answer. No one does. How can there be an answer when no one understands the question?
THE END
One-hundred feet above Prince William Sound, Donald Logan adjusted his camcorder. The cabin of the helicopter vibrated noisily, making it impossible to get a clear picture.
He put down the camera and rubbed his face with his hands. He hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours, not since he’d got the call from head office.
Something big had happened, they’d said. A disaster. Get up there as soon as you can. Investigate and give us a ball-park figure. Lloyds would want to know as soon as possible.
It had sounded exciting on the phone. A trip to Alaska. A mini-adventure. Something a bit different from the insurance investigations he was used to. But this was the jet age, a time when you could reach anywhere by jumping on a plane. Hermetically sealed, sipping tepid coffee from a plastic cup, watching a movie, watching the stewardesses, stealing aftershave from the toilet in business class – they’d sucked the romance from travelling like modern day succubi, leaving bland convenience in their wake.
The helicopter wheeled around sharply and began to hover. The pilot tapped Donald on the shoulder and shouted over the sound of the rotors.
“Bligh Reef. There she is, down there.”
Donald craned his neck and looked to where the pilot was pointing.
There she was alright, all 987 feet of her. The Exxon Valdez sat motionless, a beached leviathan, bleeding crude oil in a slowly spreading stain.
*
A group of workmen, busy erecting tents, cursed as Donald jumped from the helicopter. They fought against the draught from the rotors, struggling with the canvas like tag-team wrestlers.
This was Esther, an island near the disaster area with nothing to offer except a couple of buildings and a hatchery. A small fleet of boats – trawlers mostly – were moored off-shore, bobbing queasily in the pitch and swell.
He picked his way around puddles and patches of mud and headed towards the nearest building. It was being used as forward HQ by the NOAA – the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration – who were in charge of the clean-up.
Dr. Mike Forrester cut an imposing figure. He looked like something out of Alaska’s past - a trapper or hunter perhaps – but Donald knew from his notes that Forrester was the top man here; a scientist and environmentalist who cared passionately about his work.
“Doctor Forrester,” said Donald. “I wonder if I could have a moment of your time?”
Forrester was on his feet, zipping up his waterproof jacket. “I don’t have a moment,” he said. “If you want to talk you’ll have to come along.”
They went outside and down to the shore. A wooden rowing boat lay on the loose shingle and Forrester went to it.
“Here, give me a hand with this,” he said. “There’s a storm coming and we’ve got to get this on land.”
Donald went opposite the doctor and took some of the weight. The boat was filthy, caked with sand and sea weed, he grimaced as it brushed against his trench coat.
“I’m Donald Logan, doctor.”
“Yes, the insurance guy,” said Forrester. “Like I told your office, Mr Logan, there isn’t enough money in the world to pay for this.”
The boat slipped from Donald’s grasp, he brought his knee up to bare the weight before taking a firmer grip. “We, uh, need an idea of the…extent of this thing. Can it be contained? What about damage limitation?”
They lowered the boat and stretched their backs. Forrester rubbed his hands on his trousers and looked out towards the horizon; at the buffeting waves and the darkening clouds, marring the sky like an angry bruise.
He turned and looked Donald in the eye. “No one was prepared,” he said. “Exxon, the coastguard – no one. There were no contingency plans, no equipment in place – nothing. Did you know the government lets the oil industry regulate itself?”
“No, I didn’t, but surely –“
“- Experts have been warning them that something like this might happen for over ten years now. I know, I was one of them. But they don’t give a damn. The companies don’t give a damn, the employees don’t give a damn – and what’s worse, people don’t give a damn. You know, I believe that’s the great sickness of our time, Mr. Logan. No one gives a damn.”
The sky had darkened in the time they had been talking. The bruise had become blackly livid, hemmed with purple, flecked with blue and yellow.
“I’ll help any way I can,” said Forrester. “But I won’t have tourists. If you want to see the damage then we could do with help, Mr. Logan.”
“Call me Donald.”
They shook hands. “It’s about time someone gave a damn,” said Forrester.
*
The storm couldn’t have hit at a worse time. They could do nothing but shut themselves in and watch as it passed. The wind churned the sea, and the sea churned the oil, pushing it towards land and the countless seabirds that sheltered on the shoreline.
The next morning, Donald, wearing a borrowed pair of boots and waterproofs, ventured out.
There was a shortage of equipment, explained Forrester. Exxon had promised skimmers and floating booms to contain the damage, but so far all they’d delivered were high pressure hoses and a couple of supply ships. They loaded the hoses onto the trawler and set out towards Whittier, a point on the Kenai Peninsula hit heavy by the spill.
The air was fresh after the storm. Standing on the deck, soaked by the spray, Donald felt like a new man. He indulged himself in fantasies of being a captain. Of embarking on a bold new direction, becoming an explorer, privateer or pirate – some long dead occupation which time had softened the edges of; stripping away the hard veneer of reality until only legend remained. The feeling didn’t last.
Whittier was a scene from hell. Along the coastline, dead and dying seabirds littered the rocks. Donald followed Forrester, examining the animals that had washed up with the storm. Sea otters and seals; salmon and herring; even a pair of Orca whales lying prone, gasping ineffectually for air as the oil splashed around them. They unloaded the hoses and washed down the beach. The water pounded off the rocks, sending oil and spray tumbling into the air, creating a rainbow that was both beautiful and melancholy – a reminder of broken covenants. Slowly and methodically, they moved down the beach, grim reapers harvesting the dead.
It was almost six. They had packed up the hoses and were returning to the trawler. Donald and Forrester had hardly spoken since arriving at Whittier. What they'd seen made words inconsequential. Words were thoughts made concrete, and their minds were too disturbed, too unbalanced to voice their thoughts. They trudged on in silence, their eyes drinking the damage. They had worked all day and had barely touched it – their efforts a single drop in the limitless ocean.
“Doctor,” a voice called from far behind them. “Doctor Forrester.”
They stopped and turned. Across the shore, scrambling amongst the slippery rocks was a man. Donald recognized him as Stan – one of the NOAA’s work team who’d come on the trawler. He was splashed with mud and oil, his face scarlet, almost purple. He came closer and Donald could see that he had ripped a hole in his jeans. Blood seeped from his knees, painting the denim red. He didn’t seem to care that he was injured, just ran forward, puffing with exertion.
“Doctor,” he said. “There’s something you should see.” He gasped for breath, but was barely able to keep still.
“What is it?”
“Can’t…can’t explain…have to see it yourself.” He pointed back the direction he had come. He was close to tears. “I…I’ve never seen anything like it!”
*
The sky is close. Mottled clouds, white and downy as a swan’s breast, stretch off to the horizon.
They follow Stan as he hurries, slipping on the oil that clings to the beach. He can’t seem to stop glancing behind him, as though he fears they are being watched.
They climb a small cliff, scratching their hands on the shale. Ahead is an inlet, the sea like the breath of some immense creature; sucking and blowing between the narrow rocks, shooting spray in a foaming flourish.
Stan steers them to an enormous rock, standing upright like a finger pointing to the sky. “Behind here,” he says, leading them around.
There is something there, glistening in the light. They gather around and look at it. But they can’t seem to grasp what they are seeing. It is an amalgam; a cryptogram; meaningless and yet meaningful.
It is large, six feet long, it's tail scaled and serpentine. A sleek fin – like a shark’s - protrudes from it's back. It's upper body is pale, patches of oil standing out like a stark Rorschach on its skin.
As they watch, the creature flips – a beached fish fighting for air – and turns so that it is facing them. They look into it's eyes - pale and watery blue as the sea itself. It has the face and body of a woman.
Mermaid. Donald feels ridiculous as he thinks it. It can't be possible, yet here it is. There is no doubting what is in front of them. This is no trick or special effect.
Forrester unzips a pocket and removes a handkerchief. He crouches and slowly, tenderly wipes the oil from the creature’s face. It looks at him with those eyes, seeking meaning; a reason in a reasonless world. But none of them have an answer. No one does. How can there be an answer when no one understands the question?
THE END