The Sentinel
THE SENTINEL
By
Jeremy Bishop
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Table of Contents:
Recommended Reading:
THE LAST HUNTER by Jeremy Robinso
1
Whales. What can I say about them? As an anti-whaling activist, I’m supposed to have this shtick memorized, supercharged, cocked, locked and ready to fire across the bow of anyone who looks at a whale the wrong way. But here’s the simple truth: while I share the same mild affection for the world’s largest creatures that most people do, I sort of just fell into this job. I needed work out of college and answered an ad in the paper. Turns out what I lacked in passion, I made up for by having an analytical mind and a knack for pretending to be someone I’m not—a lifetime of moving around the world and trying to fit in can do that to a girl.
So when I take the glass jar filled with red paint and lob it toward the
Bliksem,
one of Greenland’s few whaling ships, I’m fairly indifferent to whether or not it hits the mark. But I’m currently incognito, so I need the effort to at least look genuine.
Red gore explodes across the
Bliksem’s
gray hull. I let out a genuine whoop. Some suppressed side of me finds this fun, and for a moment, I understand the appeal that has thirty, mostly college dropouts, heading out to sea to combat whaling for months at a time. It feels like when I egged Jimmy Sweedler’s house after he left the prom with Susan Something. A part of me hopes he got her pregnant, was forced to marry her and now lives in a trailer infested by rabid chipmunks. But the thirty-three year old, responsible part of me just feels bad for his parents who had to clean up those two dozen eggs.
Yeah,
two dozen
.
I had anger issues.
Still do, actually, but I can keep it in check when I’m undercover, or use it to fulfill the act.
“That’s right, you whale killing sons-a-bitches!” I shout, shaking my fist at the
Bliksem
, which is just a hundred feet away.
Cheers rise up from the deck crew—aka: my fellow paint bombardiers—standing by my side. There are three men and two women on the deck with me—all at least ten years younger than me. In fact, other than Captain McAfee and his one-man “security” team, an Australian known only as Mr. Jackson, I am the oldest crewmember on board. Much of the young volunteer crew sport dreadlocks, not simply as a fashion statement, but also because fresh water showers are rationed while at sea. As a result, the
Sentinel
—the anti-whaling ship that’s been my home for the past month—smells like it must have when it was an active duty Norwegian whaling ship.
“Nice shot!” shouts Greg Chase, the scrawny first mate. He’s got a big awkward smile on his face, which is covered in patches of facial hair struggling to proclaim him a man. Complimenting his shaggy face is a pair of glasses that sit askew on his nose. The kid—he’s twenty three, but I can’t help thinking of him as a kid—looks like he should be in his parent’s basement playing Dungeons & Dragons, not attacking whaling ships in the Arctic Ocean off the northern coast of Greenland. That said, his brown eyes absolutely gleam with excitement, and he’s by far the smartest person on this ship, which makes him a threat. Because if anyone is going to figure out I’m not who I claim to be, it’s him.
So when Chase hands me a second glass jar, I take it with a double flick of my eyebrows that says I’m getting my rocks off, too. Before my first attempt, the other deckhands had loosed a barrage of nearly fifteen paint jars, all of which fell short of the mark. So much so, that the crew of the
Bliksem
had begun to laugh and mock us with an assortment of hand gestures that universally translates to “cocksuckers.”
They’re all frowns now. Dressed in thick sweaters and winter caps, some of the
Bliksem’s
crew leans over the rail to see my handiwork. The crimson stain, which looks eerily like blood, covers the ship’s name stenciled on the side and runs in red rivulets toward the sea. It’s a gruesome sight, which I suppose is the point. A dead and bled whale pulled into port doesn’t do much to turn the stomach, but a ship covered in blood from the hunt might not be so kindly received. And the images being captured by the
Sentinel’s
crew will make great PR. Bold? Yes. But effective? I’m not convinced.
But judging the effectiveness of the
Sentinel
’s tactics isn’t why I’m here. My job—my true job as an undercover investigator for the World Society for the Protection of Animals (WSPA)—is to observe and record the less noble actions, if any, of the
Sentinel
and her crew. The allegations leveled against the
Sentinel
and her captain are sullying the whaling debate and making the anti-whaling community look like zealots. So I’m here to either vindicate them, or expose them as pirates, turn my evidence and testimony over to the international and Greenland authorities and clear the good name of other anti-whaling organizations. On top of that, I’m tasked with the job of recording the effectiveness of the whaler’s hunting techniques. Greenland only recently started hunting humpbacks again and their whalers are out of practice. Many whales take a half hour to die—some as long as six hours (experienced whalers can put a whale out of its misery inside of one minute). Given the dual nature of this mission, the WSPA needed someone with both undercover experience and a level head.
Translation: my lack of passion keeps me from freaking out at the sight of whale blood. Call me a cocksucker in sign language and I’ll throw red paint at you—or worse if I can get my hands on you. Kill a whale and I’ll take notes. I believe in the cause—in a world full of cows, why hunt endangered or even threatened creatures? But I’ve lived all around the world, have eaten most meats imaginable, including—
gasp
—whale, and I’ve seen more than a few animals slaughtered.
It’s the circle of life.
Hakunamatata.
Pass the A1.
I haven’t had a bite of meat since stepping foot on the
Sentinel
, which runs a vegetarian galley. I’ve lost five pounds and have more energy, but damn, I could go for a cheeseburger. I force the thought of cooked meat from my mind and focus on the task at hand.
With all eyes on me, I raise the jar over my head, take aim and see a tall man with long blonde hair on the deck of the
Bliksem.
He’s pointing a video camera in my direction. I flinch away from the lens. “Shit!”
If my face is caught on camera while taking part in this act of high seas vandalism, it could destroy the validity of my testimony. I can see it now;
The violence needs to stop says the fist-shaking, paint-throwing, crazy lazy. But they called me a cocksucker by thrusting their hands toward their open mouths and pushing their cheeks out with their tongues! Like this! Sorry, that was rude. We were implying you needed to brush your teeth, say the whalers. Fresh breath is important to a seafood eating culture.
“What is it?” Chase asks. “You all right?”
His concern is nice, but fades quickly when I say, “They’re recording us.”
“They
always
record us,” he says. “This is what you signed up for, Harper. You’re here to take a stand. To go on record against these murderers. If you go to jail, so be it. That’s what we do. I’ve been in jail four times already.”
How Chase could survive in jail is beyond me. I can think of ten raunchy inmate nicknames for the kid off the top of my head. He doesn’t give me time to test them out in my mind.
“Look,” he says. “I know this is your first time out. And it can be intimidating. You’re not used to this kind of action. I get it. You can cover your face if you want, but eventually you’ll have to make a stand and reveal yourself.”
I contemplate making a joke about revealing myself, but that would either turn him on or piss him off—neither of which is something I want happening, so I hold my tongue.
He reaches past my head, pulls up the hood of my bright red jacket and ties it tight so only my eyes can be seen. “These guys are amateurs. They’ve never had to face us before. This isn’t like the Japanese. They have no LRAD, no flash-bangs, no water cannons. They don’t even have a loudspeaker to shout at us! But you’ve got the best arm on board and I want you to fuck their shit up!”
He’s got a bigger smile now. Couple his grin with the goofy face and passion stolen from a
Braveheart
speech and I can’t help but laugh. He takes my chuckle for excitement and I play the part. With my face concealed, I turn and send another jar sailing across the hundred-foot divide between the
Sentinel
and the
Bliksem
.
But I’ve put a little too much pepper on this pitch, and instead of striking the hull of the whaling ship, it soars toward the wheelhouse. The tall blond man, who looks like some kind of modern Viking, ducks, and for a moment I think I’ve been saved. Then the distinctive sound of a breaking window fills the air. I cringe, thankful that the cinched hood hides my face from their crew and ours.
A battle cry rings out from all around me. Not just from the crew on deck, but also from the
Sentinel
’s wheelhouse. The whole crew has seen what I just did.
Great
.
Chase gives my shoulder a hearty shake like he’s Captain Blackbeard and shouts, “They’re not going to want to pilot that ship for weeks!”
“From paint?” I ask. I imagine that some of the instruments got splattered in red, but I can’t see how a single bottle of red paint thrown through the wheelhouse window could disable a two hundred foot ship.
Chase’s smile turns fiendish, and I know I’ve been duped.
I curse myself for not looking at the bottle before I threw it and ask, “What was it? What did I throw?”
“Butyric acid,” he says.
“Acid!”
He’s laughing now, and I suddenly wonder if he’s sane. The FBI might have been a better choice for this undercover mission. Of course, we’re in Greenland’s waters and the
Sentinel
is registered in the Netherlands so I think this would actually be the CIA’s jurisdiction. But the CIA is too busy keeping people from blowing up buildings. They probably don’t think twice about whales, unless they can be weaponized, which I’m sure someone somewhere is working on. So that leaves me, Nancy Drew of the seven seas.
