Chapter Text
At dawn, the smell of salt brine is crisp. Gulls screech, setting flight to pick at what grub was left unattended overnight. Waves lap, pushed by a breeze which persists through a cloudless morning. To Adam it's no less his home than his half-empty apartment in Boston.
However today his back is weighed down, all his life packed into two backpacks and a duffel-bag. Though familiar with the marina, he's perhaps more well acquainted with her waters than her ships. Expensive things, usually, and it's no wonder why. Million dollar apartments are not far from shore. A neighborhood quite a few tax brackets above Adam's pay.
The yachts all look the same, pristine white, as if they'd only just been delivered from a warehouse. Not a dent or scratch dare show face, and no barnacle in it's right mind would cling to the side of one.
It's all this which makes his target hard to miss. Painted in faded red cursive on the side of it's hull. The Pelican. It weighs heavy amongst the others in its company. Rust eats away at exposed metal, paint flakes off in droves—a school of white perch dart about, nibbling at the algae that clings to it. Old sun bleached tires rest strung along the sides in frayed rope. Some Frankenstein amalgam of bits and parts, scar-like seams mark many questionable welding jobs.
At the bow is the cabin and the wheelhouse, two stories tall and large enough that Adam is surprised it's able to stay afloat.
"I can't tell if you're impressed or disgusted," A voice pulls Adam's attention. His feet have carried him down the dock, right up to the ship—and a tall man.
The man's hair is yellow— a dark blonde matted in ages of neglect, not shimmering enough to be truly golden, and swept to one side as if a gust of wind had just blown through before Adam arrived.
He's staring somewhere past the top of Adam's head, meanwhile Adam is staring at his shirt.
"Do you work for the department of agriculture?" He asks.
"Huh?" The blonde man scrunches his face, then follows Adam's gaze, "Oh, no sorry. I picked this up in Maine the other day."
"Just a…fan of their work?"
The blonde shrugs.
"At least I'm not wearing flannel on an eighty degree day."
"It's light," Adam tugs at his own shirt, he's matching with the water in soft blues, "Thin—sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"—you wouldn't happen to be Adam…Chase?"
Adam's eyes grow twice as big.
"Oh my god I'm so sorry, are you Captain Denby?"
The blonde—Denby—smiles. His teeth are a bit crooked, his fullish lips pull thin. It's a strained smile, like he's being held at gunpoint, and for a moment Adam is worried he's said something wrong.
"I hope you aren't having any regrets, right about now."
"No, no, no god no. I'm so sorry—I had no idea—uh-yes Adam," Adam reaches out and plants Denby into a firm handshake, "Adam Chase. At your service. Which, by the way, for the record, I was admiring. Your ship is…"
"Unique?" Denby says.
"It's got character."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm just glad you didn't go running for the hills once you saw her."
"Listen, I'm in no spot to be picky. I'm just glad you accepted me for this position, really, I'm very grateful, thank you so much—"
"—don't make it weird."
"Yup. Yes. Sorry. Okay. So—"
"—Want a tour?" Denby steps aside. Adam pays extra mind to the feeling of his feet on solid ground, then finds a comfortable place to store the memory as he climbs aboard.
The deck is red. Lined with salt-stained steel, bright yellow cleats, and fibrous ropes twice the thickness of Adam's arms. Where on the pier Adam found the ocean's smell all-consuming, now it's in competition with a fishy stench that emanates from below. Enshrined in the very atoms of the ship, layers on layers, years on years. Adam grips the rails as he follows behind Denby, the cold metal happily clings to his skin and leaves behind a layer of grime on his palms.
"She's been repurposed," Denby says, passing a pile of yellow buoys, "Used to be an old commercial trawler, then I took up a gig tugging and got her fitted with a z-drive and some hitching."
He leans against the base of an industrial fishing dredge. He gives it a jostle eliciting a sound much like the gulls above them.
Adam flinches.
"Is that safe?"
"It's not an essential part of the ship is it?"
"I don't know."
"No, it's just an outrigger," Denby answers his own question, stands up, and starts walking towards the bow, "Remind me to teach you basic marine engineering."
He's led into the first floor; the quarters are much warmer than he expects. They're lined in orange oak, which glows in the light slipping through narrow windows. There are two rooms. Denby lets Adam ahead, the first room is a common area. A kitchenette that contains a gas stove, a sink, and just enough counter space to not be insulting, opposite which is a booth—the kind you might find in a diner from the eighties.
Squeezing through the commons reveals a place to sleep. It's barely comfortable enough for two people. Beds on either side of the room, a few wooden chairs and a plastic folding table scattered about. Adam tosses the wights off his back, they make a thud as they hit the floor while he lets out a sigh. He feels at least twenty pounds lighter.
"What in the world did you pack?" Denby asks.
"All my equipment, you know, stuff for water sampling, snorkeling, sonar—"
"—did you rob Yale's marine biology department?"
"I practically am a third of Yale's marine biology department."
Denby laughs and shakes his head, leaning in the doorway.
"I'm guessing they'll miss you."
"Oh yeah, for sure. My advisor wanted to kill me I think. Only way I got her on board was by arguing the case for free research opportunities."
"Did she bite?"
"Well, I'm here."
"Touche. Wanna check out the wheelhouse?"
"I would in fact love that."
Metal grated stairs quiver beneath every step. Adam's knuckles are as white as the rails, he stumbles, the waves are no help to his balance. All the while Denby races ahead, his hands never leaving the pockets of his shorts.
"We run on solar," Denby says. Adam manages to pry himself from watching his feet, to the roof of the cabin where sits a row of blue panels situated beneath the radar and the antennae. When Adam finally reaches the door, Denby is waiting, holding it open.
"Just for electricity, I mean," Denby continues, "The motor is still a gas guzzler but I'm working on it."
Adam stumbles into the wheelhouse and Denby shuts the door behind them. On all but one wall are windows creating a near 360 degree vantage point. There's one seat, one wheel, and a truly mind numbing amount of sensors and controls that Adam can't even begin to identify.
Tucked into a nook, is a single pillow and a few blankets atop a cot. Denby must see Adam eyeing it, and maybe he figures an answer is needed.
"I sleep up here, you'll have the lower cabin to yourself."
Adam scrunches up his face, the beds downstairs are at least facsimiles of an actual place to sleep. It can't be that Denby actually prefers to be up here.
"It's not that bad I swear," Denby takes a seat on his cot; it bends beneath his weight, "Any questions?"
"Did you set this up just for me, because I don't care if you sleep down—"
"—questions that don't include my sleeping arrangements?"
Adam purses his lips. He supposes, ultimately, Denby can do whatever he wants. It's his ship, after all. Speaking of which, Adam has yet to see a single soul except for Denby—it's a small vessel, but not that small.
"Where's your crew?" Adam asks.
"Don't have one."
"You don't have a crew?"
"Well, I guess now I have you."
"That's not what I—" Adam tenses, he's a marine biologist not a co-captain or a boatswain, or whatever the term is, "I have no idea how to do anything! I didn't study for this—"
"—I'll teach you," Denby shrugs, unaffected—god only knows how.
"What, on the fly? What if we hit choppy waters? What if we crash? What if—"
"—Chase, it'll be fine. I've manned this ship myself until now, if it ever gets too intense I know how and when to take the reigns."
Adam supposes he should've seen something like this coming when he penned the sign up form. Six months at sea with a total stranger, not the smartest move, but he's already committed. Already taken the time off and notified his school, already consulted with his advisor and told his parents. He's never backed out of a responsibility before, and he's not about to change that. What would anyone think of him?
Puffing his chest up and straightening his back, Adam nods.
"Okay. Fine. Then when are we leaving?"
"Now," Denby says.
Adam pops an anti-nausea pill, watching Boston grow smaller and smaller beneath the horizon until the water has consumed the city whole. They're left with nothing but the open ocean and the sputtering of The Pelican's engines. He's sitting, legs spread apart and feet planted as firm as he can get them. The further out they go, the more the waves rock the ship, the more Adam feels as if he's on a roller coaster.
Denby's full attention is on piloting the beast. They cut through the water, dragging behind them a thick white wake.
"You ever been on a boat before?" Denby asks.
"Of course I have," They hit a rough spot, and Adam gasps, clenching his whole body, "—I used to take the Staten Island Ferry to work, you know."
Denby laughs.
"That's a boat!" Adam says, "If you wanted a different answer you should've asked a more specific question."
"Okay, okay. Whatever."
The way Denby manipulates the controls, it's like they're an extension of himself. His eyes flick between sensors, he turns the wheel one hand over the other, smooth, steady.
"How long have you been at this?" Adam asks.
"Oh, not as long as it looks."
"Where'd you learn to sail?"
"Picked some stuff up here and there, had a few decent mentors."
Adam hums, not good answers, but they have only just met and he's quite occupied so idle conversation wouldn't be at the front of his mind. The water's gone from a murky greenish grey, to shimmering sapphire. A blue so bright it hurts to look at.
Adam decides rather than sit around, to make an attempt at getting some sea legs. Much as he'd love to pretend he came with them, Denby is right. Ferries are hardly good training for a smaller ship like The Pelican. He stumbles at first, drawing Denby's eye, who glances back from his driving with concern flashing across his face.
"Careful, grasshopper." Denby says.
Adam holds his arms out, the world is bobbing and swaying, his head is light, he's dizzy, yet he's not about to give up. That isn't a word in Adam's vocabulary.
"Okay, I think I've got it, see? Well, actually don't see, you're driving. But I got it, trust me."
Denby rolls his eyes.
"Now all you have to do is walk on deck."
"Right," Adam nods, "Right right right, easy. Not an issue. Not for me."
"No, of course not."
Adam would move but he can't seem to get his feet to follow directions.
"I simply cannot move," Adam says.
"You aren't bending your knees."
Denby cuts the engines and stands to join Adam, who wants right about now to recede into his shirt.
"You have to sway with the boat, you're trying to brute force it but you need to work with it, like this."
Without any warning Denby's hands grasp at Adam's waist.
"I am working with it," Adam argues, trying his best to ignore the growing warmth in his cheeks. Denby's hands are big, well kept for a working man, impeccable nails. His grip on Adam is unobtrusive—and yet Adam finds himself bothered.
"No you aren't," Denby says, " you're still tense—"
"—yeah because I feel like I'm about to fall over."
"You won't, trust me. Just relax your body and loosen up."
Adam takes a deep breath. He leans into Denby's grasp, smelling the salt in his hair and the layers of old sweat. Something industrial too, perhaps diesel or oil.
"Good, see?" Denby gives Adam a gentle nudge to one side following the tilting of the cabin. At first Adam stumbles, flailing, before Denby stops him.
"It'll take some practice but once you have the stance down it'll come quickly."
"God this is embarrassing," Adam buries his face in his hands. When he peeks through his fingers, he's met by Denby's stare. It's doubly infuriating that there's not a hint of mockery in it. Adam would prefer to be made fun of. Pity—or whatever it is that Denby is doing to him right now—is unbearable.
"How about we try the deck while we're idling, that might be an easier transition for you."
Adam wants to melt into a puddle.
"You don't have to baby me," He says.
"I also don't have to send my intern overboard on the first day."
"I can handle it, I promise. Look, see? I'm swaying, I'm so calm right now,"
Denby purses his lips, looks Adam up and down, then hops into his seat. He kicks the engines back on and brings them up to speed so fast that Adam falls forward, only barely saving himself a broken nose.
"What the fuck was that for? You could've warned—"
"There are going to be times where you won't have warnings," Denby cuts the engines again. He stands, and offers Adam his hand. Adam glares at it while Denby continues to speak, "There are going to be waves twice the size of this ship, these waters now are as calm as things are going to get outside port. Here's the thing, Chase, about this kind of life. You can't have any hubris. The sea doesn't forgive mistakes."
Adam looks between Denby's face and his hand.
"You could have just told me that," Adam, still fraught with irritation, pushes himself up. No assistance needed.
"Demonstration is the best teacher," Denby says, "So. Deck?"
The sun is blaring upon the water. With no clouds or buildings or trees to shield them from it's heat, the only thing to cool them is one persistent ocean breeze. Surprisingly, after a few laps about the deck, Adam finds Denby's advice is taking root. It's as if the whole world comes into view the second he can focus on something besides staying upright. His eyes aren't glued to his feet, instead he can look up and around, and he can wander to the edge and peer into the water.
Deep beneath the surface, rays of sun glow, certainly more vibrant outside than through the dirty windows of The Pelican's wheelhouse. The world stretches for as far as the eye can see. They're alone, entirely and totally alone. No other ships, not a bird in the sky, and no fish beneath, impossibly serene. Yet Adam knows it's a trick. The ocean is never truly quiet, it only appears to be.
Far beyond where anyone can see, whalefall sits and feeds hoards of crabs upon the sea floor. Sharks pick at old blubber, hydrothermal vents bubble and burst in plumes on the Mid-Atlantic ridge, giant tube worms feed upon them and swarms of Dysommina rugosa make their daily commute in the mid-Pacific.
And a humpback whale—-wait a humpback whale?
"Denby look!" Adam says, pointing out just a few feet into the water. The coarse gray back of a whale arches to the surface, it blows at them a spray of water. Doubtless a calf, it's small, which means the mother must be somewhere close.
Denby joins Adam just as the whale calf dives down.
"Damn," Denby says, "Are you, like, a whale whisperer or something?"
"No! They feed near the east coast this time of year. Where's the mom? Do you see the mom?"
Denby runs along the edge of the deck searching for any sign of life.
"I don't see—"
He's cut off as the water shifts and suddenly a great shadow is cast over their ship. Practically on top of them, breaches the form of a mature humpback. It twists onto it's side, reminding Adam of a ballet dancer, astonishingly nimble for the size—easily the height of a small building. Fins nearly clip the edge of The Pelican, neither of them have time to react as it comes falling back down, the water explodes beneath it, pushing the pelican in a massive wave.
"Hold on!" Denby yells. The ship tilts, and Adam grips firm to the edge. At one point he feels as if they're at a ninty degree angle before the wave subsides and they're left drifting towards the calf. Adam falls back, once the adrenaline gives, he starts to laugh.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me!"
"Are you alright?" Denby comes racing over. Their clothes are soaked through, they must resemble a pair of wet cats. Nevertheless he leans back over the edge, grinning like a man whose just won the powerball.
The calf is returning to the surface, it swims just at the edge of the waves. Adam can get a nice long look at it, which brings to his attention something new. It's moving back and fourth, as if it can't go in a simple straight path. It almost looks to be floundering. Adam narrows his eyes. In all his years studying, he's never seen a whale move like that.
"Somethings wrong."
"Yeah we almost got flattened," Denby remains breathless.
"No no no, look. It's swimming asymmetrically. That's not healthy mobility for a calf that mature."
"You'd know better than me."
Adam leans forward some more, he feels something tug at the back of his shirt, and turns to see Denby holding onto him.
"I'm fine, I won't fall."
"Let's not test that theory."
Adam grumbles but doesn't protest any more than he needs too, he can't get distracted and lose visibility on this calf. The curiosity is eating away at him. That is precisely when he remembers he packed heavy.
"I'll be right back, don't let the calf get too far from us."
"Pretty sure that's not legal."
Adam bursts into the lower cabin. He races to his bags and rifles through them, it doesn't take long—thank his impeccable packing standards—to find the pair of binoculars he brought with him. When he returns on deck, the calf has luckily remained close.
"I can't start the engines until they're at least 100 yards away," Denby says.
"I know, just give me a second."
"You brought binoculars?"
"Yes, and look, they're coming in handy. So before you say I'm being over prepared—"
"—I have binoculars, you assumed I wouldn't have binoculars?"
"I didn't know what you would have—oh shit." Adam drops the binoculars around his chest and runs a hand down his face.
"What is it?" Denby asks.
"There's a net around it's right pectoral fin."
"That sounds not great," Denby puts his hands on his hips, "Do we report that to somebody or—"
Adam groans, his doctor once told him he'd benefit greatly from some blood pressure medication, and right now that's hard to argue with. He starts pacing, it's marginally more difficult to do on the open ocean than it is on land.
"We can't just leave it like that."
"Right. So we report it to some—what—whale authority? There's gotta be a whale authority," Denby says.
"There's NOAA, they have a hotline, but—"
"—but?"
"Ugh," Adam leans over and bites his lip, hands on his knees, "What if it dives and we lose it before they can get here? Humpback whales are getting tangled in fishing gear all the time, it's one of the biggest human-induced threats to the species."
By now Adam has begun to wave his arms around in big, demonstrative gestures. His enthusiasm—and anxiety—growing by the second.
"So they probably have a thorough protocol for this," Denby replies.
"They're probably swamped with calls in. Not just about whales! Turtles, and dolphins, and—who knows how long it'll take to get a real response!"
"Chase, I'm advising you to maybe not continue along this line of logic."
"I'm a good swimmer."
"Chase," Denby positions himself in front of Adam. They lock into a silent contest. It hasn't even been a day and already Adam finds himself using his horns.
The clock is ticking, with each passing second Adam sees the image of the poor tangled calf having it's fin strangled as it grows bigger than the net it's wrapped in. Circulation cut off. Vulnerable and in pain.
He pulls off his binoculars and shoves them into Denby's chest, running off to his bags yet again to grab a utility knife.
"Chase!" He hears Denby call after him, that doesn't stop for a second. Before Denby can do anything he takes a running jump off the deck and into the cold embrace of the Atlantic.
The world becomes muffled beneath the waves. His clothes were going to need a good round of washing before, therefore he's not concerned with ruining them. He holds his knife tight in a fist as he surfaces and starts kicking. Bless his muscle memory, the sea is certainly harder to tread through than his hometowns pool, but it's still water.
With each breath he takes, he sees the calf growing closer and closer, until his hand lands on something leathery. Adam swims over the back of the calf, mounting it. Even if it's a juvenile, it's still twice Adam's size, and could easily injure him if he were to make one wrong move. Best not slip up, then. His heart is pounding in his ears. He adjusts his grip on the knife and feels around to find the afflicted fin. The water distorts the calf and the net—yet he manages to get a good grip on the fibers.
It's then that Adam realizes if he's going to be quick about this, he's going to need a better view, one with his head below the water rather than above it. He cracks his neck and gets on with the mission, slips off the calf's back and dips below. The salt burns his eyes. He's swimming alongside it now, and from here he can see all the blurry threads of the net suffocating it.
It takes him a minute but by the end he's sure he's found the few places he needs to cut in order to get the thing loose. He surfaces again for another breath, taking the chance to assess how far he's swum. The Pelican is in the distance now, and Adam can't help but feel his heart leap into his throat. It's a lot further than he assumed, and though he's sure he could make it back, the longer he clings to this calf, the more he risks stranding himself.
Denby is watching him. Adam shoots him a thumbs up as a sign of life, then dips back down to finish the job.
The first cut is a hard one. His knife slips, there's a layer of smooth grime on the rope that makes it impossible to get a grip on. Everything comes slow and arduous. It digs into his skin, burning as it slips between his fingers.
Finally, he makes it through, the net snaps nearly sending Adam's knife into his arm. Already it looks looser, but it's not ready to come off, not yet. If he tries to remove it now, it might tighten around itself again, he needs to create a bigger opening.
Unfortunately, he's not alone.
There's a bump against his leg, assuming the calf is turning, he surfaces again—his lungs are starting to scream at him anyways. Only once he's above the water does he see it's not the calf that bumped him, it's the mother.
Adam locks up, the one rule in nature, never approach a mother with a child, applies even in the depths of the sea.
"Hey, hey, hey," Adam says. The mother is looking at him, her eye is so massive that her pupil could swallow him whole, "I'm trying to help. I'm helping."
She doesn't move, trapping Adam between her and her calf. Getting crushed to death by a humpback whale is not Adam's idea of a good first impression, for a second he almost considers abandoning them. But he's come this far, and she hasn't actually made a move to attack him.
So Adam dips back down, careful to move with intention, and sure the mother has full view when he takes to the net again. The second cut is easier now that he's got the motion down and knows what to expect. It's only his shaking hand that gives him any hesitation, if he slips up at all, it's now the mother that is sure to do something about it.
One more breath of air, one more cut, and the net has finally loosened enough that Adam can sheath his blade and give it a sturdy tug. It pulls off the calf with no resistance at all, Adam swears he sees the little guy flex its fin as if it's stretching out and getting reacquainted with it's newfound freedom.
Adam flinches as the mother calls out, a low, billowing, call that shakes Adam's bones. It's haunting, not like anything he's ever heard before. The recordings they had to listen to in class pale in comparison, he's certain if they had been more accurate they would've shattered every window in the biology building. She bumps against Adam, and Adam steadies himself against her. It's stupid, whales don't understand things like this, they can't understand them, but Adam would like to imagine it's a thank you.
He surfaces, taking a long desperate gasp of air. He watches as the two swim off ahead of him. It's been a while since he's done this much swimming, but he still has to make it back to The Pelican.
"Told you I'm a good swimmer," Adam says. He's dripping water across the deck, net in one hand and knife in the other. He drops them both onto the floor, "In fact, I made the Winston-Salem Journal when I was captain of my highschool's swim team."
"There are about five hundred other things I was worried about before your swimming abilities."
"Okay to be fair, you have every right to yell at me. But I couldn't just leave them like that," Adam sits down on the base of the outriggers.
"I get it," Denby says. He shrugs, and Adam has to resist the urge to pinch himself.
"You aren't mad?"
"Oh I'm very mad. You disobeyed orders, did something very illegal that could've gotten you killed and me arrested—my boating license revoked—" Denby approaches with crossed arms, and Adam straightens up, sharpening his tongue, "But it was impressive."
"What?"
"You just saved a whale! A baby whale! You risked your life for that," Denby says, "That's goated."
"Oh…uh….thank you? You really aren't going to fire me or argue with me or—"
"Just don't do that again. Also, you're waxing the floors."
Adam leaps up, "Waxing the—you're basically asking me to swab the deck?"
"It needs to be done, and I'm going to be busy getting us back to port to make sure that mom didn't do any damage when she jumped near us."
Adam follows behind Denby, heading to the wheelhouse.
"I'm soaking wet! Can I at least dry off first?"
"Whose fault is that?"
"Just a second ago you barely trusted me to walk around while the engines were off."
"And look at you now," Denby spins around, smiling down at Adam from the top of the stairs, "Besides, you'll be on your knees most of the time. Gear is in the kitchen closet, chop chop!"