Ms. Conception

Just then, a wall of whale broke out of the water fifteen feet in front of us. Nose first, it rose up to the height of a two-story house, blew through its blow hole, and then dived back down, seeming to wave its tail in a slow goodbye.

“My god.” I was trembling.

“Unbelievable,” said Steve.

It was precisely what we were here for. I had seen whale before, from whale watching boats in the seas off San Francisco – shiny black fins and plumes of spray admired in between bouts of throwing up. But this was different. It happened so unexpectedly and so up close. It is one thing to be a passenger on a diesel guzzling party boat, miles from the surface of the water. But Steve and I were essentially floating on a log. From that vantage point a whale the size of a tractor trailer was a stunning shock. We saw the barnacles on his back as he rose and sank down, obliterating the mountains and sky.

“Can you believe it?”

“Will he turn us over? “

Steve laughed, reassuring me by touching my shoulder.

We continued to paddle through the salty grey wet for hours, moving one behind the other with our positions locked. All the while, we talked without eye contact, studying the surface of the sea and how the paddles entered the water or watching the brown pelicans, seagulls and the light and dark battleship sized clouds that moved swiftly through the sky. We discussed, even argued from my position to his position and back again.

“Paddle left a bit here,” he said.

“You honestly think it’s better to bring an unwanted child into this world?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Ah, look. Are those geese, that formation there?”

“Could be.”

“ But I’m sure you wouldn’t want government to support it?”

“Life begins at conception,” he said.

We paddled our way through every possible source of conflict, from abortion to homosexuality to welfare reform. I still hadn’t noticed that the waves had found their way up to my sleeves and into my parka, until one wind whipped wave hit me square in the face. I was soaked and shivering.

“I’m all wet,” I shrieked.

“I agree with that,”Steve said.

We headed to land, to dry off and eat. I stripped my wet parka, my jacket and my rubber overalls away, down to my t-shirt and jeans. I walked a short distance and lowered my pants to pee. I was out in the open, inside the tide line, so that my scent would be washed away and not attract bear. There was no possibility of demure crouching behind a fern in the woods out here. It was open and sandy, sand fleas jumping as I crouched, big fat horseflies circling and buzzing, and giant red ants carrying pieces of a dead insect in elaborate detours around the tip of my boot. I couldn’t help but notice that even at six inches off the ground, this barren stretch of beach was teeming with life.

By the time I walked back, the other boat had pulled in, the nervous guy carefully propping up his camera on a log. Steve was chatting with the guide.

“That’s right. It’s a tradition,” I heard the guide say. “After a long kayak trip, you have to finish it off with a drink at the bar, a hot tub and a sauna, all at the Alaska Hotel. Believe me, you’ll need it.”