Page 2 of Waters that Drown Us

In my peripheral, I keep an eye on the customers, double-checking that no one is climbing the railings or running on the slick walk. Our first mate Allen is theoretically doing the same stern-side, but there’s a good chance he’s vaping in the bathroom instead.

We’re a small crew of three and we bump heads often, but I can’t complain. I get to spend nearly every day on the water,free of walls, cameras, and watchful eyes. Free of expectations, and of that nothingness that filled my every waking moment until five years ago. And Jimmy pays me under the table, which means I can continue operating without a bank account—and any verifiable identity.

After a lifetime of being told exactly who I am and will be, I am thrilled to be no one.

I’m lifting my water bottle to my lips when a movement to the north catches my eye. A flash of blue against blue, invisible to anyone who doesn’t know what they’re looking for. I push my binoculars up under my sunglasses and hold my breath while I scan the area. Waiting.

There it is again. Just a flash, but it’s there.

“Jimmy, four o’ clock,” I yell, stomping on the glass to get his attention. I can’t see him, but I feel the ship’s engine rev a little. “Two of them, I think.”

Jimmy doesn’t move until he sees it too, but it only takes the tip of a fin breaking the surface of the ocean for him to thrust the boat into high gear. I grip the thin railing with one hand as I flick on the microphone that was tucked in my pocket.

“Alright, everyone, hang on to the railing! We’re picking up speed to see if we can catch some friends waving to us in the distance!” My tone is like sugar and bubbles, as I’ve learned Americans like in their tour guides. They prefer overt sweetness and impossible enthusiasm in their service workers. I’ve watched about a thousand YouTube videos to perfect the effect.

Footsteps clamber as patrons who were hiding from the sun emerge from the cabin to get a glimpse at the very thing they paid forty-eight dollars a head to see. This trip is busier than most, and parents hoist their children up so they can see over the heads of adults leaning over the railing. We come to a slow stop,dipping and climbing with the rough waves as we all silently scan the surface.

“Starboard!” Allen’s voice rings out from inside the cockpit. No idea when he got there, but I shuffle to the right and watch the long, gliding spine of a blue whale dip beneath the surface.

“Okay, everybody, we’ve got a few blue whales! Head to the starboard side of the boat. That’s your right-hand side, if you’re facing the front,” I remind the passengers as they scurry around the railing. “Bottom or top level is totally fine, and remember to stay near the back if you’re feeling seasick.”

There are definitely seasick passengers today. Many of them. Most of whom refuse to believe that it'smuchworse to be sick inside a tiny, hot, enclosed bathroom than it is to hurl off the stern, no matter how much I promise them that’s the truth.

A second blue whale arches from the water, a spout of mist emerging from its blowhole as its pockmarked back glides easily through the choppy waves. We get a tiny peek at her dorsal fin before she begins her dive, her fluke flattening against the water to propel her into the great deep.

“Look at how wide her tail is! Whale tails are calledflukes, and they’re incredibly strong. These kinds of whales can dive over a thousand feet.”

There are murmurs of appreciation and wonder, which make the corners of my lips twitch with a smile. I love to watch people, especially kids, learn about these awe-inspiring creatures for the first time. It reminds me of sitting in my bed, a picture book splayed open in my lap, as my mother explained to me the different habitats of the sea.

A boy about six years old, with tight curls and a bright smile, turns to me from his perch atop his father’s shoulders.

“Is a T-Rex bigger than a whale?” He asks like he’s sure of the answer. Because to a six-year-old, nothing has ever been bigger than a dinosaur.

“There are some small whales, but blue whales like this one are the biggest animals to ever live on the whole planet,” I say into the microphone, grinning at the way the kid’s jaw drops open. “Actually, a blue whale weighs as much as thirty T-Rexes.”

“No freaking way!”

The crowd laughs at his exclamation, and the child’s dad shoots me a thankful grin as they turn back to watch the water. We follow the path the whales are travelling, a safe distance behind, as we watch their trips to the surface.

I spout off more blue whale facts, my voice grainy as it booms from the outdated speaker system. We’re lucky enough to see a true dive, where the smaller of the pair lifts their fluke completely out of the water to a chorus of cheers.

By the time we’re heading back to shore, the boat is buzzing. Even the passengers who have been sick most of the trip can muster a grimace, probably thankful we’re almost back on dry land. I walk around the crowd with a dry husk of baleen in my hands, teaching the crowd about different types of whale teeth and feeding patterns. Allen grabs me by the elbow when we enter the harbor, and I help secureLa Ballenato the tie-off. Patrons make their way off the catamaran on shaky legs, grasping soda cans and thanking me. The kid who asked about the dinosaurs even gives me a high-five, which is adorable.

I stretch under the heat of the sun, slipping off my cap and teasing my hair at the roots, trying to dry the sweat that’s stuck it to my forehead. I’m standing on the edge of the gangplank, the toes of my sneakers teetering at the edge between the sea and the shore.

“Alice! It’s your turn to clean the head.”

I breathe out steadily, grateful for a reason to stay on the water a little while longer. Even a reason as disgusting as this one.

The familiar scrubbing, tidying, and logging associated with returning to shore is soothing. I draw it out as long as possible, even though both Allen and Jimmy try to move me along quicker. But the moment I step off this ship, I’ll have to think about what snakes and spies lie on land.

Finally, I can’t avoid the end of this shift any longer. I begrudgingly disembark, and Jimmy hands me an envelope of cash as we lock up, which I stuff in my back pocket as we make our way to the parking lot. I don’t own a car—it seemed like an unnecessary risk, with no license and no insurance—so I head toward my bike, chained to the gas meter behind our ticket booth, as my crewmates grunt their goodbyes and head the other direction.

I can’t help the anxiety that snakes through my veins every moment I’m not hidden onLa Ballena. I’ve prepared for what comes next, but I know there’s an invisible target on me, a scope aimed at my heart, that makes me sprint to the little locked shed from which we sell tickets.

My escape is hindered by a woman staring at our pricing sign. She’s tall—at least half a foot taller than me—with light brown skin and straight, dark hair that skims her shoulders. She readjusts her backpack as she squints at the display behind dirty plexiglass, and the movement drags the collar of her top far enough that the tattooed wing of a bird peeks out from beneath the fabric.

“Can I help you with something?” I ask as I get closer, cursing myself for not hiding behind the shed until she leaves. There are some habits that are harder to break than others, and the need to offer help, to be amenable and pleasant at all times, is one of mine.