The Mormon smiled at me. I didn't smile back but it didn't seem to deter him. They're everywhere you know, mormons. We even had an infestation in Tromsø. I had to dodge their aggressive kindness on the main street (no Joseph, I'm not interested and for fuck's sake, it's minus twenty fucking degrees why the fuck are you smiling). They're always fucking smiling and they always have good teeth and fine skin.
The mormon across from me was a bit stouter and stronger than your basic mormon. It happens that he wasn't a missionary but a mason helping to build the church in Moorea. He had thick shoulders, arms and a heavy set of hands. He told me he had six children back in Salt Lake City, Utah (yeah man, I know where the fuck Salt Lake City is) that he missed very much. I told him that was nice. He didn't speak about his wife.
He kept smiling at me as the boat rocked up and down. The problem was that the landscape around us bounced up and down violently but since I was on this boat with this maniac, his face and smile remained constantly in my vision; still and unmoving, like Faith. My eyes might as well have been tied with ropes to his because they were so level and still.
The weather had turned and the sky was a thick smokey grey. We had passed the coral breakpoint quite some time ago and we were now in open water. Out here the waves were nothing like the ones you see on the beach. Instead of coming at you in neat lines, each of them seemed to be their own beast forcefully pushing in each of their own directions and occasionally smashing headfirst into each other.
I looked at the water from the boat and to me it seemed like stone. It was so thick, dark and solid that I had to drag my hand through it to make sure I was not going crazy.
There were about ten of us on the boat, excluding the driver, Pongi. He had broad features and a flaring nose, not too dissimilar to the indigenous people of Malaysia and tanned skin. He had a flowing mane of curly hair bleached almost a brown orange by the sun and it spread out gloriously behind him in the wind.
He pointed at something in the distance:
A scream rises from the boat and a the commotion of camera finding ensues. Instead of just turning his head, The Mormon turns his entire body like a child at zoo.
Over the summit of the next wave, I could see the silouhette like a shadow puppet on the horizon hanging in the air. To think that entire thing in the distance was flesh and bone is absurd. It stood there like a monument that had always been there and always was. In a split second it was gone.
Pongi turned the boat sharply and we hung onto whatever we could grab as we plunged into the space between the waves.
It stuck in my mind for a long time, that image of the tail on the horizon, it seemed so out of place here in this desert of water. Other than the fact that everyone saw it, how could we be sure it ever happened? The sea is a flexing canvas that has no discernible memory. Sure the machinery of man can for a short time carve its mark with the wakes of large ships but time washes it all out to the changing textures of the waves.
Which made it all the more surprising when Pongi told us to dive in. This is exactly the whale was, he said. But I only saw the same waves I had seen since we left land.
I lowered myself carefully since loud noises can scare whales off.