The Tourist Trail (17 page)

Annie used to say:
Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.
This was the dilemma that Ethan faced. He didn't fully understand what he was about to do; he only knew that, unlike a computer keystroke, it could not be undone.

He boarded the Zodiac and lowered himself to the water. Nobody noticed him, which formerly had annoyed him but which served him well now. He started the engine and left the
Arctic Tern
behind, standing alone at the stern, tiller handle firmly in hand, his eyebrows dripping icy salt water. The boat hopped across the waves toward its target, the
Takanami Maru.

Moments before, Ethan had been just another crew member, futilely hurling stink and smoke bombs at the Japanese whalers. Off starboard, Ethan had watched the hull of dark blue steel approaching. Fifty feet to go, then twenty, then ten, then the sound of steel grinding against steel. The
Tern
shuddered, and Ethan grabbed the opposite railing.

He felt his lungs convulse and lunged across the deck to the crate of ammunition. He grabbed a rescue flare, but the
Tern
arched up and heaved to the left, tossing him onto the deck. Finally, the
Tern
began to veer away from the
Maru
and then stabilize. While the ship idled and the others cheered their victory, Ethan had descended to the water.

He didn't notice the fog rolling in until the
Maru
faded into it. When he looked back, he saw only fog behind him. He slowed the engine. Seeing a white patch amidst the sea of gray, he headed for it until he realized at the last moment that it was not the
Tern
, that he was about to run straight into an iceberg. He killed the engine and listened for a ship, any ship. He hadn't brought a radio.

He rummaged through a supply box and found an emergency flare, but he hesitated to use it. He could imagine Aeneas right now, kicking himself for entrusting a rookie with the Zodiac. Yet this only made Ethan more determined.

He heard a loud exhale and looked down to see a whale piercing the surface of the water, barely, just enough to be noticed. He wished he could identify the breed, to know what Aeneas knew, what Annie might have known, as he watched the whale descend below the surface, a shadow merging into the indigo water.

He took a seat on the floor of the boat and rested his eyes. Seeing the whale had put him at peace, as if he were alone but not truly alone. Although he knew little about where he was or why he was here, he felt that everything was working according to plan. Not his plan, despite his best efforts. But a plan. He was a player in a larger script, God's algorithm, a purpose not yet clear to him but unfolding without bugs or buffer overflows, a seamless string of code.

By the time Aeneas made the distress call, Robert figured it was too late to find the
Tern
's missing Zodiac, let alone rescue its passenger. Yet when he heard Aeneas's voice on the radio, asking for help, Robert wanted to help, and he hoped he could. He also knew that if he could locate that Zodiac before Aeneas did, that he might have the leverage he needed to bring this chase to an end.

Robert stood in the bridge staring into the fog. Zamora guided the
Roca
slowly, mindful of the dozens of icebergs surrounding them. The radar screen would be of no help for the Zodiac, and the thick fog rendered binoculars useless. The best they could do was assemble as many pairs of eyes around the ship as possible.

After a while, Robert left to find Lynda, who was on the lower front deck.

“Anything?” he asked.

“
Nada
,” she said. “I'm just curious here, but what's your grand plan for when we do get to the
Tern
? You think Aeneas is just gonna pull over so we can board?”

“If we find this Zodiac first, Aeneas will have no choice,” he said.

“And if we don't?”

Robert said nothing. He had no backup plan. He only knew he didn't want another slalom race. And if the
Roca
did get close enough to deploy its own Zodiacs, he also knew Aeneas would be waiting with water jets, smoke bombs, and railings lined with barbed wire.

“You know what we need to get on that ship?” Lynda said.

“What's that?”

“A Trojan horse.”

“One that floats.”

“Okay, then. A Trojan
seahorse
,” she said, then laughed at her joke. Robert looked at her thoughtfully. Her smiled faded. “What is it?” she asked.

“You just gave us our plan,” Robert said.

“I'm
joking
, Bobby.”

“I'm not,” Robert said.

* * *

The plan was simple: If Robert could not locate the missing crewman, he would impersonate him. Suddenly, those days spent spying on the
Tern
back in Argentina were paying off. Robert knew the color of the immersion suits the
Tern
kept on hand, which would help him craft a disguise that would get him rescued by the
Tern
—lifted, Zodiac and all, onto the deck, arrest warrant in hand, before the
Tern
's crew discovered he wasn't one of their own. It was a plan that even Aeneas might appreciate, had he not been the target of it.

There was still the chance that Aeneas had already located the errant Zodiac. But the fact that the
Tern
was still hovering a few miles away in the fog instead of pursuing whalers was a sign that they were still searching. Either way, it was worth the risk.

Robert and Lynda were lowered to the water in a Zodiac. Lynda had instructed the captain to head in the opposite direction so as not to draw attention to the
Roca
. They needed to be truly alone if they were to trick Aeneas.

Robert pulled on the reflective orange survival suit and donned an oversized black hooded sweatshirt.

“I'll pull the hood up when we get within view,” he explained. “And when I give the word, you'll hide under this tarp.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And there's one more thing.” Robert pulled out his handgun. “Stand over here,” he said, motioning her to his side.

“What?”

Just as Lynda moved over, Robert quickly fired a shot into the rubberized wall of the boat. The gunshot was echoed by the sound of air escaping.

“What the hell!” Lynda said.

Robert watched the wall implode slowly, lowering what little barrier there was between them and the choppy water. The Zodiac began to list, and Lynda's face had turned crimson with anger.

“Bobby, what the hell are you doing?”

“I had to do it.”

“Why?”

“Because if they look close enough they'll know I'm not one of them. This way, they'll see a boat in distress and they won't hesitate to pull us up. We have to appear close to sinking.”

“We
are
close to sinking.”

“We'll be fine. Besides, did you notice the Argentine flag on the outer wall of this Zodiac? That's what I pull a bullet through.”

“Oh.” Lynda quieted down as the logic sunk in. Holding his gun, smelling the exhaust of the spent cartridge, made Robert feel like an agent again. He realized he'd needed the push to get back into character. Then he wondered why he needed to get into character at all. Had he only been playing an agent all these years? Had he truly been more like Jake all along? He forced the thoughts out of his head.

Robert could see, through the fog, the white shadow of the
Tern
becoming sharp around the edges. He heard voices, people shouting. Perhaps they were calling out to Robert, thinking he was the missing crewman. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and motioned toward the tarp. Lynda laid down on the deck and pulled the plastic over her.

“Figures it would be a guy driving that missing boat,” Lynda said, her voice muffled from under the tarp. “You men always have to be the ones at the wheel. And no wonder he got lost. Men
never
ask for directions.”

“Quiet. We're getting close.” The
Tern
was less than fifty yards away. Robert kept his head angled toward the water to prevent anyone from getting a good look at him. He waved at the ship and he heard more voices, the volume increasing. He glanced up quickly and saw the while hull overshadowing him, until he was alongside the ship. He heard a mechanical sound and looked up to see a crane swinging into position.

A wire was lowered. Robert grabbed it and attached it to his Zodiac. The crane emitted a whine and the floor began to wobble as it left behind the water. Robert grabbed onto the wire and reached inside his jacket for his gun.

“You ready?” Robert mumbled to Lynda, face held down.

“Just give the word.”

They were hovering above the deck now. The crew were silent. Robert held his breath until he felt the bottom of their boat becoming one with the deck of the ship.

“One, two...” he said.

Robert stood, pulled the hood back, and revealed the gun. The dozen or so crew members who surrounded them stood motionless. Even Aeneas, who hadn't aged a day since Robert last saw him, appeared surprised. Robert cautiously stepped out of the Zodiac and took a step toward Aeneas, who looked back at the crew members behind him.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Aeneas said.

Angela sat in the wood-paneled lounge of the
Narwhal
as waiters in red vests took drink orders. Glenn, the expedition leader, stood at the front of the room, next to the bar, and foreshadowed the next day's events. A tour of grounded icebergs. A lecture on the leopard seal. A landing on Aitcho Island to view gentoo and chinstrap penguins.

Angela stared out the window, her mind elsewhere. Earlier that day, she'd stood on the rocky shore near Palmer Station and opened the makeshift penguin carrier. The bird had stepped out gingerly, unsure of his surroundings. He was thoroughly cleaned and ready for reentry, but though the water was only ten feet away, he approached it cautiously. Angela told herself that he would quickly find his way back to his colony, though researchers still had little clue as to how penguins navigated the oceans and returned to their homes year after year. Some speculated that they used the moon and the stars, floating on the surface in the darkness. But what about the Southern Ocean, where the night skies were elusive? These were the questions that Angela asked herself, and even asked the penguins when no one was looking.

She'd wanted to tag this one but did not. This penguin would return to the water as anonymously as it left. No numbers. No names. For so many years she'd managed to keep her emotional distance—and then Diesel had come along, that persistent little bird. Last night, Angela dreamed about him. She'd been swimming underwater, without need for air, and she could see him ahead amid a half-dozen other penguins. She recognized the markings on his belly, a pattern she had memorized long ago. She followed the smudges, the southern cross, until they blurred together and she was floating, lifeless, surrounded by nets, waiting to be pulled in.

Now, the nameless penguin took a few more tentative steps toward the water's edge. He looked back at Angela for a moment, like a child waiting for an adult's approval, then he turned and flopped into the water and was gone.

Angela looked across the water, hoping to get one more glimpse of him, when she saw the
Narwhal
pulling into harbor, a large hundred-passenger cruise ship, and an old acquaintance. It was then she knew that she would be returning home soon as well.

* * *

Going from the
Tern
to the
Narwhal
was like being upgraded to first class. The moment Angela boarded the ship, she became acutely aware of how dirty and ragged her clothes had become; she walked past passengers in jackets so new she expected to see price tags dangling from their sleeves.

The expedition leader, Glenn, remembered Angela from a cruise she'd worked on years before, and he agreed to return her to Ushuaia in exchange for assisting with landings and nature walks. Making small talk with tourists would be a small price to pay for a trip home. And yet, seated in this room between men in sport jackets and women in silk blouses, so far removed from the battles looming in another part of Antarctica, she felt shortchanged. Mostly, she felt guilty for leaving Aeneas, for slowing his ship's progress, for choosing one cause over another.

In the morning, instead of a vegan breakfast, Angela found a buffet of eggs, bacon, sausages, and seafood. She could hear Aeneas's voice in her head:
Animals take only what they need to live, and sometimes less. Humans have buffet lines
. She nibbled on fruit and toast.

The
Narwhal
dropped anchor just off the Lemaire Channel. Normally, tourists couldn't get close to an iceberg, but this shallow stretch of water grounded the bergs, providing an opportunity for Zodiac tours. Angela piloted a group of tourists through the labyrinth of ten-story ice sculptures. Two tourists urged her to zoom through a tunnel that cut through the base of one berg, and for a brief moment she actually considered it. She could feel herself back on the
Tern
, slipping in and out of the icebergs, the friction of ice against steel, the coating of snow on the rear deck. She felt the urge to open up the fuel line, let the engine propel them straight through the tunnel, then another, until the ship was out of sight and they were alone among the sentinels, like a child playing under the table, the joy of being invisible. The voices of the tourists grew louder, urging her to go for it, perhaps anticipating her thoughts.

She shook her head. “This is as close as we can get, safely,” she said.

Later, at Aitcho Island, Angela was stationed in the gangway, where the passengers queued with their parkas and life vests buckled. One by one, they stepped into buckets of disinfectant, sterilizing their boots before walking down a short metal stairway to the outstretched arms of the naturalist manning the inflatable.

On land, Angela led a group of six adults and two teenagers up to a chinstrap colony half a mile up a steep slope. The smell of guano was a welcome reminder of her past visits, and she watched the tourists wrinkle their noses. The penguins in Argentina, by virtue of being widely dispersed and living in burrows with absorbent soil, did not give off the same level of odor—but Angela loved the smell of Antarctic penguins. After one trip, she'd held off washing a pair of cargo pants just so she could remember her time there. When she'd confessed this to Shelly, Shelly had suggested that this was one reason Angela had difficultly meeting men.

There were no burrows here in Antarctica, only piles of rocks stained red and white by decades of guano. Angela looked around, losing herself for a moment before remembering that she had a job to do. “Why do you think they established their colony way up here?” she asked the group as they stood among the jagged rocks at the top of the hill.

“To avoid the gentoos?” an older man asked.

“Perhaps,” Angela said. “The colonies don't interact much with one another. But there's a more practical reason why these penguins chose this particular slice of hill. And if it were sunny out, it would become more obvious.”

“No snow,” said one of the teenagers.

“Exactly. When there is snow on the ground, the penguins cannot incubate their eggs. This piece of land is more exposed to the sun and tends to dry out more quickly than the areas down below.”

As Angela watched a trio of penguins lean their way up the hill, she realized how much their movements mirrored her own life—a constant, methodical gait, always ending up back where she started. The penguins, of course, knew no better: All they knew was how to eat and reproduce and stay alive. Angela began to wish her own life could be as simple.

On the Zodiac back to the ship, a penguin porpoised next the boat—a Magellanic. Was it headed home? she wondered. Or was it lost? Even penguins sometimes got lost. A Magellanic was found in a Humboldt colony in Chile one day last year, a thousand miles away from any Magellanic colony, standing alone on the beach, turning its head from side to side. Eventually, Shelly sent a researcher to retrieve it.

At dinner, Angela sat at a table of passengers, making herself available for questions. But her dining companions talked only of the animals they had not yet seen, pictures not yet taken, to-do lists not yet completed. An overfed man in his sixties who carried a satellite phone on his hip made a stupid joke about the length of the walrus penis.

“Twenty-eight inches,” he said.

Twenty-seven inches longer than yours,
Angela wanted to say.

“You're not having toothfish?” a female passenger asked.

“I don't eat fish,” Angela said.

“You're missing out,” said the woman's husband. “You don't get fresh Patagonian toothfish any day. Plus, they use a sustainable fishery.”

“Guilt-free,” the woman said, smiling.

Angela felt her shoulders tighten. “They can say it's sustainable, but they don't know for sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“The toothfish live two thousand feet below the surface,” Angela said. “It takes them seven years to reproduce, and there has never once been a census of any kind conducted. It's easy to say that these fish are sustainable if nobody can verify that they're not.”

“Then why would they tell us that it's sustainable?” The woman seemed irritated.

“Because they use a fishery that adheres to certain quotas. But that doesn't take into account the poachers, the pirates, the ships who frequent the same fishing areas and take whatever they can, longline and all.”

“What are you saying?” the woman asked. “We can't eat toothfish anymore?”

“Excuse me.” Angela stood and made her way to the observation deck. She could picture the woman complaining to Glenn, another door of her career closing behind her. But she didn't care.

With everyone inside at dinner, she was alone on the deck, a familiar feeling. And her mind was vacillating in a familiar way as well—a part of her wondering why she'd left Aeneas, another part realizing why. From the moment she'd boarded his ship, she'd been looking for reasons to leave, to go back home. It was safer that way. She couldn't stand to have another Diesel in her life.

* * *

It was late, and the lounge was deserted. The only people awake were in the engine room and on the bridge. As the boat churned its way into the Drake, Angela made her way to the computer room and found it empty. Usually there were lines of people waiting to check email or send off photos. But the late hour and the high waves had given her a moment of peace.

She input the URL, an address she had memorized long ago for a web site hosted by a satellite company, the company from which her research group rented time. She entered her user ID, a password, and then watched the map assemble itself in pieces. It was a map of the South Atlantic Ocean with scattered red dots blinking against a blue background—each dot representing a penguin wearing a transmitter.

She entered a new number, the number of the transmitter that she carried with her from Punta Verde, the transmitter that she'd activated the night before tucking it away in the upper back pocket of Aeneas's yellow jacket—a jacket so bogged down with Blow Pops and maps and other gear that he would never notice the extra few ounces, or the small antenna peeking out of the zipper.

The map redrew itself, filling out the Southern Ocean in blue, outlining the jagged edges of Antarctica. And then it appeared—a pulsing red dot in the Amundsen Sea. Nearly a thousand miles away from her now, with the distance steadily increasing.

She felt her body relax. She was with him again, and he was still above water. She pictured him with the Blow Pop in his hand, barking out commands as the
Tern
approached a whaling ship. For six weeks—eight possibly, until the battery died—she would be with him. She wouldn't have to let go of him, not yet.