Once there was a great whale with a highly developed sense of self importance that swam with very little difficulty throughout the seas of the southern hemisphere.   

As he once explained, having studied the charts he found in numerous shipwrecks over a long period of time, it was relatively easy to orient himself during his travels.  He liked to think of his little swims as travels because all the best literature available (on the sea bottom) spoke of travels and travellers and travelling.

I met this whale under unusual circumstances.  He caught my boat. I went out fishing, not looking for whales, just for some small fish that would make a good meal.  Maybe a tuna or a marlin, but never a whale. 

The whale took my line and, in a moment of joviality, dragged the boat miles out to sea because I made such a funny noise.  In fact if I had not made a noise, he would never have towed me anywhere.  He would have just dived to the  bottom of the sea and sulked!  With my boat !  So it was best that I did make a noise after all. 

Eventually, the whale tired of the little prank and stopped towing the boat. He swam around and around the boat and then stopped and said, “Hello.” 

I am quite certain that I replied in a perfectly polite and respectful manner, however, the whale didn’t think so and started to laugh and spout water and then rolled over on his back and shook and shivered while he giggled under water.

“Just a fishy minute,” I said. “What is so terribly funny that you have to carry on like THAT ?”

“Please excuse me,” said the whale, “I’ve never heard such a reply in my entire long, long life.”

Now I don’t know why, but I asked the whale how old he was to see if he had indeed had a long, long life.

He looked very sad, for just a moment, then said, “I have only been counting for the past 70 years because I never saw a calendar until then, but I am sure that I have been here for a long, long time.”

“Then you must be VERY old!” I said, “and nearly to the end of your life.”

“I certainly HOPE NOT!” bellowed my new friend. “I have many ambitions to fulfil and goals to reach, new heights to scale, etcetera!”

“ETCETERA?  Where did you learn a word like that?” I wondered out loud.                                      

“I accompanied a passenger ship for 2 weeks once and there was a life insurance salesman’s seminar on board. The term was so frequently used that I have developed a habit of using it myself when I want to cut corners mentally.  After all, I’m usually the only one listening when I practice talking, and I know what I would have said if I hadn’t said ETCETERA.”

“I’m truly amazed at the extent of your vocabulary!” I exclaimed.  “I’ve heard of talking horses, but only on television, and Dr. Dolittle has a song about talking and walking with the animals, but I never dreamed that it would be so interesting!  Tell me more about yourself, please!”

Knowing by now that this fish was obviously VERY vain, if I could keep this huge cat’s dinner talking he might even tow me home.

“Talking horses!  Absurd!  Young man, do you believe just anything?”

This fish had a way of looking down at you like an old fashioned school teacher.  One of those real imperious types that would have been prime ministers if there weren’t too many prime ministers already.

“It is a well established scientific fact that horses not only could never talk,  but of all the animals known to science they would be one of the least likely to learn. Only slightly more intelligent than a dog,  and with none of the cunning of the cats, they would have nothing to say that would be of the slightest interest, hence NO REASON to talk. Without reason, there is no motivation and without motivation there is etcetera.” 

This dialogue was delivered while standing on the end of his tale with his pectoral fins grasped across his huge belly. Having lectured me in such a disdainful manner, the whale slipped back into the water, flipped his flukes in the air, and was heard to exclaim: “Talking horses! What is the world coming too?”

About an hour later, after I had rowed several miles along my journey back to shore, the great grey barnacle covered snout reared out of the water directly in front of my little craft.

“My good man, you wouldn’t by any chance have the latest issue of Powderhorn Ski magazine with you?  There is an article in the October copy that I have been so looking forward to, and they aren’t easy to come by. Yachties don’t seem to care a lot for skiing.  This particular article on the Tasman Glacier is of real interest as the slope continues right into the sea and it is practically the ONLY recognized ski challenge that does so.”

I shook my head, more in disbelief at what had just been said than as an answer.

“Pity”, he murmured as he prepared to dive.

“Wait,” I shouted, my mind now racing to an answer to my dreadful predicament.  “I am certain that I have the very copy you refer to at my home near the harbour.  If you would be SO kind as to give me a tow back to land, I will go straight home and fetch it and bring it right straight back to you!” 

“You are really very naive, aren’t you,” said the whale softly.  “The transparency of your offer and the TOTAL lack of honesty, not to mention the absurd hypotheses which your mind was obviously trying to formulate, would indicate a deplorable standard of ethics, not to mention a deficient education.”

I leapt to my feet and said the cruellest thing that I could think of to say directly to a whale.   I wanted to humiliate this pompous blowhard.

“How would you know?  The only schools you have ever attended were for sardines and prawns!” 

 I immediately  knew that I had made a big mistake. It became obvious when the whale lifted my boat high on his enormous tail and proceeded to bounce it in the air and then catch it as it came down.  This continued for several minutes, while I clung horrified to the middle seat. Finally the ordeal ended and the boat was gently placed back in the water, upside down.

“Would you care to rephrase your last comment?” murmured the whale when I had struggled to the surface, “or learn to fly like an albatross?” he bellowed!

There was no animosity left in me at all, just stark terror. “Please let me live,” I pleaded. “I am very sorry and I’ll never do anything like that again,” came out in a rather disgusting blubbery way.

“What a bloody wimp!” exclaimed the whale.  “Don’t you have any self respect at all?  Stand up for yourself!  Stop being such cry baby.  It’s not at all becoming.”

“Turn my boat over and go away,” I muttered. There was little else to say under the circumstances.

“No, I don’t think so, at least not just yet,” was the whales thoughtful reply.  “I believe that you and I could just get along if we both put some effort into it.  Provided of course that you learn to be civil!”

“ME! Me be civil! Why should I?  You tow me miles out to sea, insult me, try to drown me, wreck my boat!  Go chase a squid!”  I was getting delirious by now with no thought for the possibility of survival and didn’t think that what I said could matter any more.

“You have a valid point there. Sorry about the boat,” said the whale in a quite matter of fact manner, as it proceeded to turn the boat upright.  “Throw a line over the bow and we will head for port.”

You will appreciate that I had no choice whatever but to return to the little bay where I kept the boat and take the whale his eagerly awaited copy of Powderhorn.   I did it because the brute somehow got my wallet and refused to give it back and it contained two weeks pay plus my annual leave bonus.                     

Having kept my side of the bargain the whale bellowed “Cherry Ho old chap,” and disappeared.  Hopefully I would never see it again by myself.                   

Certain that lightning never strikes twice and the whale was long gone, I ventured out in my sturdy little craft about a week later, determined to catch some sort of supper during my holidays.  And there it was!  Bellowing a Swiss drinking song while laying on its back in the sun, scratching its great belly and blowing up a huge pile of froth in the sea around it.

“Hello, hello, thought you had decided to give fishing a miss.  The lure of the sea and high adventure got you in, did it?”

Every instinct said “Run for it while you still can,” but I didn’t and that was to be my undoing.  Before I realised what was happening that outrageous whale had convinced me that I should fetch him another issue of Powderhorn AND a detailed map of the Tasman glacier.  It’s hard to say no to a whale.        

The whale had a burning ambition to ski.  Snow ski, to be exact.  The fact that most people associate snow skiing with an upright stance, and usually with 2 legs and feet attached to slender boards, never entered the mind of this obese finny egomaniac.  He had SEEN people lying prone on surf boards, riding the waves, legs and feet unused and unnecessary. 

 “The only difference between surfing and skiing is the temperature of the water,” was his theory.

Why would anyone want to accompany a whale to the south island of New Zealand?  Certainly there are eccentrics in the world that would jump at the chance, but this whale wouldn’t go with just anyone.  Then why did I?  

He offered fame and fortune!  I did it because of greed.  I really wanted to be rich and saw this absurd stunt as being my meal ticket for life.

 “All you have to do is arrange for my elevation to an appropriate height on the Tasman Glacier and I will take care of the rest.  Just think of the photo rights, not to mention the TV coverage syndication.  I guarantee that the world will flock to pour riches at your feet.  Trust me! I know.”

Never, ever, under any circumstance, have anything to do with a whale that says ‘trust me’.  This whale had an incredibly persuasive manner, a tremendous gift with words, and absolutely no scruples whatever!

Up to this point, only I had spoken to the whale.

“As you are a singularly receptive human being, I would prefer to converse ONLY with yourself in these matters.  Besides, once they tumble to the fact that I am totally in control of every facet of this operation, they wouldn’t need you anymore, would they?  Why pay you when they could go straight to the whales mouth?” 

“What about the press”, I challenged.  “Do you think they are going to swallow this talking whale business?”

“The members of the forth estate are not concerned with the truth as such, only the story.  The story brings readers, readers bring circulation, circulation brings advertising which brings wealth to the publisher!  They will come and see and hear and report.”

And they did come.  To see a whale hoisted to the top a glacier at enormous cost, so they could write and film a story that only the most gullible person in the world would ever believe.                        

Because this animal had an ego equal to it’s immense girth and there was no way that it could resist the opportunity to show off the rare intellectual abilities it possessed I believed that they would grovel at it’s tail fin.

It was the very last day of August when all was finally in place.   At precisely 1 pm the whale was lifted from the sea and began his epic flight to the top of the Tasman Glacier.   There were photographers lining the slopes, TV crews and remote broadcast units,  Animal Liberationists, fish and game wardens – you name it and the organisation was represented.

At the top, a small staging area had been created for the whale to “compose itself” prior to the trip to the sea.  A short speech was to be made by a minor political identity, after which the whale was scheduled to express it’s gratitude to the people of New Zealand  for providing kind and generous assistance. 

Not that the whale cared the slightest about the sensibilities of the public or the bureaucracy, but it was essential that it speak for the benefit of the press.  It was essential because ALL of the royalties were firmly tied to the GUARANTEE that the whale WOULD speak. 

 I  placed the microphone in front of the whale, and in a low voice which would not carry said, “It is now time to give the audience what they came for.”

What transpired next is almost too painful to recount.  The whale bellowed, arched it’s spine and then slammed the platform with his powerful tail.  Officials went flying, the front of the platform collapsed and the whale took off down the glacier.   Strategically placed cameras caught the entire scene, including the graceful glide and skilful manoeuvring around obstacles using tail and fins to steer.  The last great leap from the end of glacier was a swan dive, accompanied by a roar which some people swore sounded like “GERONIMO.”  

It was never seen again.  

The press was livid with rage and poured it’s vitriolic scorn on myself.  I was jailed for a short time while a judge pondered the merits of a charge under the Cruelty to Animals act.   It was eventually dismissed as the prosecutor had no real chance of applying the limited scope of the legislated act to a whale.

It was about 9 months later and I was starting to respond to the therapy that I had voluntarily undertaken in an effort to resurrect my life. I was gradually coming to grips with the idea that I had been temporarily deranged or at the very least suffering from delusion.  

Then as I walked out of my humble abode to go to work on a rather wet Wednesday morning, there was a large grey Pelican standing on the footpath. 

“Your friend wants to know if you can get him any literature about Hang Gliding?”

End

©  FC Mickey Benefiel   2024