|
(joe's bio) |
|
|
|
|
|
MILLENNIUM
BUG |
|
|
|
|
|
ABOUT THE
TIME of the spring equinox the gray whales passing the Mendocino
headlands slow down and veer towards the shore to rubberneck the tourists gathered on the
bluffs. The whales, fresh from happy matings in the tepid, colorful waters off Baja, wish
to amuse their spawn with the curious sight of bipeds in leisure apparel clutching glasses
of fruity Chardonnay and squinting at the ocean. It's a long, monotonous journey to the
Alaskan seas, and any diversion along the way is welcome. Even grumpy old bull whales
who've seen the human carnival countless times feel new spring in their flukes and propel
their barnacled tons of blubber high out of the flashing waves for a better view. If
whales had shoulders, they would probably be hoisting their young ones on them. If they
read newspapers, they would learn that the spectacle has been provided for them by the
local Chamber of Commerce, which has gulled tourists into appearing en masse on the coast
by a clever ploy known as Whale Watch Weekend. |
|
|
|
|
|
It's a time of transformation. Along Main
Street, where all winter long a few battered pickups were busy rusting away along the
wooden rail fence dividing the hamlet of Mendocino from the grassy, crumbling bluffs, not
a parking place is to be had. Spanking new luxury cars are deposited there, bumper to
bumper, impossibly shiny, lined up like giant metal jellybeans. The glare off them is said
to be unhealthy for the eyes, and most locals remember to stock up on groceries Thursday
evening so they can avoid going into town that weekend. |
|
|
|
|
|
Sometimes, of course, we forget. Few of us
wear watches, even fewer sport the fancy chronometers with built-in calendars. The auto
parts store did give us a new calendar with a cheesecake shot of naked piston rings around
Christmas, when we went in to get some brake pads or muffler band-aid. We dutifully
thumb-tacked it to the wall of our leaky hovel. But by now it's hopelessly rain-spotted,
fly-specked, mildewed and illegible, a shanty for earwigs. |
|
|
|
|
|
AND SO I
find myself caught in the glint and bustle of Whale Watch Weekend, weaving my way through
knots of tipsy tourists headed out to display themselves for some of the world's largest
mammals. The leader of one of these groups of exhibitionists buttonholes me. A shrewd,
observant follow, my grimy blue jeans and the slap of my loose shoelaces on the pavement
have alerted him to the fact that I'm a genuine local. |
|
|
|
|
|
Say, he says, lifting his wineglass
as if to toast me, can you tell us what time the big whales come by?
|
|
|
|
|
|
Marine biologists have discovered that
whales, particularly the humpbacked variety, sing. They have used sonar to record the
musical accomplishments of our fluked brethren and concluded that the inflections and
repetitions of phrases indicate that whales have a language. Unlike Saint Francis of
Assisi, however, who was reported to have been able to plumb the complex grammar of birds,
our scientists can't tell us what these whale songs mean. Perhaps, like ours, they're
mostly about hearts won or lost, beating faster or broken. Some have ventured to suggest
that the melodies are a navigational tool or a sonic shield against sharks and other
predators. Others, more poetic, have divined in the singing a primitive and holy canticle
to the sun. |
|
|
|
|
|
The man with the wineglass then
lifts a bushy eyebrow and lets me know he and his companions have driven up all the way
from Silicon Valley to see the show and want to be sure not to miss it. |
|
|
|
|
|
Whatever the whales may be
singing about, I feel pretty sure it's not about the moon in June or April in Paris. If
Paris were a seaside town, the whales would be sure to swim closer for a peek and thank
heaven for the a la mode femmes with parasols strolling the boulevards, just as they bend
their path towards our shore for a gander at our gaggles of tourists. And they're no doubt
tickled by the nightly antics of the lunar orb. But I fear June and April are concepts
which would be totally lost on them. |
|
|
|
|
|
WE BIPEDS PRIDE
ourselves on our ability to figure out the exact dates of solstices and the planetary
wobble that produces the precession of the equinoxes. Whales remain humble, though they've
been cognizant of these phenomena for millions of years. The tempus which fugits by so
fast is no secret to them. If it were, they would've long ago foundered in the wrong
current, breasting a wet and wild southerly to bear offspring in the wrong waters at the
wrong time. |
|
|
|
|
|
The truth is, whales aren't
calendrically challenged. They haven't spilt gallons of precious whale blood in vexed
disputes over the canonical date of Easter. No die-hard old calendar whales lurk in the
ocean's depths, clinging fiercely to some Julian notion of months, flagellating themselves
with coral on what they believe to be the correct anniversary of a saintly whale's
martyrdom. Whales are utterly unconcerned about the millennium bug, blissfully unaware
that many of our treasured, touted computer systems use a two-digit code to designate a
particular year, a headache of a fact which will cause them to crash when the next century
arrives. They will be spared the six billion dollars we'll have to spend to make sure bank
accounts balance and the Pentagon's smart, cybernetically controlled rockets don't take a
sudden notion to launch themselves waywardly into space on New Year's Day, depositing
multiple nuclear warheads in the cities of allies with the exasperatingly nonchalant
accuracy of sleepy paperboys whipping the morning news at suburban porches. |
|
|
|
|
|
What time do the whales come by? |
|
|
|
|
|
Sorry, I say, I don't have a
watch so I'm not sure. |
|
|
|
|
|
The visitor from Silicon Valley
shoots me a quizzical look. I tell him about the only thing I know for sure about time is
that we'll all be someplace later. I tell him that about the time the sun gives the
daffodils on the headlands a last, playful chuck under the chin, if he looks out towards
the horizon he'll see the honeyed footprints of the sun, hastening west across the
darkening sea, that the gray whales will most likely be watching then, when the shadows
man casts are longest. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|