As life raft number fivers peeled off to head toward the next station of the abandon ship drill, Jack sidled up to Maya. Here was a new person in a totally new environment, and Jack lived for assignments that dropped him like a paratrooper into unfamiliar territory that required his full focus. Nancy looked back to her bunkmate with an arched red eyebrow, but Maya gave a subtle nod for her to go on ahead. Jack was not unaware of this exchange. Men were trouble, no doubt about it. Jack was nothing if not self-aware and avoided sex with women near his apartment in Brooklyn because there could be no exit plan. (Of course, he still had occasional, messy slip-ups when alcohol or a nostalgic birthday was involved; drunken, nostalgic birthdays were always calamitous.)
Jack meant to play it safe on this assignment. My stash of emergency condoms is exactly that: for emergencies, Jack promised Nancy in his head, because there can be no exit plan on a ship in the middle of the Arctic. While Jack loved the intensity of new friendships and infatuations, the maintenance of long-term relationships hadn’t proven worth the effort—not yet, anyway.
“Can I take your picture?” he asked.
Maya immediately shook her head, sweeping her black ponytail across her shoulder blades.
“I hate cameras.”
Jack mimed a punch to the gut. He would have made a great class clown if he had ever felt the need for attention. Maya’s upper lip curled under her teeth as they caught up with the rest of the group: a barely suppressed smile.
Immersion suits were stored in the helicopter hangar at the top of Healy’s second boxlike structure. The hangar complex was the largest room on the ship and housed two helicopters parked by a folding metal wall leading to the flight deck. Ned Brandt, Healy’s pilot, looked like a solid bench-presser in a short-sleeved navy shirt. An even bulkier Coastie named Malcolm flanked him with large, brown biceps and raised veins like cables.
Once the stragglers had all gathered, Malcolm held up an immersion suit that Ned called a Gumby. Malcolm demonstrated how to step into the floppy booties, pull on the big-fingered gloves, pull over the hood, and zip up the front. There was even a face flap leaving all but the eyes, nose, and brows safely sealed. Ned pointed to shelves where the immersion suits were stored and told the group to “have at it.”
Some of the scientists donned the suits, laughed, and waddled around. Others took a more sober stance to the idea of floating in the Arctic Ocean and waiting for rescue. Jack had both feet secured in his Gumby booties when Ned ambled over and playfully poked Jack’s average biceps. He passed an open invitation to the CrossFit classes he taught with Malcolm on Saturday afternoons.
“There are more dead eagles today,” Jack said suddenly.
Ned nodded but said nothing.
* * *
JACK KNOCKED QUIETLY and entered his stateroom. Gustavo was seated at his metal desk but with the noticeable improvement of overhead lights.
“You missed the abandon ship drill,” Jack said, with a smile he hoped was disarming. “The Coasties took attendance. You’re gonna get busted.”
Gustavo continued to stare straight ahead.
“Look, I know these close quarters aren’t easy,” Jack offered. “I’m sure you’re not used to having another man stuck to you like glue.”
Gustavo blinked rapidly, like he was coming out of a dream or the daze of a head injury.
“I am used to it,” he said. “Or, I was.” Gustavo struggled to say the simple words: “I had a twin.”
As he leaned forward to stand, a chain spilled free of his shirt collar and dangled from his neck. Attached to the end was a crushed piece of metal: a spent bullet. Gustavo crossed the small room, climbed into his bunk, and drew the curtains closed.
Jack couldn’t imagine the loss of a twin sibling, but he could understand the need to retreat into grief.
In the silence that followed, tugboat engines revved as they pulled Healy away from the dock. The last Arctic West expedition was underway.
* * *
HEALY SAILED OUT of Resurrection Bay and into the Gulf of Alaska. Keeping land in sight, Captain Weber navigated coastal waters until Healy reached the base of Alaska’s long-tail archipelago at Katmai National Park. Jack was on deck for a few hours before sunset. Coasties bustled about but were friendly about interruptions. One pointed to the view from Healy’s starboard side and said that the park drew lots of tourists with its brown bear population. Jack stood by the deck railing and trained his lens at dark volcanic rock, emerald forests, and blue-toned mountains crowned with snowcaps. He was all business with landscapes, like a jeweler inspecting a diamond. People were another matter entirely. He fell in love with everyone behind the camera: women and men, old and young. The day he didn’t love and empathize with his subjects was the day he had to quit photojournalism.
Jack heard the eagle’s splash before he saw it. He zoomed his lens to the highest magnification and saw a bald eagle with a white tail and crown floating on the surface of the water. With its hollow bones and feathers, submergence was slow and difficult to watch. Jack thought he saw the bird blink before slipping just below the surface. Air bubbles unsettled the water. The eagle was alive but drowning, motionless instead of struggling to live.
* * *
JACK FOUND DR. MAYA GUTIÉRREZ in the science conference room, where more than twenty scientists were gathered. One of them stood at the front of the room. He was a stout white-haired man with a full beard that looked like a cross between a college professor and Santa Claus.
“May we help you?” he asked Jack.
Jack looked to Maya, who wordlessly stood and joined him in the hallway.
“We’re kinda busy right now,” she said quietly.
Jack regarded Maya’s black eyes, unplucked eyebrows, and full lashes. Her unwavering gaze felt open and intense at the same time.
“You’re staring.”
“Sorry,” Jack stuttered. “First time I’ve seen your eyes without glasses. What…What’s wrong with the eagles?” he asked. “Why are they dying like this?”
After Jack explained what he saw, Maya’s tone changed. She looked sheepish when she shook her head.
“But you must have some ideas?” he pressed.
“There was a fishing town on an island in Japan…” she whispered, and continued to describe the once healthy ecosystem of Minamata Bay. In the 1950s, mullet, shad, and lobsters started to disappear. Dead fish rose to the surface one by one; birds dropped from the sky. The cats of the village began to spastically dance and bash themselves against walls. They jumped into the sea and drowned. Then the fishermen and their families—and their newborn babies—exhibited damaged nervous systems. Their bodies were racked by convulsions that left them speechless and immobile. And then they died.
“They called it Minamata disease,” Maya said. “It was caused by severe mercury poisoning that destroyed the brain’s cerebellum, for starters.”
The people of Minamata all knew that wastewater from the local Chisso chemical plant was the cause. But they were poor, and—in the eyes of Chisso, the chemical industry, and the Japanese government—expendable. Evidence was suppressed while Chisso steadily increased production and the resulting poisonous wastewater. The strange Minamata disease continued to spread to an estimated ten thousand people.