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.