By Jianna Heuer
They are everywhere. Thick rectangular slabs, pink and white striated, with a slick dark black
outer layer, some as big as 3 feet by 2 feet. They are on the beach, in the streets, even on peoples
lawns. They are being found all over town. It made the national news…
Every morning I walk on the beach where I live, a barely governed slice of land right up against
the sea. This sense of the Wild West hangs in the air, a dangerousness that’s exciting, too far from
the metropolis to be watched. You can do or become anything here, reinvent yourself as an
enchantress, a DJ, or a bookstore owner. Feeling the sand underfoot and listening to the waves I
can quiet my mind almost completely, something I’ve needed more and more of as the world
around me spins further into chaos. Sometimes, like today, my partner joins me and this morning
a 35 foot sperm whale beached itself. From our vantage on the boardwalk we can see there are
about eight surfers trying to roll her back into the sea.
“I’m going to watch for a while.” My partner says, intrigued by the scene. Since we moved here
he’s had an emerging interest in marine life particularly in the dolphins, stingrays, and whales.
“Ok, I have to get moving or I’m going to be late for work.” I say and I kiss him and turn to
check the wind. I stand facing one way then the other to see which way my hair blows out from
behind my head. I like to walk into the wind so when I turn around after a mile or two, I can let it
push me home. You never think to worry about the wind, until you live by the sea, now it’s a
constant in our lives and governs more decisions than we like to admit. I walk towards the whale
and I stop, mesmerized. She is a huge beautiful creature, long and smooth, majestic, even in her
struggle. The surfers seem to be having a good time, laughing and joking while periodically
trying to roll this massive creature from sand to water. Every time they push the whale its flipper
flaps, its mouth opens, and it seems distressed. I take some pictures and continue my walk. On
my way back the surfers are still working on getting her into the water. I head toward my exit
and overhear the observers commentary.
“You know they could get really hurt trying to move the whale, the construction guys should do
it with their machines.”
“I think they are accidentally drowning it.”
“What do they think they are doing? They don’t know how to help a whale.”
“Surfers are the best aren’t they? They are always so helpful.”
I move out of earshot of the crowd and I can’t help but shake my head in disdain. Why does
everyone believe the surfers are gods, invincible to the elements, unaffected by the tyranny of
nature? This attempt to save the whale is just another opportunity to have something to talk about
that centers on how great they are. It’s just another story to tell at the brewery, a way to pick up
that night’s conquest. As we have gotten more ensconced in the neighborhood, I see the surfers
are like most people who put down roots here, they have an overinflated sense of self and not
much evidence to back it up. When we bought our house we thought we would find community,
we instead found a place of unfulfilled and unrealized potential. Those who couldn’t make it in
the city find their way to the shore, where there is no competition, you’re a winner by default.
They talk about connection but they don’t want fellowship, they want to have an audience to
celebrate them, celebrating themselves. It’s an island of misfits, that happens to be a peninsula.
I see on Instagram the whale has died. My partner is incensed, he thinks every time they tried to
move the whale they were actually pushing it on to its blowhole, stopping it from breathing.
They didn’t know what they were doing but went ahead and did it any way. Like most events
here it feels senseless. Embarrassed, I quickly take down the instagram story I had posted that
morning when she was still alive.
The next day my social media is flooded with posts of a vigil the hipster contingent in town
organized. Pictures of the whales dead body surrounded by candles, flowers, and comments
hoping she rests in peace. These people love a crisis, especially if it is ocean themed and gives
them cause to drink, smoke pot, and take mushrooms on a weeknight.
As the days go by the whale begins to rot. Every day I walk by and can’t help but think how
fitting it is for this to be happening here. This beautiful creature washes up, is “helped” by
residents that end up killing her, and then left to decay. It’s hard living in a lawless neighborhood,
where everyone thinks themselves gallant, but most people are just rakes. Living here literally
has begun to stink.
Ten days after the whale beached itself I go for my walk and find the body is gone, cut into
manageable pieces and buried. The removal was incomplete, a huge chunk of rotting bloody
flesh was left behind. A storm a few days later brings massive flooding unearthing all the whale
parts. It turns out, after the necropsy it was buried too shallowly on the beach and the remains
ended up floating all over from beach to bay, uptown to downtown. Just like the Wild West, this
ocean community is a place where no one is watching. You can be inebriated, lie about who you
are, and not bury a whale deep enough. No one is shocked when they wake up to a slice of death
on their front lawn.
Jianna Heuer is a psychotherapist in private practice in New York City. She has published
multiple academic texts focused on Psychology and also writes Creative Non-Fiction and Flash
Non-Fiction that has appeared in Fast Funny Women and Fast Fierce Women.
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