Killer Whales and Wingtip Shoes

For my friend and master science teacher, Peter Herrmann — who knows better than to go into the water with large, hungry things.                                              

By Steve Sabatka

For the TODAY

I’d spent two weeks in Java, far-off land of Komodo dragons and lagong dancers with darting eyes and magically curving fingers. It had been an illuminating, otherworldly experience and my first overseas trip in two years.

But now I was back in the states, back in Oregon, and almost home. I was also jetlagged and mosquito-bit and, more than anything else, homesick and pining for the cool, misty peace of the Coast. All I had to do was endure a two-hour shuttle ride from PDX to Albany, where my car was parked, and then a short solo drive to Newport, the driftwood-strewn beach, and the wine-dark sea.

It was late in the day and bead-sweat hot. The other passengers, the other characters in this very weird one-act play, included a retired couple from Maine, a Zen-bearded backpacker wearing Wayfarer shades with the blinders on the sides, and two British guys, both headed to Eugene to officiate over some kind of international track and field fandango. One of those Brits, a smiling, energetic chap in his early thirties, a guy that reminded me of Terry Thomas, that British actor with the 8.5 mm gap between his front teeth, sat next to me.

“Buckle up, folks.” The driver was a sturdy woman with mirror shades from 1972 and a fresh, colorful tattoo of Mount Hood on her meaty upper arm. We all complied, more out of fear of her than concern for our safety, and the bus pulled away from the curb and out of the concourse. The air conditioning felt amazingly good. I settled in for the ride.

Terry turned to me. “Is Oregon your home?”

“Yes.” I hoped a short answer would signal my weariness and desire to be left alone on this last leg of my long, long journey.

But no. “And did I hear you tell the bus driver that you are on your way to Newport?”
“That’s right.”

Happy nodding. “I hope to steal away for a day and visit Newport, maybe go swimming in your Pacific Ocean.”

My Pacific Ocean?

“Water’s too cold to go swimming,” the bus driver said, over her shoulder, eyes on the road.

Terry: “Even now, in midsummer?”

Driver: “Spring, summer, the water is always too cold. Unless you’re wearing a wetsuit, I s’pose.”

I was in the clear. The diver had relieved me of my conversational duties. I should’ve closed my eyes, dropped my head, and pretended I was asleep. But then I decided to give Terry a story, a yarn, uniquely Oregon Coastal, something he could pass on to his mates back in the UK. So I raised the flip shades of my eyeglasses and tried to make my voice sound deep and measured like Orson Welles. “There’s another reason to stay on dry land. A large, hungry, fast-moving reason.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Orca Orcinus.”

The driver chimed in again. “I read about the orcas.” There had been several stories and photos in the local news about orca sightings in South Beach and Yaquina Bay.

“Orcas?” Terry asked. “Do you mean killer whales?”

“Also known as blackfish,” I said, “wolves of the sea, murder pandas.”

“Murder pandas?”

“Pandas and orcas are both black and white.” So are penguins. So were my grandad’s two-tone wingtip shoes, but those details weren’t relevant. “Orcas have that white, upside-down Nike swoosh above their eyes, and if you ever see that shape, bobbing and rising up from deep water or emerging from the curl of an incoming wave, you’d better say your prayers, and fast.”

“But everyone knows killer whales don’t attack people.”

The pigeon had landed. I leaned closer and spoke just above a whisper so nobody else could hear. “Let me tell you something, my British friend.” Then I put an index finger next to my nose, a gesture I had seen in some British TV show. “Just between the two of us.”

“Go ahead.”

“If people knew the hideous truth about killer whales, if they knew how often orcas come surging up out of the surf, roaring like Serengeti lions, to snag unwary out-of-towners by their cheap flip-flops and then drag them to a bloody, shrieking death, Newport and every tourist town on the West Coast would go bankrupt in a fortnight.” I still don’t know how long a fortnight is. “The chamber of commerce, the mayor, Seaworld, they’re all in on it."

Terry’s eyes widened. “Just like in ‘Jaws!’”

“Fidel Castro’s favorite movie,” I said. (Which is true. The commie dictator thought Jaws was an indictment of American capitalism.) “But sharks are brainless brutes, driven by primordial instinct. Killer whales, on the other hand, are mammals, just like us. They think. They learn. They evolve. Throw in pollution and a little global warming, and things get even scarier.”

“Scarier? I don’t follow you.”

“I talk to people. Local fishermen. A security guard at the aquarium.” I checked the driver and the other passengers. They weren’t listening. The backpacker was smiling, but he was asleep behind those cool Wayfarers. “They’ve seen it. A super orca, a killer whale more monstrous than any other. They call it Orczilla.”

I should’ve stopped while I was ahead, while I had Terry on the hook, maybe left him wondering, or even used a fake Latin term like Orcinus Rex because that Orczilla line went too far, broke the spell, and destroyed any suspension of disbelief.

Terry leaned back and gave me that look as if to say, Do you take me for a fool?

So I quickly changed the subject, trying to reel him back in. “And don’t get me started on sneaker waves, also known locally as tsunami,” I said, mouth going dry. “That’s a Japanese word that means ‘floating visitor.’ ”

Terry nodded politely. Then he checked his watch. Story time was over.

I’m sure when Terry returned to England, he didn’t tell his friends about deadly orcas and tidal waves on the Oregon Coast. I’ll bet he told his friends about the rambling, sunburned nutter he met at the airport. But that’s OK. I had given Terry the gift of a story, a tale, a way to pass the time, just like the story I’m giving you now.

Terry was quiet for the rest of the run. I managed to nod off for a few minutes.  When the shuttle dropped me off at the hotel in Albany, it was still warm and muggy. I hit I-5, then I-34, then I-20, and one of my favorite parts of any trip: coming off The Summit, temperature dropping with each mile, and down into the salt-foggy chill of Newport.

By the time I parked in my driveway, the sun had set. I could hear the gentle rush and hum of my Pacific. Sea lions barking. A distant foghorn. Seagulls. I took it all in and wondered why I’d ever want to go anywhere else.

I was still on Java time, so it took a long time to fall asleep. When I finally drifted off, I had a weird dream about my grandad’s two-tone wingtips. They had that white upside-down Nike swoosh on them — and big teeth.