fog on black fish creek

Spring, 1841

Jeremiah looked over the side of his dory into the glassy green water. His bow sliced a perfect "V" in the slack tide as he rowed across the harbor. Ripples floated silently into the fog, and the dip of his oar blades created circles, spreading then disappearing. An osprey dove, striking the flat water, and rose again, talons curled and empty.
The eye rose out of the darkness and looked straight at him. It was wide and sorrowful, wondrous, pensive.
The whale kept pace as he continued to stroke across the harbor. A sulfurous blast erupted from the top of the whale's skull and a pungent mist settled onto jeremiah. The two stared at one another. Jeremiah lifted his oars from the water. His dory slid silently. The whale also heaved to, and the two stared at one another for some time. The creature exhaled again, covering Jeremiah in a mantle of wet musk. Finally Jeremiah dropped his oars and broke the surface of the water. He pulled once, sending the dory towards shore. The whale dove slowly, and with a long graceful arch of his back, was gone.
Later, after he had beached his dory, he walked through the tavern doors on Great Island. He stamped the wet sand from his boots and took a seat at a long wooden table.
"Jesus Christ, Jeremiah," howled Howard Nickerson, "you smell like a goddamned...Well I don't what you smell like but I'm quite sure it's been dead for at least a week."
"Nothing to worry about Howard, it was quite alive," said Jeremiah.
"Oh Jesus," said Toomey Smith, "Better get Jeremiah a pint of rum for himself, he's gone over."
"Do whales blink?" asked Jeremiah.
"Shit, get me one too," said Toomey.