Storms. Chris Vick

she shouted, letting the dog know to behave. Not to bark and run around. Not to make the whale more scared than it already was.

      Then a cry came from the whale. A long, desperate whine. The eye swivelled, looking at the other whales.

      ‘Bloody hell,’ said Hannah, her voice trembling.

      What to do now?

      She stroked the whale, blown away by it, gazing at her. Like it was looking into her.

      What to do?

      She wanted to comfort it, to talk to it.

      But that wouldn’t save its life, would it?

      ‘Come on, Hannah, come on. Think!’

      She stood back and checked the whale over, the biologist in her getting to work. No net injuries. A female. Juvenile. It had probably followed the others in.

      She reached into her coat for her phone. She’d call Jake and tell him to get help. Then she remembered: he was surfing.

      ‘Damn you, Jake!’ She’d phone Dad instead.

      There was no service.

      She’d have to start sorting this herself.

      She took some pics with her phone, running around the group of whales, getting photos from all angles. Seven of them in all.

      She saw two move, heard their phoosh breaths.

      ‘Don’t panic, stay calm,’ she said. She tried to fight the tears. They wouldn’t help the whale any more than words.

      Hannah searched her mind for what she knew. For the options. The sea was just starting to go out. She could see the tideline. It’d be hours before the sea came back and covered the whales. The tide might free the live whales. But then they might stay with dead or injured family members. Or be so exhausted, so heavy and so robbed of the buoyancy of salt water that their internal organs would collapse.

      If there was hope – any at all – Hannah would need people, trained MMRs: Marine Mammal Rescuers. They’d need blankets soaked in buckets of seawater to keep the skin supple. Floats, inflatables, boats. Fish? Would she need to feed them? How would they drink if they were out of the sea? Cetaceans desalinate water. How could they do that on land? There was so much she didn’t know.

      Even while she was working out what to do, who to call, what she needed, a part of her was panicking.

       Why this? Why now?

      Right, she told herself. Get organised. Steve Hopkins, her old biology teacher. He was an MMR. He’d done seal rescues and some dolphins. She’d call him as soon as she got back.

       Please don’t die, whale.

      She knew people with boats. RIBs, rigid inflatables. Could they get pontoons too? All the rescues she knew about had been dolphins or seals. The young orca was bigger. But not that much bigger.

       Please. Live.

      Hannah stroked the whale’s head again and looked into its eye.

      ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s okay.’ It wasn’t, though. Everything for the whale was as bad as it could be.

      ‘It’s okay.’ Hannah said it anyway. To herself. ‘It’s all right …’

       Don’t say it.

      ‘It’s okay …’

       Don’t give it a …

      ‘Little One.’

       … name.

      ‘I have to go. I’ll be back, Little One. I promise.’ She leant over, above its eye, and kissed it. Then ran, calling Beano to heel.

       Jake

      WONDERFUL?

      Fan-freaking-tastic, more like.

      There was no need to duck-dive the waves. There was a conveyor-belt rip current by the cliff that took him straight out, right past the breakers. He got out back, to the side of the break point, then slowly edged into the reef, keeping a careful watch on the horizon. Waiting for sets. Getting in the sweet spot. Paddling like crazy when the right wave came.

      They were big. But the power in the water was organised. It was easy surf to predict, easy to catch, the waves seeming slow at first, but walling up fast once he was on them.

      Solid glass ramps to rip up.

      He made huge, carving turns.

      He came off each wave while it was still green, before it closed, then paddled into the rip and out again. A merry-go-round.

      He could have surfed it for hours. Happily. Part of him wanted to, wanted to delay meeting Hannah, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her. After a few waves, the thoughts and doubts seeped into his mind. If Hannah went to Hawaii without him … how long before she hooked up with some geek biologist? Someone with prospects and a nice tan. They weren’t all going to be gay or ugly.

      He mistimed a wave, so it went under him. Then another. His concentration was shot with all this damn thinking.

      He’d done a few good waves. Time to get out. Start dealing with stuff.

      He got a wave in and walked out of the water.

      There was a cave to the left of the beach, tucked under the headland. A deep space filled with boulders, plastic bottles, floats, bits of net and chunks of wood.

      The rubbish was always worse after a storm, but now the cave was filled with it. He could hardly see the rocks. It was ugly, but weirdly impressive. A mountain of stuff.

      Something caught his eye. Among the orange plastic and old tin cans was a crate.

      He remembered what Goofy had said about all sorts washing up. Gifts from the sea gods.

      He put his board on a pile of seaweed, and clambered over the rocks.

      There was something in the crate, no doubt about it.

      He dragged it off the rocks. It was heavy.

      He pulled it down to the small pebble beach.

      Whatever was in the crate was covered in thick, sealed plastic. He’d need a knife to get inside it.

      He didn’t have a knife. Or anything. He looked around, and found a rusted can lid. It wasn’t sharp, and his arms were surf-knackered, but he stabbed at the plastic hard, and after a few goes made a small tear.

      Jabbing and yanking, he made the tear into a gash. Underneath was another layer of plastic. He cut again, curiosity driving him. He saw what was inside. Several packages of it. Something white, the size of large books, taped tight.

      His mind drew a blank. There was no label, no brand. So could it be …

      His heart burned with the answer, before he even thought it.

      ‘Drugs. Holy crap.’

      He got the fear, raw and strong, like seeing a beast of a wave rising out the sea and heading his way. He looked at the path. Up at the cliff. Out to sea. There was no one there. But he felt in the open. Naked.

      He cut at one of the packages. White, crystal powder burst out, coating the rusted metal then melting in the rain.

      He dropped the can lid and dragged the crate up the rocks and into the depths of the cave. High up. Higher. Deeper. Beyond the tideline, where the rock was light and dry. Where the sea never reached.

      He covered it in rocks and rubbish to hold it there. Then he clambered back down, picked up his board, and headed off.

      What to do now?

      Tell