68 Knots by Michael Robert Evans Page B

might make up for losing Ibis. On the otherhand, losing this whale also would make them feel even worse. And the last time they tried a rescue, Logan had nearly been killed. Still, if they could somehow get in close enough . . .
    â€œWhat do you want to do?” Crystal called out.
    Joy glanced nervously at the faces around her. They expected a decision, but Joy didn’t want to make one. Decisions were for God to make, she thought. Our job is to follow them.
    Then she pulled from her shorts pocket the coin with the saints on it. She held it above her and prayed out loud: “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, please hear our prayer. We are lost at sea without your guidance and grace, and in Christ’s name we ask that you show us the way. Should we try to save this whale or not?”
    She knelt on the deck, held the disk edgeways between her left forefinger and her right thumb, and gave it a spin. It twirled furiously for a moment, a silver sphere dancing on the dark wood deck, and then it slowed and wobbled to a stop. Saint Francis was on top.
    â€œThe patron saint of animals.
Muchas gracias
,” Joy said, pocketing the coin. “God wants us to save that whale.”
    Dawn nodded. “We’re going to try it!” she shouted. “Everyone gather around for instructions.” She suggested a plan, gesturing and pointing with her long thin fingers. As long as the whale was swimming, she said, any attempt to untangle the net would be useless—and dangerous. “But I’ve been reading about the old Nantucket whalers, and I have an idea.” The
Dreadnought
would sail in as close as possible, and several of the crew would row the dinghy in closer. They would take one of the large plastic floats that protected the side of the ship from damage, and when they were right nextto the whale, they would clip the float line onto the net. The float would help them track the whale’s movements, and the extra drag would tire the whale quickly. Once it was exhausted and resting at the surface, they could try to cut the net away. “That’s what the Nantucket whalers used to do, except they used harpoons and their boats instead of clips and plastic floats,” Dawn said. “And of course they killed the whale once they got close to it. This is our chance to make up for all that cruelty. Get back in the whales’ good graces.”
    Arthur stood nearby, his arms folded across his chest. He was troubled that such an important decision was being made without his guidance, but he thought it might be a good idea to give the crew some leeway every now and then. Let them feel important and responsible. He decided to say nothing.
    The crew scrambled into position, and Arthur could see that his drills were paying off. The crew handled the sails quickly and skillfully, and the ship began to gain on the whale. As the ship grew closer, Jesse, BillFi, Dawn, and Arthur pulled the dinghy alongside and prepared to climb down the ladder.
    â€œGodspeed, sailors!” shouted Joy. “
Vayan con Dios
!” The dinghy crew leapt into the small boat and pushed away. With Jesse on one oar and Arthur on the other, they chopped through the waves. Dawn sat in the stern and directed the rowers; BillFi crouched in the bow next to a round pink float. It was about three feet in diameter and covered with a fine film of algae, and trailing from it was a stout twenty-foot rope that ended at a metal clip. BillFi’s job would be to secure that clip to the net before the whale had a chance to dive and swim away.
    Jesse’s power made steering difficult—the dinghy veered off course several times, and Jesse had to stop rowing until Arthur could catch up—and they weren’t narrowing the gapbetween them and the whale. It would pause, take a breath or two, then submerge again, and any gains they made during the rests would be lost in a single dive.
    Then Jesse put his oar down. “Arthur, let me