“Whaling is prohibited”
“Who says so?”
“The government. The maritime authorities”
“I know how to deal with them”
“But look, sonny,” the yacht owner who doubled up as the senior member of the sea expedition admonished the brash youngster, “you should not do it”
“I will”
“There aren’t too many whales left in the oceans”
“Surely one less is not going to make much of a difference”
The senior member stopped talking. The young chap was the son of one of the world’s most powerful politicians. He knew better than arguing with big politicians, or their sons.
He ambled back into his cabin, murmuring in low tones. Perhaps the young chap will change his mind. Perhaps a whale will simply not appear today. He wished both to happen. He did not wish to be involved in a whale hunting expedition, and most certainly did not want a whale tied to his large yacht when it turned in ashore.
The young chap seemed to have come fully equipped to hunt a whale. He felt harpoons were passe and instead had two powerful rifles with him. He was bragging earlier that day that if only he could get three good shots at the right spot on the whale, the matter would end quickly and satisfactorily – for him, that is.
He stood against the rails, his shooting gear in hand, watching the calm oceans for any signs of a whale. For a spoilt brat, he was surprisingly patient. Any hopes that the senior had that the lad would walk away after an hour faded when he saw the determination and enthusiasm in the fellow’s eyes when he walked by him an hour later.
And then, it happened. It was all of a sudden. There was that magnificent mammal, splashing through the water and making a dancing leap before it went back into the ocean.
“Oh, ho!” cried the young chap, transfixed by what he saw.
“Oh, ho!” he cried again as the whale leaped once more, this time much closer.
He anticipated a leap much closer the third time, and had his powerful rifle ready. He knew he was a damned good shot.
One more leap, and the big whale would be his.
He was waiting with bated breath – that leap could happen within a moment.
Fingers on the trigger. Tense. Absolutely focussed.
And there it was.
The finger was a thousandth of a second from pressing the trigger.
Ouch. A rather nasty tug at his shirt and an enthusiastic voice screamed, “Thirty-three tons, Dick.”
Dick swung around to his cousin, shouting curses. And swung back really quickly. But it was too late. The big thing was diving down, to disappear from his view and the rifle’s aim.
He sensed that it was not going to appear again. Did he imagine, or did he really see a wink in its eyes as it submerged?
He turned furiously to his cousin, “And what the hell were you saying?”
“Thirty-three tons,” repeated Bob.
Dick spat out angrily, “So what about thirty-three tons?”
“That’s the amount of carbon contained in a large whale, Dick. I told you yesterday night, but you said I was wrong. I now have proof. Look at this Wikipedia article…”
After screaming out a few swear words that civility prevents me from repeating here, Dick yelled, “And what a time to correct me! I just missed the whale”
Bob looked at the spot where the whale went down. “Thirty-three tons of carbon back to the oceans”