A YARN
A heart-warming tale about a father and his son by Aaron Granlund

At first I took no notice. Clues to Dad's behaviors were very subtle. He had a fishy smell to him at times, and there was always an abundance of oil in the house; lamps and heating contraptions of all kinds, but nothing that directly gave him away. The interior of our home was of unfinished pine timbers and was adorned with tuna nets draped across the wall each assorted with urchins, buoys and assorted nautical artifacts not unlike many seafood restaurants I have been in. Father always believed that paint and proper wall coverings would bring a superficial cheeriness to our dwelling. My mother, a gravelly woman festooned with facial warts and fated to live with a horrible hunch was always stirring large caldrons simmering with whale blubber. It was, however, my own naiveté that made those days seem so care-free.

I knew other kids in the neighborhood who had fanciful gadgets. Wondrous things called microwaves and "telly-somethings-or-other." I found myself questioning my lifestyle and why it was so different from theirs, and why my childhood was spent laboring in the home. I was told never to mention a bit about it; that is, when I was allowed out of the home, and even then it was either to churn butter or fetch the homemade soap that was boiling in the back yard. My adolescence was pleasingly drab. I passed eight years away whittling broomstick handles and stuffing pillowcases with goose feathers.

The memories of Dad are vivid. I would be sitting there at our oak dining room table writing by candlelight with a quill and ink and as usual old Dad would come through the door, home from a long day at the office ready with hugs for my mother and myself, and our dog Malcolm with three legs and a peg for a limb. Dad's face was tough and leathery and ruddy from drink. His hands were always coarse and calloused with a yellow tinge to them. I always thought it odd for an accountant to have such worn hands- but they were loving hands nonetheless. He had a wonderful aroma about him- a cologne that smelled of Bacardi 151 and blackberry brandy, and he always had a toothpick dangling from his jagged, withering teeth. I can remember kissing him on the cheek and tasting salt. If only I knew then of dad's magnificent secret I could have been a more pleasant, obedient son!

"Some saltwater taffy for you, son," he would say amidst spits of chaw as he handed me the tasty gift. Old dad always brought home a gift, whether it was a dried up starfish or a seal he had beaten with a club by the shore. He would say no more for the remainder of the night. I never saw him eat a thing in my entire lifetime; he would just sit woodenly in his armchair every evening, staring at a callous on his hand until it was precisely 9:00.

I had no suspicion of Dad's activity until one day when I had been asked to wring out the old man's socks. In the process of collecting them my eyes stumbled across a lone navy-blue uniform hanging in his closet proudly hidden from view behind some old porno tapes. The fabric was well-worn and was faded by the sun's light. The outfit appeared to be similar to those worn by whalers of many years past and was soiled with dark brown and read oily smears and what looked like remnants of small sea creatures. It reeked heavily of fish.

My interest was piqued! I wrung out the socks in a basin, and compliantly brought it to my mother who intended to make a soup broth out of them. That night I was determined to follow Dad out. I pretended to read a book while at the same time keeping a watchful eye on my father who stirred only once to scratch his underside. At exactly 9:00 father arose mechanically and silently went for his lantern which he had hung by the door side. He struck a match off the side of his face to light it and headed outdoors.

I grabbed my coat and hustled off, fitting myself through the pet door so as not to arouse any suspicion. I hushed my footsteps and followed him quietly into the murky darkness of the coast, laying back a good 2 hectares, using an azalea bush and a small lap dog that I had found wandering around as cover. I could see now that Dad had already donned a brimless cap and had slipped into the outfit I had happened upon earlier today! He trudged down through some scrub brush toward the crest of a large dune that bordered the sea. Clouds drifted eerily overhead fogging out the moon light. In the distance I could hear the muffled rush of waves crashing along the shore. From my outpost I saw that Dad's lantern was held high like the lawn ornament of a black servant-boy, casting a saint-like aura over his weathered face.

Almost as quietly as the breeze, old Dad made his way toward an old, abandoned shack made of hickory that abutted a sea wall of rock and seal excrement. The paneling was faded and warped and looked like the kind of place a sailor might find disturbing pleasure. Dad creaked the door open unsettling some dust and grit, and a loose board, and stepped inside shedding light upon the shed. A gull shrieked. I could hear some rattling and clanking inside as it echoed through the night and bounced off some waves that were washing in. I used this opportunity to advance to a dangerously close point of view. My breathing became deep and labored like a pregnant woman's. I peered through a small opening in the shed where the wood had rotted away. To my utter horror I observed dad polishing the head of a harpoon while whistling a wharf-worker's song! My eye quivered and a tear began to well up under it. My own father was the same beastly killer that you read about on the bathroom stalls at trendy coffee shops. I could hold it in no longer. My heart was thumping like two badgers having sex. I ran around to the door and burst through, surprising dad enough so that he dropped his harpoon. It landed with a thud on his shoe.

"Dad!" I yelled.

But he just stood there like a dead elephant with a glazed look in his eye.

"Why Dad? Why, for Chrissake?" was all I could muster.

Dad began to flutter his lip. His fists clenched his polishing rag tightly. I didn't know what to say so I began to speak using only my hands. Noticing that this only confused Dad more, I rephrased the question.

"Why Dad? Why, for Chrissake?"

Dad at that moment broke down. He got on his knees, crying, tied his shoe, then stood up.

"Son, I know you don't approve of what I do. I know some fathers are respectable men whom their families are proud of. Men who spend 8 hours a day with their nose to the grindstone and still have time to bonk their secretaries..."

I furrowed my brow, then unforrowed it.

"...Me, I'm a cursed, vile human. I've been living a lie for the last 45 years of my life. Whaling is what I do, and although you may hate me for it, you have to understand why I do it, then you can forgive me!"

He proceeded to continue, but not before loosening some phlegm in the back of this throat and swallowing it.

"Whaling is the family tradition. Your great grand father did it. My grandfather did it. My dad's father did it, and so do I." He paused for a second to build a dramatic climax. "And You'll do it." He said this with the sincerity of a man about to hand a mop over to someone who just overflowed the toilet.

I gasped.

"There's a certain special satisfaction that can come from harpooning, son. You'll never understand until you actually try it, but I intend to show you. Its like playing Twister in the nude."

Suddenly I understood.

"Of course whaling has undergone a great number of changes in the course of my lifetime. Christ, even 25 years ago, you'd go out for days, weeks, even months before even spotting a whale, but that was way back when I lived in Nebraska. Nowadays all you need is ultrasound. I just go out in my little dinghy and track the bastards with these little gadgets." He showed me. It was all very quaint and at the same time technological.

"But the harpoon, son...Lord, the harpoon!" He braced his hand on my shoulder with great importance. "The harpoon never changes! No matter how much technology advances I'll never give up this tool of the gods. Even if they tell me I can kill a whale while sitting on the hopper with a remote in my hands while watching football, I'll never give up the harpoon! Son, you have to understand that this isn't my profession. It's not even my passion. It's my duty."

And that's when he handed the harpoon over to me. It was cold and hard, not unlike other steel things I had held before.

"I was going to wait until your 21st birthday, take you out to a nudie bar and explain all the tradition shit, but looks like curiosity got the best of you!

Dad wept as I looked over the brutal weapon of choice in whale slaying. He went on to tell me of the secret rituals that came with whaling; the secret whaler's handshake, the Fodor's Whaling Guide, and even the 2 for 1 special that all whalers get at Captain Jack's Mackerel House. We practiced hurling harpoons at at rotting driftwood stump into the night and when we were finished we polished off a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon between the two of us. That night, father and I trolled out over the breakers in search of my first whale to poach. It was a magical moment. Dad didn't say much. He just stood there at the helm of the skiff peering out into the moonlit horizon, pausing occasionally to urinate off the side of the boat, probably contemplating the great rite of passage he had just bestowed upon his son. I was now a man and the great responsibility of teaching our family's ancient craft was upon me. I was proud to have the honor, but more importantly, I was proud of him.