| yesteryear forever |
The White Whale
It's quiet out here in the middle of the ocean. No hum of traffic in the far-off distance. No boat motors. Not even bird calls. Just a slight breeze and the occasional subtle lapping of waves. The sky is bigger here and seems to go on forever. Modest clouds punctuate the vastness as a reminder that it's the same old sky on just another normal day.
The middle of the ocean is a boring place. Not much happens out here at all. There aren't even fish under the surface, not like the colorful swarms you see around the coastlines anyway. There may be a lonely piece of flotsam providing temporary sanctuary to a few miniscule minnows, but that's it for hundreds of square miles. It is a truly boring, lonely, slow place in the middle of this immense desert.
Time creeps by at its own pace. It's measured in yawning arcs of the Sun. One arc, one whole day. Another arc, another empty day. It is impossible to remember how many arcs have come and gone. Sporadic and rare events are the only markers for the arrow of time. Lightning struck a spot just over there a few years ago, but luckily there were no fish around to care. Planes make an occasional appearance like tiny white gnats far above. The one passing now barely looks like it is moving, so slow maybe it's falling? Impossible to tell. Plus, no one to care.
The breeze picks up for a moment. That's something. Looking down, there are laser beams of white light cutting through the daphne blue water at the surface and kaleidoscoping down into the dark abyss below. What's down there, who can tell. It's a higher-level mystery that should remain unknown. That is not for us.
Sure, we're smart. We even have technologies that can send people to the Moon. We're trying for the first time today, anyway. On this sunny arc in 1969 a spaceship launched and the world is hopeful. But these rolling waves know nothing.
Nothing...
Without warning that tiny white gnat comes into view and has gotten substantially bigger. It's much closer now, silently screaming towards this very unremarkable spot in the middle of nowhere. It's cylindrical, but not an airplane fuselage. It's massive, painted white with black accents. Fins are coming into view, and now the five bell-shaped engines are unmistakable.
Falling alongside this spent beast is almost just as quiet as the ocean surface below, save for the whistling around the grommets, and the creaking metal groaning under its own weight; it was designed to fly straight up and true, not listlessly tumble down through the air. The engines have cooled off a bit, but are still steaming hot and crackling after the cacophony of sound, heat, and light produced through them moments ago. Humans haven't created a more powerful device before or since, which is why this ending seems almost cruel and unceremonious.
It was bound to happen. Why here? Why not.
Many tons of metal slamming into the water sounds different than one might imagine. Much more bright, crisp, and aggressive than, say, a bomb or an explosion. It is deafening at first to be sure, but the roar of the waves that immediately follow have a familiar whoosh to them that is eerily comforting.
If there were birds they would have scattered in fright. But there were no birds. If there were people a critical emergency would have been declared. But there were no people. For all the hundreds of square miles surrounding this desolate spot there was only a single piece of flotsam housing a few innocent minnows minding their own business just a short distance away. And to them the underwater sound of the water boiling and steaming away from the engines and the gurgling of the water filling the empty cavities of the warped hull was novel, but not frightening. They couldn't see what was happening and it wasn't a threat. The ensuing wake was a delightful disruption of the day's monotonous arc.
It was a marvel of human ingenuity and engineering. Every inch meticulously designed and every aspect constructed with the utmost care. Precision, patience, thought, passion. This machine once radiated a level of care and perfection only ever seen in works of art like intricate timepieces. But now, after its duty has been completed, the wear and tear of its service is worn proudly. The soot covering its once-pristine white skin is being washed away by the lapping waves as it continues to sink.
The ocean doesn't understand. It has been here long before us and will continue after. It has seen unimaginable things and this is just another to add to the eons of events before. It calmly swallows the historic device without empathy. As the last part sinks beneath the surface never to touch air again, bubbles rise, and a silent whirlpool forms like an X that marks the spot on a treasure map. And without remorse, the X is immediately erased and forgotten. The once-powerful beast slumps away, downward, and downward, and downward.
It's quiet out here in the middle of the ocean, and far below in the black nothing that humans aren't supposed to imagine lies the bones of a mythical white whale that helped take us to the Moon.
2023-08-06