Fire by Sebastian Junger

are hard to come by. Several years ago he trained his nephew Anson Ollivierre to harpoon, but Anson branched out on his own before even bloodying his hands. Now he’s building his own whaleboat, and Ollivierre fears Anson will get his whole crew killed. So this year Ollivierre tried again, taking on Arnold Hazell. Hazell’s great-grandfather crewed for Ollivierre’s great-grandfather, and now, a hundred years later, the relationship continues. Since there are no whales to practice on, Hazell just hangs out at Ollivierre’s house, listens to the old stories, soaks up the lore.
    When Hazell has killed his first whale, Ollivierre will retire. And the antiwhaling community will have a new face upon which to hang its villain’s mask.
    Â 
    A short time after meeting with Ollivierre and his crew, I drive down to Paget Farm to see about going out on the whaleboat. On the way I pass a new fish market, paid for by the Japanese government as part of a six-million-dollar aid package. According to the Japanese, it’s a no-strings-attached token of their affection for the Bequia fishermen. Past the market I turn onto a narrow cement road that grinds up a desperately steep hillside. At one end of the road is the sky; at the other end is the sea. The appointed bar is a one-story cement building halfway up the hill. I park, chock the wheels, and wander inside. It’s as clean and simple inside as out: a rough wooden counter, a half dozen chairs, no tables, a big fan. The walls are a turquoise color that fills the room with cool coral reef light. A Save the Whales poster hangs in tatters on one wall, and a monumental woman opens soft drinks behind the counter. Five men are ranged at the far end of the room. They are dressed in T-shirts and baggy pants, and one has a knife in his hand. Captain Dan, too shy to speak, just looks out the window into the midday heat. Arnold Hazell greets me with a smile and makes his pitch.
    â€œIn Bequia we don’t have much opportunity like you in the States,” he begins. “We grew up on the sea an live from the sea. Even if we don’t cotch a whale for the next ten years, it will be good just to be whalin. Just to keep the heritage up. Japanese an Norwegians—they killin whales by the thousands, an those people could afford to do something else. They have oil; they have big industry; they have a better reason to stop.” He pauses. “You know, we can put the boat out, we can talk to you, you can take snaps, but it a whole day’s work for us. We need something back.”
    Luckily, I’ve been told about this ahead of time. It’s a tourist economy—the sunshine, the water, the beaches, it’s all for sale—and the whalers see no reason why they should be any different. A young man in dreadlocks steps in quietly and leans against the bar. He listens with vague amusement; he’s heard this all before.
    â€œA few years ago a French crew come here,” says Eustace. “They come to make a film. They offer us thousands of dollars: they prepared to pay that. But we say no because we know they makin so much more on the film. Why should we work an they make all the money?”
    After this statement, negotiations proceed slowly. Some careful wording, a few ambiguous phrases, and finally an agreement is reached: We’ll meet at Friendship Bay tomorrow before dawn. “And,” says Captain Dan, his eyes never wavering from the horizon, “you’ll see the Why Ask fly.”
    Â 
    I n the distant past, most of the Caribbean islands were inhabited by the peace-loving Arawak people. Very little is known about them, because most were killed, and the rest were driven from the islands by the Caribs, whose name comes from the Arawak word for “cannibal.” Unfortunately for the Caribs, Columbus discovered their bloody little paradise within years of their ascendancy, and two hundred years later most of them were gone as