laugh. “What have you done with my friend Farley Rutherford?” He leaned across the table and pretended to shake Farley by the shoulders. “Farley, are you in there?”
“Seriously,” Farley said, “you can manage the risk yourself.”
“No way. It’s one thing for
you
to violate the Marine Mammal Protection Act, but Greenpeace?”
“It would be in international waters.”
Walt held out his hands. “It was long before your time, but I was there in 1972 when we pushed that through Congress. We’re not going to violate the spirit of that law.”
Farley said, “Greenpeace has locations for three different sperm whale pods. What if we hire your ship and crew?”
“You did your homework.”
“What do you think?”
“No, that won’t work either. But hang on. I checked, too. Locations of four pods are known. What about the fourth?”
“You mean the one off the Horn of Africa?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s monitoring it?”
Walt said, “Apparently I did more homework than you did.”
The waiter brought plates heaped with mushroom crepes and salad.
“Well?”
“You remember Randy Gaynes?”
“Gaynes is not the kind of guy you forget.” Randy Gaynes had been on the
Rainbow Warrior
at the same time Farley had. After their two-year stint, Farley went to graduate school and lost track of him. “What’s he doing now?”
“After he left Greenpeace, Gaynes formed his own organization. He’s the captain of the
Cetacean Avenger
,” Walt said. Farley recognized the name of the ship. The
Cetacean Avenger
was an antiwhaling vessel that took its name from the order of marine mammals that included whales, porpoises, and dolphins. “I bet he’d help you.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Farley said. Randy Gaynes had always been a radical, the type of environmentalist that gave others a bad name. “We’re trying to make environmentalism mainstream, not further marginalize it.”
“It’s the only suggestion I have. Greenpeace can’t help.”
“Walt, we don’t want anything to go wrong either.” Farley picked at his food. “Randy Gaynes? Trouble follows that guy.”
“I’ve got it,” Walt said, chewing a crepe. He swallowed and then continued. “You’re an entrepreneur. Rent a ship and hire your own crew. I’ll give you a list of experienced Greenpeace sailors.”
“If we did,” Farley said, “would Greenpeace interfere with us?”
“No, I can take care of that.”
“Would we get any logistical support at all?”
“Interesting question. There’s a tradition of ships helping each other on the high seas. I can’t commit Greenpeace to helping you, but if I could, I’d say yes.”
C hopper liked the rain forest at night. Moonbeams struggled through the canopy, hinting at the trail. Alive with the voices and footsteps of hundreds of animals and thousands of insects, it provided easy food and drink. Through three days he slept in trees or on rocks in six-hour stretches—a feat he had never accomplished indoors. He cataloged the vines and documented the microecology of anything with inverted-cone-shaped flowers. He collected as many seeds as would fit in his tackle box.
The trip here, with the chaos of airports and the close-packing of airplanes, had tortured him. It got better with each step, though. The plane from Manaus to Uarini had been a fifteen-seater, and the way it bounced through the clouds was almost pleasant. When he stepped onto the sandy road in the heart of Amazonas and put out his thumb, he could sense relief nearby.
He climbed into the back of a circa-1950 Chevy pickup with three other guys. The ride wasn’t smooth, and for about an hour it wasn’t pretty either. To the left of the road he could see river tributaries through dense forest—exactly what he’d had in mind—but the view to the right was a different story. As they drove west toward the mountains, the land on his right changed from clear-cut pasture with patches of ordered crops to nothing but dead,
“Seriously,” Farley said, “you can manage the risk yourself.”
“No way. It’s one thing for
you
to violate the Marine Mammal Protection Act, but Greenpeace?”
“It would be in international waters.”
Walt held out his hands. “It was long before your time, but I was there in 1972 when we pushed that through Congress. We’re not going to violate the spirit of that law.”
Farley said, “Greenpeace has locations for three different sperm whale pods. What if we hire your ship and crew?”
“You did your homework.”
“What do you think?”
“No, that won’t work either. But hang on. I checked, too. Locations of four pods are known. What about the fourth?”
“You mean the one off the Horn of Africa?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s monitoring it?”
Walt said, “Apparently I did more homework than you did.”
The waiter brought plates heaped with mushroom crepes and salad.
“Well?”
“You remember Randy Gaynes?”
“Gaynes is not the kind of guy you forget.” Randy Gaynes had been on the
Rainbow Warrior
at the same time Farley had. After their two-year stint, Farley went to graduate school and lost track of him. “What’s he doing now?”
“After he left Greenpeace, Gaynes formed his own organization. He’s the captain of the
Cetacean Avenger
,” Walt said. Farley recognized the name of the ship. The
Cetacean Avenger
was an antiwhaling vessel that took its name from the order of marine mammals that included whales, porpoises, and dolphins. “I bet he’d help you.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Farley said. Randy Gaynes had always been a radical, the type of environmentalist that gave others a bad name. “We’re trying to make environmentalism mainstream, not further marginalize it.”
“It’s the only suggestion I have. Greenpeace can’t help.”
“Walt, we don’t want anything to go wrong either.” Farley picked at his food. “Randy Gaynes? Trouble follows that guy.”
“I’ve got it,” Walt said, chewing a crepe. He swallowed and then continued. “You’re an entrepreneur. Rent a ship and hire your own crew. I’ll give you a list of experienced Greenpeace sailors.”
“If we did,” Farley said, “would Greenpeace interfere with us?”
“No, I can take care of that.”
“Would we get any logistical support at all?”
“Interesting question. There’s a tradition of ships helping each other on the high seas. I can’t commit Greenpeace to helping you, but if I could, I’d say yes.”
C hopper liked the rain forest at night. Moonbeams struggled through the canopy, hinting at the trail. Alive with the voices and footsteps of hundreds of animals and thousands of insects, it provided easy food and drink. Through three days he slept in trees or on rocks in six-hour stretches—a feat he had never accomplished indoors. He cataloged the vines and documented the microecology of anything with inverted-cone-shaped flowers. He collected as many seeds as would fit in his tackle box.
The trip here, with the chaos of airports and the close-packing of airplanes, had tortured him. It got better with each step, though. The plane from Manaus to Uarini had been a fifteen-seater, and the way it bounced through the clouds was almost pleasant. When he stepped onto the sandy road in the heart of Amazonas and put out his thumb, he could sense relief nearby.
He climbed into the back of a circa-1950 Chevy pickup with three other guys. The ride wasn’t smooth, and for about an hour it wasn’t pretty either. To the left of the road he could see river tributaries through dense forest—exactly what he’d had in mind—but the view to the right was a different story. As they drove west toward the mountains, the land on his right changed from clear-cut pasture with patches of ordered crops to nothing but dead,
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