Read Online The Girl of the Sea of Cortez by Peter Benchley - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Benchley
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the surface of the wound. It was a jumble of knots and kinks, and it vibrated as the water flowed through it.
Be quick, Paloma told herself, like when the doctor gives an injection. Grab it, pull it free and cast it away, all before the manta knows what’s happening.
She threaded her fingers deep into the mess of rope and made a fist around as much as her hand could grasp. Then she yanked.
It was as if she had thrown a switch that turned the manta on. The animal heaved both wings at once, churning up a maelstrom that threw Paloma off its back and tumbled her into a spinning somersault.
By the time she had righted herself and cleared her mask and waited for the storm of bubbles to dissipate, the mantawas flying away into the dark water, ropes fluttering behind. It did not make a sound, but Paloma imagined that she heard an outraged wail of pain.
She kicked toward the surface, trailing some of the ropes in her hand, wishing she had had time to grab more, hoping that by removing some of them she might have increased the manta’s chances of survival.
T he sun was still high when Paloma left the seamount and started to paddle toward home. She was tired and hungry and cold. But most of all, she was lonely.
It was a curious contradiction that the better her day on the seamount was, the lonelier she felt when it was over, and because today had been particularly exciting, she felt acutely lonely.
The problem was not that her experiences were solitary—she liked being alone—but that there was no one on the island with whom she could share the wonder, the exhilaration, of her day when she got home. There was no friend who would understand, no sister or cousin who would care. In fact, there was no one on the island to whom she had confidedthe existence of her seamount or what she did all day in her boat.
There were no other girls Paloma’s age on the island. Why, no one knew: a quirk of nature. There were plenty of females many years older—women now, with children of their own—and plenty of boys. But no girls. From the moment Paloma had been old enough to know what it was to be alone, she had been alone. Of course, she had her mother, but there were limits to what she felt comfortable talking to her mother about, and there were limits to what Miranda wanted to hear.
Paloma paddled harder, trying to stroke away the loneliness, to erase it with sheer muscle power. And she was trying, as well, to warm up, for gooseflesh had risen on her arms and legs, and the fine yellow hairs were standing on end.
The water never felt cold to her—and it was warm, at least eighty-five degrees—but no matter how warm it felt, it was always cooler than Paloma’s body temperature, so spending hours in it sucked the heat from her body and caused its temperature to drop. It was not a dangerous cold—“You can live for a week in this water,” Jobim had told her, adding with a grin, “if the sun doesn’t cook you or something doesn’t eat you.” But it was uncomfortable.
She could have combated the cold, however, and eased her hunger, too, by gaining weight. A layer of fat made a fine insulator. But she was reluctant to gain weight, to grow fat, any sooner than necessary. Being fat would slow her down, take away her agility and worst of all, signal that she was just like all the other women of Santa Maria Island.
For them, fatness seemed to be a natural progression in life. As girls they were slender; in their late teens or early twenties they became robust; in their mid-to-late twenties they were stocky, in their thirties fat and in their forties mountainous. (Paloma’s mother was about to turn forty, and overthe past few years her figure had gradually disappeared, its contours absorbed into her trunk.) Those who survived into their sixties or seventies often shrank back to whippet thinness.
Paloma saw herself as different. She hoped, prayed, knew that she was special. At least she had been special to her father.
It had been
Be quick, Paloma told herself, like when the doctor gives an injection. Grab it, pull it free and cast it away, all before the manta knows what’s happening.
She threaded her fingers deep into the mess of rope and made a fist around as much as her hand could grasp. Then she yanked.
It was as if she had thrown a switch that turned the manta on. The animal heaved both wings at once, churning up a maelstrom that threw Paloma off its back and tumbled her into a spinning somersault.
By the time she had righted herself and cleared her mask and waited for the storm of bubbles to dissipate, the mantawas flying away into the dark water, ropes fluttering behind. It did not make a sound, but Paloma imagined that she heard an outraged wail of pain.
She kicked toward the surface, trailing some of the ropes in her hand, wishing she had had time to grab more, hoping that by removing some of them she might have increased the manta’s chances of survival.
T he sun was still high when Paloma left the seamount and started to paddle toward home. She was tired and hungry and cold. But most of all, she was lonely.
It was a curious contradiction that the better her day on the seamount was, the lonelier she felt when it was over, and because today had been particularly exciting, she felt acutely lonely.
The problem was not that her experiences were solitary—she liked being alone—but that there was no one on the island with whom she could share the wonder, the exhilaration, of her day when she got home. There was no friend who would understand, no sister or cousin who would care. In fact, there was no one on the island to whom she had confidedthe existence of her seamount or what she did all day in her boat.
There were no other girls Paloma’s age on the island. Why, no one knew: a quirk of nature. There were plenty of females many years older—women now, with children of their own—and plenty of boys. But no girls. From the moment Paloma had been old enough to know what it was to be alone, she had been alone. Of course, she had her mother, but there were limits to what she felt comfortable talking to her mother about, and there were limits to what Miranda wanted to hear.
Paloma paddled harder, trying to stroke away the loneliness, to erase it with sheer muscle power. And she was trying, as well, to warm up, for gooseflesh had risen on her arms and legs, and the fine yellow hairs were standing on end.
The water never felt cold to her—and it was warm, at least eighty-five degrees—but no matter how warm it felt, it was always cooler than Paloma’s body temperature, so spending hours in it sucked the heat from her body and caused its temperature to drop. It was not a dangerous cold—“You can live for a week in this water,” Jobim had told her, adding with a grin, “if the sun doesn’t cook you or something doesn’t eat you.” But it was uncomfortable.
She could have combated the cold, however, and eased her hunger, too, by gaining weight. A layer of fat made a fine insulator. But she was reluctant to gain weight, to grow fat, any sooner than necessary. Being fat would slow her down, take away her agility and worst of all, signal that she was just like all the other women of Santa Maria Island.
For them, fatness seemed to be a natural progression in life. As girls they were slender; in their late teens or early twenties they became robust; in their mid-to-late twenties they were stocky, in their thirties fat and in their forties mountainous. (Paloma’s mother was about to turn forty, and overthe past few years her figure had gradually disappeared, its contours absorbed into her trunk.) Those who survived into their sixties or seventies often shrank back to whippet thinness.
Paloma saw herself as different. She hoped, prayed, knew that she was special. At least she had been special to her father.
It had been
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