I rode in toward the boat on a government whale. That is what the whale let the government think. I knew better. This whale wasn't trained, she was on a mission of her own agenda. What was it? At the moment she was letting me ride on her back in the middle of the goddamn ocean with not a piece of land in sight. That was enough for me. Getting on her back is when I discovered that barnacles play some role in a whale's eco-system. She sent me a message of no uncertain nature when I accidently knocked one off as I climbed upon her back . . . All right, fact is I was trying to yard myself out of the ocean as fast as I could before a shark mistook my nuts for hor d'oeuvres and me for the entree.

The ocean gives me the creeps. It is dark, it is deep, and lots of things swim around under its surface eating each other and brushing up against me in the dark. This may not be a sane response but it is my response.

I have two responses to the current affair. The first being an insane fear that something will brush up against me under the waves, the second being an empty unknowingness. I haven't the foggiest idea of what I am doing in the middle of the ocean.

I am fairly sure that whatever it is, it was planned. I seem to remember a boat collapsing into pieces. I have the memory still reverberating in my head of calling a government official asking what to do. That is when I was told that they were sending a whale for transport.

I don't recall anything about any agencies using trained whales. Dolphins I knew about, whales I don't know. Either I know something that I am not telling myself or I am a pretty a savior faire kind of a guy -- the whale business didn't even ruffle a neck feather. Don't take that the wrong way. I don't have feathers, on my neck or otherwise. It's just an expression that I seem to have picked up along the way.

I seem to be 'seem'ing a lot of things. I don't know why I have such little access to background memory. But, it doesn't seem like a good idea to be so uncertain. So, I will assume the pretense of certainty.

I know that I don't really know, at least not with certainty, what I am talking about. And, if you take the words of a man riding on an undercover whale poising as a government employee as gospel . . . well, all I can say is buyer beware.

Black and squat, low to the water, the ship did not look like a ship I wanted to be approaching. I hope that either I knew at some point earlier what I was doing and this is all part of some master plan, or the whale knows what she is doing. Because I don't like the looks of that ship.

Damn, another black out. I'm standing at the port railing of the ship looking out into the water. The whale is astern of the midships just few hundred yards out. I am this close to deciding that an uncertain future on a whale's back is better than being on this ship. Glancing to the left I see a black garbed officer approaching, that tears it the whale is the better prospect. Starting over the gunnel wondering if she would have me back, I notice them in the water.

At first they could look like swimmers or tourists frolicking in the still waters off the boat. Except they are submerged underwater motionless dressed in street clothes of various descriptions and they are teathered in a line like lobster traps.

Looking into their faces under the water . . . I wish I could say something. Put words together in some stringed form to bring you to the place where I stand. They are just people. They are just floating a few feet below the surface of the water. And just the prospect of looking into their faces stirs the most alien and malevolent foreboding within me.

I wish now that I had looked deeper, paid more attention. But, I was afraid to look into their eyes. Not afraid actually, the emotion stirred was foreign to human experience -- I just knew I didn't want to do it.

Another black out. I'm downstairs within the bowels of the ship. A stairway leads straight up to the light behind me. Damn the whale, I'll take my chances that she'll take me aboard. And, damn the bodies. They are tied in the water and there is a good chance I can dive over them -- the boat is high enough to give me a adequate arch. I'm out of here.

Whoops, where did my escorts come from? It's the same black garbed officer from the upper deck along with a couple of seamen in black pants and deep grey sweaters.

For the moment, they and I are pretending that I am here working on their side. And I am pretending that I'm not aware they intend me great harm.

Opening a door that leads into a room with an open bottom, they haul a body up from the sea.

They would have me believe that the crippled shriveled body I see before me is a meditating monk -- a volunteer willingly subjecting himself to years of life under the sea. Continuing the charade, the pale prune skinned monk explains to me telepathically that he did indeed come to this place to meditate. The waters were calm and shut out distractions. He was made peaceful and capable of deep trance. (That perhaps explained not needing to breath, or so I thought.)

Glancing inward at my internal state I realize that I can't even afford a moments reflection on my condition -- the rising hysteria is too near. Replacing my attention on the matters directly before me I can hear the subvocal telepathic voice of the water logged monk continuing, saying that this is one of few brief intervals when he is brought to the surface.

In the silence following his solliloqui I see, noticing, hundreds or thousands of hair like tendrils penetrating his body, giving him a thick forest of three to five foot needle thin tubes. These are the insertion devices used by the aliens to inject the floaters with food, air and fresh water -- just enough to keep them living and productive.

As I give the floater a brief hug before they take him back to his watery berth I do three things: 1) I maintain the pretense that I believe this to be a mediation center, 2) I notice a large shriveled tit extending from under his arm, 3) I slip my knife under his tunic.

I was sure that as soon as he is placed back into his watery position he would use it successfully. That is one less tit that these alien bastards will be sucking their foreign bioengineered milk from.

I wonder how soon I'll regret the loss of my knife.

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