An interesting behind-the-scenes factoid: I type about half of this week's story on an XO Laptop from the One Laptop Per Child project, an organization developing laptops suitable as educational devices for children in developing countries.

I think I'm due up for something a little more light-hearted. We'll see what next week holds.

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52 Hertz

John sat pitching rocks into the Pacific Ocean methodically, one after another. He wasn't in any particular hurry and anyway didn't know how many rocks would suffice. The ocean could hold plenty. He picked up each stone, measured its weight carefully in his hand and tried to guess how far each one would go. It was hard to judge; the sky was overcast and a light drizzle had begun. He wanted to see the shitty weather as symbolic but this was early spring on the west coast. The grey sky and matching water made it hard to guess distances. It was 10:13 in the morning and his Blackberry was probably ringing. It sat on the dashboard of his car, which was parked a ways behind him. The seagull that was picking at something on the beach before screeching and taking flight would have seen it: a red Toyota parked on the shoulder of the north bound lane of the highway. There wasn't much traffic, John hadn't even had to wait long before a break had allowed him to dash across the four lanes to get to this thin stretch of shoreline. The rhythmic splash of the waves hitting the shore was white noise, muffling the sounds of the occasional passing car. With his back to it, John could almost forget an artery of civilization ran right behind you.

Throwing stones into the ocean wasn't the same as throwing them into a pond. In a pond you can watch the waves you make slowly spread and then fade. Their lives may be short but they are there, they make an impression, cause an effect. When your rock breaks the surface of the ocean, it's immediately swallowed. Any ripples are immediately obliterated by the waves. The ocean doesn't care how many rocks you throw in. It ignores you because you can't affect it. John was there because he loved the ocean, but just then he felt more in common with the rocks.

Dear John,

Christ that sounds like such a fucking cliche. But I'm sorry - it's not my fault you don't like to be called Johnny or Johnathan. I'm sorry, too, about sending you an email but you always have your Blackberry with you. I feel like a complete bitch doing this over email. You'll probably receive it when you're sitting in Tim Hortons eating your donut. I'm sorry about that, too. But I'm going to be gone when you get home from work tonight and I thought I should let you know somehow. I could have left you note or something I suppose but this is the way I've chosen to handle things.

Let me get one thing out of the way first. This isn't about kids. I don't even know if I want kids. Yes, I know I started a screaming match over the subject a couple of weeks ago. I suppose I should apologize for that, too, while I'm at it. I don't even know if I really want kids but I do know that I want...something else. I don't know.

Back in the Cold War, the US military built a system to detect and track Soviet submarines and ships. Essentially they sunk a network of microphones into the oceans and pressed the record button on a massive military tape recorder. Years later, they declassified and released mountains of data. This was a boon for marine biologists because amongst all of the sounds were hours and hours of whale songs. It also recorded sounds that would become something of a mystery - in the fall and winter of 1989, a series of sounds with the frequency of 52 hertz.

John had been driving to work that morning. This was after his morning visit to Tim Hortons, after he'd read Emily's email. When he should have turned right into his office's parking lot, he instead flicked off his turn signal and kept going straight, gunning his car to beat a red light. He'd kept on going, through North Van. Morning traffic eventually thinned out; towards the outskirts most people were going the opposite way. He left the city behind and followed the coast along the highway. He drove without a destination in mind, he simply needed to drive. An hour outside of Vancouver, he'd pulled over when he recognized the beach. He had been there years ago. He and Emily had been driving somewhere, maybe to Squamish and she'd spotted the ocean and insisted he stop. She'd gotten out and dashed over the highway.

"Where are you going?" he'd called out, trying to catch up with her.

"I want to get my feet into the ocean! I haven't done that yet."

It wasn't even a proper beach with soft, warm sand where you'd spend the afternoon throwing around a Frisbee or lying on a blanket. Reading a book and trying not to sunburn. This was all stones and rocks and mossy driftwood. Emily kicked off her shoes and rolled up her jeans and walked into the sea until her ankles were covered, balancing carefully on the slippery rocks. The incoming waves splashed water up to her knees, soaking her pants. Later, when they were back on the road, she'd stuck her feet out the window to dry her pants. When John caught up to her, he'd wrapped his arms around her waist; she'd shivered and snuggled into him.

Sitting on that same beach, John shook his head. That hadn't been Emily. It had happened earlier, with one of his high school girlfriends. John and Emily had met in university in Winnipeg. It had taken until three years after he'd graduated from the University of Manitoba to convince her to move back to his home town. He'd always intended to bring Emily to this spot but just never found the time.

John had first heard of the 52 hertz signal when a friend had emailed him a link to a story about it in Nature. It must have been a couple of years before. Attached to the email was a sound file, a recording of the signal. As he sat there throwing stones, surrounded by the smell of the ocean, it had popped back into his head. The signal was tracked around the North Pacific; its migratory pattern and the nature of the signal led scientists to believe it was probably a baleen whale. The signal resembled the shape and cadence of a whale song, but didn't match the frequency of any species.

Let me tell you about my life, John. We've been living together for nearly five years but I think you don't really pay attention to me. Superficially you do. You ask how my day is and what I want for supper. But I don't think you really pay attention. When you got the job in Vancouver, I put my masters on hold and moved out here with you. I thought I was happy with that. I even thought I enjoyed my job. But it's just a job. Advertising copywriting is never what I thought I'd be doing when I grew up. Every morning, I hit the snooze button, two or three times, and think to myself, "God - do I *have* to go into work today?" This is just not how we're supposed to live our lives. I don't know what I want but I do know I don't want the life I have right now. Rereading that it sounds harsh, but I don't know how else to say it.

The 52 hertz whale song was recorded on many occasions and it never overlapped with another similar signal. Their best guess was that the whale was damaged; perhaps it was a mutation or a birth defect. Something was different about the creature's larynx. Baleen whales use their songs to establish social order. To find mates and form pods. With his oddball signal the poor creature was playing a gigantic, hopeless game of Marco Polo across the Pacific Ocean. An abyss. He swam and called out Marco over and over, waiting for a response. As the signal was tracked over the years, it deepened. The whale grew and reached probably reached adulthood. A decade of lonely swimming and it remained solitary. No one would ever respond. There would never be an answering Polo.

All I took was a few days worth of clothes and some of my personal stuff. No, I won't tell you where I am. I need a week to clear my head and figure out what I'm going to do and then I'll call you. I'm staying with a friend but you don't have her number. Please do not try calling up my other friends to try to get a hold of me. I might go by the apartment to grab some stuff but I'll make sure you aren't there first.

Their dvd collection. Neither of them enjoyed going to theatres but they both loved movies. Expensive snacks, crowds, laser pointers. They only went to theatres when they'd get free passes or another couple dragged them out on double dates. Instead, they'd rent movies and watch them snuggled on their couch. Over the years they'd amassed enough dvds to open a small rental shop. They'd long since filled the shelves in their living room and had small stacks of dvds here and there around their apartment. It formed an emergent rating system. The further away from their entertainment unit, the lower the score. Doom to the poor films that ended up in their storage locker in their building's basement. Those ones would eventually be sold for whatever the nearby pawnshop would give them.

How would they divide them? Some were no-brainers. John couldn't imagine that Emily would be interested in his collection of 80s action films. The Rocky series, for example, would obviously go to him. They had a pile of chick flicks that he'd help her carry down to her car. But there were plenty of mutual favourites. He started throwing stones with more force. Who would get the Matrix, the Big Lebowski and Garden State? Fifty First Dates? Would they end up haggling? She takes Batman Begins, he'll get Children of Men. What about their Seinfeld dvds? It would be stupid to split the series. Does a box set with six discs count as six dvds or two or three? Why was she doing this? Her email made no fucking sense.

On the beach, his mind kept going back to the whale. John wondered if, during its meanderings, it ever happened to stumble upon other humpbacks. As big as the ocean was, at some point he must have found other whales of his species. Migratory arcs randomly intersecting. Could he recognize his own kind? Seen them, swam excitedly towards them and been rejected - ignored - because his flawed larynx couldn't create the correct noises. He was tracked for at least fifteen years.

Before you start getting angry and self-righteous, know that there isn't another guy. I haven't met anyone. I haven't cheated on you. I'm not running off to someone else's arms. Would it help at all if I told you I was crying while typing this email? I am. I was bawling while I was packing my bag.

John tried to imagine what it would be like to walk around a vast, empty city for fifteen years. Abandoned buildings, broken windows. Cars left to rust in the middle of streets. The wind stirred on garbage and dust. To wander through that, calling "Hello" over and over. Worse, you might occasionally see other people, who would disappear as soon as they were spotted. Could whales despair? Could they go insane? John reached the conclusion that he'd go nuts after just a few weeks of never getting a response to his hello.

His arm was getting sore by that point and stopped throwing rocks and just sat watching the waves crash in. He'd found a flat rock to sit on and was almost comfortable, arms around his folded legs and his chin resting on his knees. He heard the crunch of someone walking across the rocks behind him. A kicked stone skittered. John turned to see a police officer.

The officer - a member of the RCMP - jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Is that your car?"

John stood up. "Yes, officer."

"Car troubles?"

"No. No, I just wanted to sit and relax for a bit."

The constable frowned, forehead creased. "You probably shouldn't leave it there. We've been getting calls about it."

"Alright. I'm sorry."

John stood up but before he followed the constable back to the highway, he picked up and threw one more rock into the ocean. He wondered if the sound from his rock hitting the water would travel far enough to eventually mingle with the whale's lonely call. He wondered where Emily was and what he would have supper in his apartment by himself.

Author's Note

The story of the whale is true, actually. If you google for 52 hertz you'll find several stories about it. I first heard of it from this story at K5.

4 responses to "Week #7 - 52 Hertz "

Ginny! wrote: Sunday, 20 Jan 2008 10:16 Wow, that's good. I like the contrast between John & Emily and the ocean information, and the way you tied them together. The DVD tangent was a nice detail. (The Editrix says: were all those sentence fragments on purpose?)

Marie wrote: Monday, 21 Jan 2008 17:54 I don't know if I've ever read a story or heard song lyrics that better defined this type of situation. Her email was flawed, his thoughts were somewhat disjointed but still connected, and at the end you wind up feeling shitty for him, which is how it goes. Your stories tend to end very abruptly, though, like they want to keep going but you're keeping them short. Which is good, I suppose.

Debs wrote: Thursday, 24 Jan 2008 03:47 My new favourite.

Beeler wrote: Friday, 20 Jun 2008 14:10 Good story. left me with a sad lonely feeling.

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