Grey sky meets gun-metal ocean. Due east, off the bow of the vessel, black mounds rise. We expect smooth rubber, but their backs are rough, edged in barnacles and swirls carved from oceanic ordeals. We hear the pop of beer bottles, but foam spurts instead from surfacing blowholes. Captured in the fog that embraces our boat, old sardines and fermented seaweed swamp nostrils ill-prepared for the stench of whales. A spout of fetid water arcs into the air. We laugh, cough in uncomfortable delight. They begin to sound. Suspended in our peculiar conceits, we wait for the slap of flukes.
100 words for the resurrected
'13 Untitled (Sally) 51,668;
'12 Barcelona Clash 51,878;
'11 Mojo Madness 52,793;
'10 Changing Directions 53,400;
'09 Daybreak 56,565;
'08 Vacant 52,486