Cape Breton, August 2014

The water around its stout body was still comfortably cold, but less so. It surfaced, blew spray upwards, dipped back down. The sand and seaweed on the ocean floor came into view, but others in its pod swam on either side and even in front of it, so it journeyed on. It heard the muffled sounds of crashing waves, not the comforting clicks that echoed in deeper water. Its fins grazed the sand as the ocean tugged it into shallower waters until it spat him onto the hard, cold shore. It waited for a wave to pull him back out. None came. It lay still, conserving energy. Waiting.

Meanwhile, driving along the squiggly road that traced the coastline, Tinker glanced out across the Atlantic. Seagulls wheeled and screeched overhead while whitecaps on the navy blue water mirrored cotton-ball clouds in the sky. Mainland Nova Scotia was visible on the horizon; a fine enough place to visit, but home for Tinker would always be here on Cape Breton Island. A scattering of small boats dotted the outer Canso Strait. Though he'd seen the view countless times from multiple perspectives, it never failed to seduce him. He breathed in the salty air through his open window, let the warm wind whip his weathered face, and turned the radio off, straining his ears to hear the distant rumble of the incoming tide.

Lulled by the beauty, Tinker's concentration waned and his Buick drifted seaward until he almost grazed the guardrail. He swerved to avoid busting through it and toppling down a rocky cliff. "Holy Mary Mother of God!" he blurted as his wheels made black skid marks on the road, jerking him to a stop on the shoulder. He sat motionless for a few seconds, his white-knuckled fingers glued to the steering wheel, until he snapped to and exhaled. His torso felt sore underneath the taut seat belt, and he rubbed his instantly aching neck. I may be old, he told himself, but it's not my time just yet. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and placed them back on the steering wheel, then continued on toward home.

It was Tuesday, so his wife, Florence, would be in the kitchen patting out fishcakes. He pictured her heating oil in the cast iron frying pan and stirring a pot of brown beans. She'd have the table set with green tomato chow in a bowl draped with a tea towel to keep the flies off. He licked his lips thinking of it, but sadness tinged his excitement for supper, knowing he'd have to avert his eyes from the empty chair his son once occupied.

Approaching town, he glanced at the now-visible familiar sign, writ- ten in English and Gaelic, Welcome to Falkirk Cove: Fáilte. It needed a fresh coat of paint and was slightly off kilter, neglected. He was surprised to find his buddy Bob standing next to it, waving his arms.

"Bob," he called out, pulling over. "Need a drive?"

Bob climbed into the passenger seat. "Tinker, we've got to get down to the shore right away. Steel yourself. Apparently it's quite a scene."

"An accident?" Tinker asked.

"Of sorts," Bob said. "A mass beaching of pilot whales. Charlie called me to round you up so we could help rescue 'em. He and Nell are already down there."

They got to the beach quickly. As they raced through the dunes, the sharp marram grass slapped against Tinker's Levis. Over the sound of his own laboured breathing he heard people shouting and waves lapping. His grandson, Charlie, ran up the beach carrying two buckets.

"We need to wet them quick. They're drying out," Charlie said, tossing a bucket at Tinker, then the other at Bob.

Tinker froze when he saw the whales lying on the sand. There looked to be about a dozen, and a few people were pouring seawater over their glossy black bodies. Though in his past he'd seen migrating whales from his fishing boat, in all his seventy-three years Tinker had never seen one on land. His urge to get closer to them was strong, but when his feet started moving again he kicked off his shoes and instead ran into the cold waves to fill his bucket.

Nell was on her way up the beach, a full bucket in each hand. "Keep their blowholes clear so they don't suffocate. Wet them down, and if you see one on its side, whistle so we can roll it upright," she said.

He listened carefully to Nell, trusting she knew what to do. She could be a bit of a bossy boots but that girl was smart, no question; university educated on the mainland and now back in Cape Breton, trying to figure out how to put her science degree to use. Charlie was lucky to have her. Tinker hoped like hell they'd land permanent jobs here soon.

Charlie was off to the side on his phone. "Call yer grandmother — tell her we'll be late for supper, would ya?" Tinker yelled, wistfully thinking of the fishcakes he wouldn't get to eat for some hours yet. Charlie gave him a thumbs-up.

Tinker lumbered through the sand toward an unattended whale, about two metres long. It was so still and quiet he wondered if it was alive. It was on its belly, with its blowhole clear, so he angled around to look into its eyes. They were like small black bowling balls, and inside those eyes he saw not only intelligence but also pleading. It rattled him, and he waved his palm over the blowhole to confirm the whale was breathing. He felt it emitting warm puffs of air, then he stroked the whale a few times, not sure if he was comforting it or himself.

"Hey there, feller. What are you doing up here on land? You belong out there, in the Atlantic," Tinker said. Charlie hadn't been a baby for twenty-two years, but the soothing voice Tinker had once used to talk to his grandson came right back to him.

The whale wasn't used to the sound of human voices. It wanted to swim, but its flippers were stuck. It looked at the man, less than half his size and ten times his age. It had no choice but to accept his help.

"Tinker ... keep running buckets. We've got to keep them wet until enough people arrive ... that we can push them back into the water," Nell said, breathless. She was doing double duty, directing the bucket runners and checking the status of each whale.

Cold sand stuck like grit between Tinker's toes. "You look some foolish, Bob," Tinker said to his friend as their paths crossed. Bob's thinning salt-and-pepper hair flopped around his head and water sloshed out of his bucket. The two of them used to play on this same beach as boys, hauling water out of the waves to fill the moats in their sandcastles. Later, as teenagers, they'd made bonfires here on warm summer evenings and guzzled swish from Mason jars.

When he bent to fill his bucket Tinker stopped, hands on knees, panting. He'd fallen out of shape in the seven years since the arthritis in his shoulder had forced him to retire from fishing. He'd gone a bit soft and his skin was droopier by the day. He wore his pants low now and his belly flopped over his belt. His body startled him when he saw his reflection in the bathroom mirror. How could it be that he felt mostly the same on the inside and looked so different on the outside? He hoisted the bucket up and clambered back up the beach.

Charlie was still on that damned phone. Tinker shot him a "hurry up" look and Charlie met his gaze with a blank stare before turning his back to Tinker. Charlie had been coming and going at all hours recently, and even when he was home seemed distracted. Tinker couldn't get a bead on him and had given up trying. Charlie was a man now, after all, even though he still...