Gladys Blanca
Gladys Blanca
There are whales off the coast of my ancestral island that are attacking pleasure sailors.
I delight in this. I marvel.
They claim a specific matriarch named Gladys Blanca is the ring leader.
Teaching orca pods and her babies how to smash into the hulls, press against the rudders, snapping chains and immobilizing the sailboats for a time, and even sinking at least three vessels.
They claim Gladys Blanca must have had a bad run-in with a boat at some point. She suffered a sort of orca ptsd, and now she lashes out.
Whales have always meant a great deal to me. They are massive and minuscule, miraculous and mysterious.
They are cosmically more intelligent than primates, of this, I am sure.
They know of eternity in a manner that we can’t comprehend.
We little beasts given to pillaging and murdering their ancestors en mass, without sanctity or thanks, as did our ancestors.
Our modern human viciousness blinds us to the enormity of the gifts of this earth.
Forever set outside of Eden. Stirring in our base amusements and filth.
They say of this transient orca pod — there are but 40 left.
Gladys Blanca knows full well what needs to be done — and is fighting back as best she can.
The only reason I hope she stops — is that if she doesn’t — she will be killed, and I would rather no more martyrs.
But in my heart, I thrill at the thought of her.
