CATS AND WHALES EVOLVING IN CAIRNS, NORTH QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA
The El Torito swims in from the Solomon Islands, ugly as ever, back lit by the early morning sun, replete with Walter, family, friends and toys. When I stagger sleepily on deck and see her gliding through the leads into the harbor, the first thing I think of is time - as in wasted time. Here it is, February. Five months have flown by. Five months! What have we been doing? Nothing. What are we going to do now? Who knows?
Freddy and I have breakfast and wait until they have finished clearing in and move El Torito to the piles. Then we go over for a joyous reunion. Walter and I sit down and, in his usual way, he knifes straight to the most embarrassing issue. "What have you been up to?"
"I haven't been doing very much of anything," I admit. "Just looking around."
He nods his head, neither sympathetic or surprised and asks, "OK, so what have you discovered about Cairns?"
"Cairns reminds me of a small Midwest American town. There is a Woolworth's (called Woolies by the Aussies), supermarkets and shopping malls full of US brand-name products with "made in Australia" on the label. They even have US magazines revised and reprinted in Australia - Time, Newsweek, Playboy."
Walter knows all this and is looking thoughtful, or maybe tired. "I also found out that while Australians might seem to be aspiring Americans, but they don't especially like Yanks up here in North Queensland. Cairns is a town on the move and tourism development is what it's moving towards."
"Met any interesting people?" Walter stifles a yawn. "Sorry, I haven't had a full night sleep for a week."
"We've met lots of people. Interesting? Well, there is a young American couple here, Ron and Susan O'Connor. They run a dive shop and own that big sportfisherman over there at the wharf - the Osprey. They want to meet you, so we'll head over there whenever you want."
Walter digests that for a few moments and I sit there unhappily thinking of how lethargic I've been. Shamefully, I haven't even gone diving on the Great Barrier Reef which lies some 40 miles offshore. In fact, since we anchored by the outer marker, the Research Vessel Moira has not budged.
Walter and his gang are ready to drop, so Freddy and I leave and return to Moira.
We are on the west side of the harbor. Walter has tied El Torito to The Sticks on the east side. The Sticks are a nest of pilings - North Queensland's answer to a marina. There are several large wharves on our side of the harbor - the side where the town is. We anchored on this side because it is closer to town and because I have an inborn distrust of outboard motors and a healthy respect for fast moving tidal currents. Outboards always work perfectly for me unless it is pouring rain, blowing hard, or pitch black with an outgoing tide moving at 5 knots.
Outboard motors have a sixth sense to let them know the worst possible time to quit and not start again. So, we anchored on this side. If the motor quits between Moira and shore, we will either be carried back to Moira or to shore depending on the tide. If it quit while we were half-way from one side of the harbor to the other, we might wind up drifting out to sea. In fact, we have rescued quite a few dinghies whose outboards failed in mid stream. Since we are the last boat before the long drift to the Great Barrier Reef, I feel somewhat obligated to go out and tow them in when I hear that late-night "HELP," drifting by.
Freddy and I slouch in Moira's cockpit and have one of our democratic ships meetings. "What do you think? Should we be friendly and move Moira over to tie up alongside El Torito." I table the suggestion.
"No fucking way," She looks at me like I'm some kind of nut.
This tough decision made, we sit and stare at each other.
"So what now?" Freddy grabs Walter the Cat and ruffles his fur.
"I don't know. Walter has no real plans yet. He just wants to get started with the business of settling in and immigrating here."
"Sounds terrible," Freddy mumbles, the cat belly-up on her lap.
"Yeah. I'm not especially interested in immigrating. Importing the Moira would be a horrendous expense. The combined customs and sales tax comes close to 65% of the Customs Department's estimate of the value of the boat." We don't have that kind of money.
"Right, so what ARE we going to do?" Freddy persists.
I shrug. I don't know. I have not been completely idle. I've been considering writing a book - about dolphins. And lately I've been doing a little research on evolution. About selection, to be exact. And we've been fixing up things on Moira, keeping her shipshape.
We decide to go ashore and wash the spinnaker in the fountain. Arlene and Rinehart from Ganesh come along to give us a hand. It is nearly lunchtime and the only people in the park are four Abo men, sprawled in a state of semi-consciousness under the hedge surrounding the park. They are accompanied by scattered wine bottles; the modern version of the ancient Dreamtime.
After lunch, spurred on by the need to do something at least a little biological, if not mechanical, I sit down and make some notes about evolution. Here's what I write:
The forces creating selective pressures on a population are close to (the same as?) Moirae. Random chance may play a part in evolution, but selection is certainly not random. Just the opposite. Natural selection. An interesting couple of words. Just what is natural supposed to mean? And what, exactly is selection when Natural does it? How can the process of selection be random when it is specifically targeting successful behavior?
Walter the Cat decides to take a more active role in this afternoon science project and relinquishes his post at the companionway hatch to sit on my navigation desk. His unfathomable eyes watch me write.
Fed a gourmet diet complete with vitamin pills, he has grown to an enormous size, about 15 kilos and almost a meter long from nose to tail-tip. He sits like one of those statues of the ancient Egyptian Temple Cats.
What about the evolution of cats like Dr. Walter A. Starck III?
Did man select cats or did cats select men? I look at him again. This particular furry monster walked out of the Solomon Island night and stood on my foot. Clearly, he selected me.
I write in my log, a strange story indeed about cats and whales.