To Look Away

They lounged along the beach, hundreds, as far as I could see. Their skin glistened under a bright, overcast sky, their bellies stretched out and exposed.

They had hours left, some of them. We watched on, silent and helpless as they died. The whales gasped. They were stranded upon the sand, but at least not alone.

I wiped down the tables on the esplanade. Service was quiet. Despite the onlookers on the beach, the dying whales didn’t inspire the crowds to sit, order coffee, or eat eggs on toast.

The whales looked calm, I thought. Relaxed. Like it was still summer. They were just sunbathing, sipping orange juice, and napping in the last of the afternoon sun.

The sky darkened: its energy brewing, the air alive. The ocean roared. The waves crashed upon the sand, teased at picking up the bodies and taking them home, but then sunk back again.

Jack leaned against the front counter with folded arms. It was his name on the sign, and his recipes on the menu. He took the slow days too personally. But even in the dead of winter, customers swept through. He said we should close early.

As I mopped floors and stacked chairs, I watched the whales. They looked up at us, at everyone, and waited for us to help them. People edged closer and took pictures, but nobody knew what to do, so nobody did anything.

That night, buried beneath a blanket, I watched TV and ate pasta while the wind rattled the windows. Outside, the temperature steadily dropped. They must’ve been cold, the whales. The sand must’ve rubbed their skin raw. On the beach, the wind was biting.

I watched them on the seven o’clock news. One hundred and fifty-seven creatures sprawled across the sand, unmoving and unhelped. The newsreader stood up on the esplanade, the café was just out of frame. Her hair whipped up and around her face.

‘As the beach is a protected environmental regeneration zone, local authorities say it’s impossible to get the necessary equipment for a refloat there. With activists calling for a merciful intervention, and a mass euthanasia, authorities have issued a reminder that this is a protected species…’

It was national news. Experts struggled for answers.

Sleep came slowly. I stared up at the ceiling and listened as the rain fell. I imagined the whales lying beside each other, whispering confessions in the darkness: they wished to see home once more, to stretch, to swim. They were afraid. They thought, perhaps, that they should’ve lived better, been braver, when they had the chance.

By morning, many of the bodies were still and heavy upon the sand. Beside them, the others struggled on.

I unlocked the door and turned the sign to invite in the customers. I made myself a coffee and stood at the front window and watched. Already, people loitered among the dead.

‘Go down there and tell the people we’re open.’ Jack opened the windows, so the smell of bacon might fall upon the breeze and lure the people on the beach inside.

‘They’re looking at the whales,’ I said, my breath fogging the glass.

‘They can look from here. Tell them we have big windows.’

I’d dreamed of a day where all the customers stayed home, all at once, so we could rest. It wasn’t what I hoped. I stood behind the counter and stared idly out the window, down upon the beach below. The waves continued rolling in as if nothing was the matter. The ocean saw tragedy all the time, I thought.

The first bodies began to rot before the last of the whales were dead. The smell was terrible. We closed the doors and windows.

Those still willing to bear witness watched online, in the clean air. Most of us were tired of watching though. Tragedy could only be entertainment if it was quick. Tragedy that was slow and agonising and smelled of rotting flesh was too hard. It was easier to look away.

The only gazes that remained fixed were those of the surviving creatures. There were just a few left. Their skin was wind-chafed and worn thin. They waited patiently for someone to step in and do something.

The café doors remained closed. The wind howled. I made coffee for myself and Jack, as he turned the ovens off before lunch service. Down on the beach, they didn’t know what to do with the carcasses. It seemed they might leave them there forever, to be slowly picked apart by the birds. There was discussion, not for rescue but removal.

Jack and I sat at the table in the window and watched. People in high-vis and heavy boots wandered across the beach, hands on their hips, drifting through the whales. As they passed each body, birds lifted into the air and scattered.

I held the mug in both hands and looked between the lukewarm coffee and the remaining whales. From here, they might still be sunbathing. One of the last survivors heaved and sighed.

Niamh Wood is a writer and researcher based in Meanjin Brisbane. Niamh's work is published with Island (upcoming), Baby Teeth, Voiceworks, and others. In 2024, Niamh was writer in residence at BRAZZA artist residency in France. She is a creative writing PhD student at the University of New England, Australia. Find Niamh on Instagram @niamhwood12