On The Waterside
Fiction - maybe
Lookout Point
By Ben Amato
In practiced unison, they both awoke several minutes before the alarm. She slipped out
and headed for the coffee filters, sink and refrigerator. He made his way to the listening post
and hit restart. Far across the open bay, the underwater microphones began their daily
scans. They sent pulses of data through the miles of cable that stretched to the computers
inside his office. The monitors slowly came to life as the noises of morning filtered into his
sanctuary.
In the kitchen, they both moved silently through their pre-dawn ritual. The oven chimed
when it reached 350 and she poured the batter into the pan. His bare feet pattered about,
from cabinet to counter. The silverware drawer rattled. She put breakfast into the oven and
motored off to the bath. Soon clouds of steam and the whoosh of the shower overshadowed
the aroma and sound of perking coffee machine.
The biscuits rose as he returned to his office. Through the picture window he saw the
first rays of sunlight set the waves ablaze. The red-fire glare that danced atop the bay’s
surface reminded him of the early days. For months on months, each morning they sailed out
to place the microphones, their bodies covered by sweat then salt. Repeatedly, they dove to
the bottom to drive in the listening devices and then resurfaced to the blistering heat, then
move the boat and set up the next station. But that was years ago and now everything was
automatic, analytical and controlled from his air-conditioned office.
He heard her turn the water off as he logged in and began to collect this morning’s data.
As he scanned the charts and tables, the same worried look that marked his face for months
shaded his features. His project was to listen to life, using sound to feel the pulse of the
planet. Remote acoustic sensors registered temperatures, currents, tides, solar energies and
even the basic functions of ocean life. Ever since the first streams of data appeared, he
greeted the day weary, anxious and sad.
His mind drifted out to slowing ocean currents, shifting climatic patterns and melting
glaciers. His eyes glazed over as he saw dying species, flooded coastlines, gigantic violent
storms. Droughts and raging wildfires ravaged the land. And then he was dragged back to his
home by the soft footsteps of his wife in the bedroom. Closets and drawers slid open and
closed. At somewhat regular intervals, a coffee mug thumped on the dresser and in the
silence of this morning, he heard the long sensual sound of her dress zipper up. His frown
softened and then abruptly froze, as he heard the snap of her bag and her quick steps down
the hall.
Sensors from the bay and the coastal shelf updated his long-range projections and
brought his thoughts back into his work. The global warming will be brief but dramatic, followed
by the breakdown of seasonal weather patterns. Then the mega-storms will usher in
devastating change and begin the slow, gradual decline into the next ice age. After that, who
knows?
He rose from his monitors and stepped out on to the deck overlooking the coast. To his
right, he saw the blood-red morning sun as it rose over the hills. On the left was the ocean, so
radiant and beautiful. Behind him he heard her stride through the kitchen, remove the biscuits
from the oven and then drop something on to the counter. It sounded like a coin, spun about a
few times and then landed flat, silent, dead.
His eyes locked on the horizon when he heard the engine start and her wheels toss the
gravel from the driveway. Way too soon he heard her disappear down the road and he turned
and walked to the kitchen table. There sat her wedding ring and a note.
“You never listened to me.”
