Makoona Read online

  Makoona

  An Eco-Adventure Series Book

  by John Morano

  For John Tyler and Vincent

  See Clearly

  Smile Brightly (and Often)

  Feel Deeply

  Touch Gently

  And Give Thanks . . .

  Mother and Padre Love You

  Sooo Much . . .

  Acknowledgments

  Binti, Kemar, and I would like to thank the following people for making this book possible.

  Kris, for her patience and love.

  Kathyrn Fuller for her contribution to this work, her dedication to the life of the planet, and for her wonderful example that we can make a difference.

  The late Roger Caras, an author who found a little space under his broad wing to mentor me.

  Alan Trist, Robert Hunter, Bob Weir, John Barlow, Jerry Garcia, and the Grateful Dead for being wildly generous with their lyrics and for caring deeply about the planet’s flora and fauna.

  Mom and Dad for everything.

  God, for giving me the words to tell stories about incredible creations.

  Monmouth University, for enduring support and encouragement.

  Jason Aydelotte, Supreme Gecko, for being a publisher and a friend who you can count on to live up to his word and do the right thing, one of those special people who does not separate who he is from how he does.

  Hilary Comfort for directing this project through the publishing process. I know I’m always in great hands when you’re on the team.

  Josh Mitchell for being the most talented editor I have ever worked with. It’s a joy to hand over my manuscript to someone who is such an absolute craftsman.

  Diana Buidoso for such a striking cover design that manages to capture the feel of the story as well as the reader’s eye.

  Sarah Anderson for being able to show readers what’s in my mind, something I am incapable of. Your illustrations always manage to transport me into the moment.

  Lastly, thanks to Vincent and John for understanding, when those rare moments occur, that Daddy can’t play “rough games” because he has to write a story about an octopus and her friends.

  Introduction

  By Kathryn S. Fuller

  President, World Wildlife Fund (2000)

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” goes the old saying. And nowhere is that more true than with the world’s oceans—those vast and magnificent environments of which human beings see only a tiny part.

  Sometimes, it takes a book like John Morano’s Makoona to remind us just what amazing sights are lurking beneath the surface. In the undersea world of Makoona, octopuses, dolphins, sharks, turtles, blowfish, gobies, stargazers, and moray eels all combine to create a teeming tableau of life.

  Far from being a fantasy kingdom, this coral reef and its denizens are typical of the life that flourishes in our seas. Oceans sustain a dazzling array of species—from jawless fish to giant squids, from microscopic phytoplankton to mammoth blue whales. It’s no exaggeration to say they are the largest wildlife “home” in the world.

  But oceans don’t just harbor life; they make life possible. Covering two-thirds of the Earth’s surface, they absorb three million tons of carbon dioxide a year. They also provide lifesaving medicines and the world’s largest single source of animal protein. They are irreplaceable parts of a functioning planet.

  And now they are in danger. Overfishing, coastal development, pollution, and illegal trade in endangered species have imperiled these precious marine environments . . . along with the plant and animal life they sustain.

  Consider these statistics:

  Ten percent of the world’s coral reefs—reefs just like the one portrayed in Makoona—have vanished. Another sixty percent are at risk.

  Nearly half the planet’s salt marshes and mangrove forests have been drained or cleared.

  Many of the world’s fisheries are overfished and at risk from destruction.

  Populations of tunas, swordfish, marlins, sharks, and other large oceanic predators have dropped more than eighty percent in the last two decades.

  And that’s not all. Manmade chemicals are preventing marine wildlife from surviving and reproducing. Land-based pollution is killing off huge numbers of fish and spreading massive oxygen-draining blooms of algae across our waters. And destructive fishing practices like the ones described in this book are driving endangered species to the brink of extinction.

  Time is running out for our oceans. And it will take a concentrated global effort to save them.

  That’s why the World Wildlife Fund has launched its Planet Campaign, an ambitious effort to save the Earth’s most biologically important habitats.

  Using special computerized mapping technology, our scientists have identified some two hundred of the world’s most outstanding environments. Nearly a third of these are marine: places like mangroves of east Africa, the Philippines’ Sulu Sea, Australia’s Great Barrier Reef, and the legendary Galapagos Islands (a setting aptly used by the author in his first eco-novel, A Wing and a Prayer), where Charles Darwin first developed his theory of evolution.

  Drawing on this framework, WWF and its partners are now working to apply conservation principles across entire ecoregions. One of our projects, for instance, is targeting Alaska’s Bering Sea, a remarkably productive marine ecosystem that boasts 450 species of fish, crustaceans, and mollusks, 50 seabird species, and 25 mammal species.

  We hope that by finding new ways to manage natural resources here, we can create models for saving marine resources on even larger scales.

  Unfortunately, much of what we are trying to save is out of sight. So although our oceans are, in some respects, even more threatened than our lands, many people may not know it. That’s one of the reasons why Makoona is so important. It brings the ocean and its life to us, lifting it above the surface of the sea and reminding us of its value and what needs to be done.

  How many of us realize, for instance, that during the late 1970s and 1980s, nearly 80 percent of the grasses in America’s Chesapeake Bay disappeared? You can be sure that if 80 percent of America’s forests had disappeared over the same period, there would have been a massive outcry. But here, it went relatively unnoticed.

  So the World Wildlife Fund is working to sound the alarm. Through our Living Planet campaign and our Global Marine Initiative, we are working to protect not just marine species, but also the biological processes that have kept our oceans alive for millions of years.

  We still have much to do . . . and much to learn. In the last few years alone, scientists have discovered whole new groups of organisms living in deep-ocean vents—organisms that flourish without sunlight and resemble no other life form ever encountered. Perhaps they will one day be characters in another John Morano story. And who knows what other mysteries are waiting to be unlocked?

  That’s why it’s so critical to educate people about our marine systems and the threats they face. I hope, as you read Makoona, you’ll understand just how important healthy oceans are to a healthy planet. And I hope you’ll become one of the millions of citizens who have dedicated themselves to restoring oceans for future generations.

  Chapter One

  No Good Deed

  They were no more than a community of crabs, turtles, and small fish floating on the foam—fifty-six boat people. While several lied about their nationalities, the majority were Vietnamese, along with a few Chinese and one Cambodian, a boy named Kemar. In addition to sharing the boat—an old bucket of bolts—the occupants were all refugees, having fled their respective countries for a variety of reasons. Most were tired of war.

  Kemar was running from the Khmer Rouge. It’s not that they were looking for him specifically. They didn’t even know the sixteen-year-old was alive. They were more preoccupied w
ith other things. One of their twisted political sayings was, “To keep you is no benefit. To kill you is no loss.” It was a saying all Cambodians were familiar with. And so, like countless others, Kemar fled. He was luckier than most.

  The whistle blew—one long blast, one short. It signaled that the boys would have to dive again. Kemar had already stashed enough fish for himself and Son Ba, but ignoring the call was a dangerous thing to do. Reluctantly, Kemar rose and put his wet clothes back on so that he’d have a dry set waiting for him when he returned.

  Son Ba was a girl of Cambodian-Chinese descent who made the mistake of letting the Vietnamese know her heritage. Old prejudice and hatred ran deep. Son Ba was lucky that she wasn’t tossed over the rail, as she was reminded daily. She and Kemar were allowed to stay on the boat as long as they performed the most unpleasant tasks. The two had a deal: Kemar would steal fish and prepare them, and Son Ba would steal everything else. Together, they would survive, always watching each other’s back.

  Kemar had no family on the vessel. He lived above decks in a lifeboat that had more holes in it than a fishing net. It could be cold and wet in the lifeboat, but it was also roomier and usually smelled better than other places on the rickety tub. The lifeboat was actually a very comfortable home, unless, of course, heavy weather or a tsunami crossed their bow, in which case Kemar would get onto a main deck and lash himself to the boat.

  Although he was probably the best swimmer among his peers, Kemar was fortunate to come away with a handful of fish livers at the end of the day. He didn’t dare complain. Discipline was doled out by several of the older men on board. Anyone who stepped out of line would be forced to kneel on a length of bristly sun-dried rope while being beaten with an old bamboo fishing pole. It reminded the boy of the monks’ rattan switch that creased his back when he was a child at school in Cambodia.

  But as bad as the boat might be, Kemar knew it was much better than existing under the Khmer Rouge. He had the ocean, Son Ba, and a meal or two each day, and he didn’t worry about dying. Life was good.

  Kemar made his way to the bow, where the boys would gather their gear. A canvas awning strung over the forward section of the deck shielded the elderly from the afternoon sun. Above the wheelhouse, dirty laundry waved in the breeze like flags in a regatta. At the stern, women cooked rice on charcoal stoves next to vats of boiling fish.

  Filthy coops held fowl and pigs. Across from the stoves and livestock, a lean-to was draped over the aft deck with two “toilets.” Though many people neglected to use them, there was no end to jokes about the toilets’ proximity to the galley.

  The boy was handed a scare line from a smiling elder named Mir Ta. Mir Ta was the tallest, largest man on the boat. He was perhaps the only elder who liked the boy. No one knew more jokes than Mir Ta. It was said that his spirit was so full of joy and love that he had to constantly tell jokes, laugh, and embrace others to prevent his body from bursting with cheer.

  “Last trip of the day,” Mir Ta chuckled. “Be careful out there.”

  “Yes,” Kemar joked, “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to your dinner.”

  “It’s a shame . . . a real shame that I don’t have to jump in that ocean. And what makes it worse—yes, it certainly does—is that I eat better than those who do. But I don’t make the rules, no I don’t.”

  “When you find out who does, will you let me know?” Kemar asked facetiously.

  The dozen boys Kemar fished with were good workers. They had more energy than the adults, ate less, drank less, took up less space on the boat, and were easier to discipline. It was not unusual to make ten or more dives a day. This was their twelfth, and the day wasn’t over yet, although for Kemar, it would be soon.

  Just as they had done previously, the boys began to launch themselves over the rail as the boat passed over a reef that looked like promising fishing ground. The youngsters usually worked in water anywhere from fifteen to forty feet deep. Often, they would have to save one of their comrades from drowning, especially toward the end of the day when everyone was tired.

  Some of the older boys swam to the far end of the reef, where they secured a large net to the base of the coral and stretched it up to the surface. In the meantime, Kemar and his cohorts spread out in a line at the other end of the reef.

  Each boy held a length of rope weighted at the bottom with a heavy stone or brick. White plastic strips were tied about a foot apart along the ropes. When the lines were stretched out underwater, the two-foot-long plastic strips would come to life, swaying and bouncing as the boys shook their ropes up and down. Slowly, the youngsters would swim toward the net, herding the fish, who were too frightened to swim through the ropes.

  Even fish who lived in underwater lairs would be driven from their homes by the scare lines. The fiercest among them would fall prey to the illusion. Panicked by the swaying plastic strips coming at them, they swam from the perceived danger right into the netting, which was untied and raised from the sea before the victims could escape.

  It would usually take a few minutes to winch the net out of the water and swing it over the stern of the boat. Large wicker baskets were used to remove and sort the catch. Perch, bass, coral cod, grouper, rays, sharks, eels, angels, grunts, octopuses, snappers, and even crabs and turtles were all dumped on the deck. Valuable fish would be packed in ice and sold. The “junk” fish would be boiled or salted. Some would be smoked, dried, and eaten.

  The boat people used almost everything they caught, needed no bait, and could generally support themselves without much help from others. But there were secondary effects produced by their lifestyle that eluded their attention. They created a high level of incidental death. Sea life that didn’t suit their needs often died on deck. Size and species limits were ignored, devastating fish populations, removing animals before they could reproduce, and altering the ratios of predators and prey.

  Even their method was problematic. Fish perished in the process of being netted. Weighted scare lines crushed the coral it crashed down upon, destroying not only the backbone of the coral community that took thousands of years to form, but ultimately, the foundation upon which the boat people’s own way of life was built.

  Because the boat people were generally seen as a nuisance, no country would allow the refugees to dock and disembark. The closest they came was when Captain Phan would run the boat ashore near a port, knowing the host country would supply water, fuel, a few parts for the engine, and a tow out to sea if the refugees would sail off quietly. For the boat people, it was the only way to survive.

  As Kemar began what he hoped would be the last pass of the day, he slipped a cheap pair of swimmer’s goggles on. To him, they were priceless, because they kept the stinging salt water from irritating his eyes. He’d fought more than once to make sure the cheap plastic goggles stayed in his pocket.

  The boys hit the water, swam into position, allowed their lines to uncoil, and began to chase whatever lived beneath them into the net. It was Kemar’s job to veer in and close off his flank to prevent the fish from escaping out the sides. The other boys were all cued to Kemar’s movements. Although none of them would admit it, once they hit the water, Kemar ceased being “the Cambodian” and became their leader.

  Kemar liked to look under the water. He tried to see beyond the sooty clouds that the scare lines created in the sand. The colorful coral and the incredible variety of sea life always amazed and amused him. He could see that this dive was going to produce a good catch.

  Transfixed on what was happening below, he watched the fish flee just as they’d always done. A grouper, a parrotfish, several clownfish, a pair of porgies, a cluster of grunts, coral trout, a black-barred garfish, a gray shark, and a white-tip all raced toward the net.

  Then he saw something flash beneath him. It was moving swiftly and changing colors as it swam, from pure white to cobalt blue to angry orange to terrified red. Kemar had seen hundreds of octopuses in his life, but this one held his attention. For the first t
ime, the boy could sense the fear, the desperation this animal felt. It reminded him of how he’d fled. And then he wondered, if that octopus was like him, had he somehow become its Khmer Rouge?

  Suddenly, the octopus shot up from the bottom and hovered right in front of Kemar’s face. The boy’s dark stare met the mollusk’s yellow eyes. It had long, black, rectangular pupils. Kemar had never noticed an octopus’s eyes before. These were bright, full of life, and petrified.

  The creature hovered in the water. Its tan flesh was smooth, with yellow and orange flashes pulsing through its body. The colorful streaks seemed to emanate from the rear of the octopus’s large mantle. The streaks stretched over the top and around the sides and stopped at the eyes, where the orange and yellow met in a burst of color.

  Kemar was mesmerized. The octopus gently reached out two of its arms. One stroked the red sash, called a kremar, that was tied around the boy’s waist. The other arm touched Kemar’s hand, the one that held the dangling scare line. The creature creased its mantle, and then Kemar thought—or imagined he thought—the sound of a single word reverberating in his mind: Why? A moment later, the octopus turned black, released a cloud of black ink, and jetted off toward the net.

  The confused Cambodian dropped the scare line and contemplated his hand. It felt cold and numb. Was it his imagination? One can think strange thoughts after a dozen trips into the sea. The water was cold, he reasoned, and he’d probably gripped the line a little too tightly, cutting off his circulation. Perhaps he grazed it against a stinging coral or a meandering jellyfish.

  Regardless, his hand was empty. The line was draped over a stand of fan coral beneath him. The fish were quick to spot the opening. They began to pour out of the exposed flank, the corner that Kemar hadn’t sealed.

  “You idiot!” the boy treading water next to Kemar shouted. “Now we’ll have to dive again for sure. How could you be so stupid?”