Listening Sharks

Call me Sam. That’s my name. Simple, straightforward, one-syllable. That’s best for men, I think. Those four-syllable names sound fancy, but it takes longer to talk to a guy like that, doesn’t it? With me you just say “Do you want to go to the beach, Sam?” Try saying that to a Jedediah. You’ll see what I mean. Women, now that’s different. You’re going to take your time talking with a woman, so a three, four, or even a five-syllable name, that’s delightful. I think British names are especially good in a woman. I can say, “Why Ermelinda Chalmsleigh-Smythe, you are a sight for sore eyes!” That gives her a chance to smile, be pleased, and say “Thank you, Sam!” See what I mean?

Seafood is my hobby. You need to know that straight off. Actually with me it’s almost a vocation. I love seafood, and for vacations I do seafood tourism. That’s to say organized trips to prime seafood spots. It’s like golf vacations. You know, you’ve probably seen a group of guys flying to Myrtle Beach for a week or two of golf. It’s organized. Some company keeps track of where they’ve golfed, how they liked it, and a local co-ordinator has that information and steers them to good courses.

Seafood vacations are similar. Now some of you might be thinking Sam won’t meet women on a seafood vacation—well, you’d be wrong there. I came pretty close with a lovely lady in Boston last Christmas, Penelope Manchester. I’m no fool—I didn’t call her Penny or Pen, and she said she liked the way I said Penelope. She had limpid eyes. The co-ordinator put us at a table for two at the mixer on the first evening. I was ready to give that guy a big tip! Then it got better.

The table next to us ordered scallops and they came. Now this was quite a well known seafood restaurant, supposedly a quality establishment. I said, “Penelope, do you see that?”

She looked and gasped. “They haven’t taken the ears off the scallops.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Now what kind of a seafood restaurant leaves the ears on?”

“I’m shocked,” she said.

“Me too,” I said. “Say, I know a place. Do you want to get out of here?”

“And how,” she said. So we cabbed it to “The Hole in the Wall.” For seafood in Boston you can’t beat it. The décor is not much, but that’s the point. They catch it and they cook it.

Penelope loved it, and I thought, she could be the one. The talk turned to our jobs. She worked for a famous think tank, hoped to get a job at the UN one day. Oh what a mind! Nothing more attractive than a woman with a fine mind. Close second, one who loves seafood. Both together, she’s not just a ten, she’s an eleven!

Well, I’m starting to wish I knew her ring size, you know what I mean? I’m not going to let this one slip away. Impulsive? Maybe, but she was looking more and more like a keeper. Then she asked about my job.

I’m proud of my work. I admit it’s often tedious and sometimes a bit scary. My job is not secret. It’s the details that are secret. I work for the NSA and two other agencies. My specialty is underwater counter-surveillance. Every day there are about a hundred enemy military vessels in our waters with microphones you would have to hear to believe, picking up all kinds of sounds, hoping to get an edge. Every day we send out a hundred vessels of our own to keep track of them, chase them out of our waters. And the technology keeps changing. You see what I mean--generally an interesting, worthwhile job, often tedious, sometimes, thinking about the possible consequences, a bit unnerving.

I told that to Penelope, and wouldn’t you know her parents and sister are pacifists and she’s uncomfortable with anything to do with the military. Well I was shocked. I said, “Usually pacifists are vegetarian, and you, Penelope, from the way you’re enjoying those Quahogs, are no vegetarian.

Then things went south. She says, “I am a piscetarian.”

I said, “Well you know I have no trouble with that. I don’t need meat. Just keep the seafood coming!”

She said that had nothing to do with it and she wanted to leave right then. No way could I fit into her family. I couldn’t believe it. She stood up, and left two periwinkle snails right there on her plate, one with the pin sticking out. I grabbed them on the way to the exit.

Now how’d I get on to that? Still feeling it, I guess, the one that got away. This week, same kind of vacation, different destination. Hope no one blows the world up while I’m away.

Tokyo

Japan is a seafood lover’s paradise. It’s not just sushi. They have everything. My co-ordinator’s name is Masakata, but he also uses an English name. “Call me Paul,” he says, and that’s just right. One syllable. You see what I mean.

Paul’s had a good idea. Considering the time change, and the long flight, we’re starting off at 5 a.m. at the Tokyo docks, watching them haul the big ones in and auction off the tuna. What a sight! For breakfast, something they call “okonomia yaki,”a kind of pancake meal, with seafood of course. You can eat seafood for every meal here. And sushi like I’ve never seen!

Paul has an itinerary all set up for me. Four days in Tokyo, a side trip to Mount Fuji, of course a cup at the famous tea house on the mountain, some time in Kyoto, Himeji Castle, and a visit to Okinawa. It’s a blue zone. People live longer there, much longer. I figure it’s because of the fish. I’ve purchased a Japan rail pass. I can take the bullet train up and down the country. Fast and efficient. I ask Paul about Kyoto. I’ve heard it’s hard for Westerners to get into the traditional inns, the ones with the lanterns overlooking the river. He seems pleased and says he’ll look into it. Good start!

Mount Fuji, Tea House

It was a beautiful ceremony with the cup of tea, it’s just that I found myself wishing for some fish to go with it. Well, I’ll get a Bento box back at the foot of the mountain, I thought. The bullet train was impressive, and there was candied octopus at the concession. Paul had given me a heads up for that.

My cell phone rang. That put the tea pourer out of sorts. It was Paul. “If I’ve understood the work you do, I think you need to come to the docks in Tokyo right away.”

When I asked why, he said that a fisherman had just brought in a shark with an electronic device no one had ever seen. I excused myself and caught the train back to Tokyo. I met Paul at the dock and he brought me to something like the port authority there. My phone rang again.

“Sam, where are you?”

“Tokyo,” I said.

I recognized one of the NSA higher-ups. “Good. I want you to liaise with Japanese intelligence and report to me about the device they’ve found on a shark. Get there as soon as you can.” Liaise—very NSA, I thought.

Okay. There it was on a long table, a blue shark about eleven feet long. About the middle on one side there was something electronic embedded. My eyes met those of the intelligence officer and I identified myself. He gave me his English name, Roger.

“I think we are interrupting your vacation,” he began.

I nodded. “That looks like quite a recorder with a transmitter. May I remove it?” He gestured to do so. I put gloves on. “This is new tech,” I said. Compact. Cyrillic alphabet, therefore Russian. Pretty smart. These blue sharks migrate, go through deeper waters. We’ve known the Russians have been picking up signals from our subs, but we haven’t been able to figure out how. This explains a lot. “May we photograph this, and send it to your bosses and mine?” I suggested. My counterpart agreed and produced a camera.

A few clicks and the images were sent on their way. Both our phones rang at once. They sent us to Okinawa, to the American base, to have the device analyzed more closely.

Disassembled, it was even more impressive. The components were advanced audio technology. Roger took more photos and emailed them. The device was set up to transmit live. Wherever the shark swam, when the microphone picked something up, the transmitter switched on. The sub receiving it could be a hundred miles away, but it would have a signal and a location for anything the shark came close to.

Roger and I ate together at a restaurant that he knew. I complimented his procedures, which were pitch perfect. When he asked me what I was hungry for, I said, “Shark of course. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

He laughed and ordered shark steaks for us. “What are you hoping to see on your vacation?” he asked.

I explained, said I realized I would have to give up on Himeji Castle, but I insisted on seeing Kyoto before flying back. I told him I had hoped to stay in an inn. Roger picked up his phone, and held a hurried conversation. Then he asked me to call Paul so that he could speak with him. More conversation in Japanese. The two men seemed to be understanding each other.

“It’s all arranged,” Roger said with satisfaction, writing some characters on a business card for me. “In Kyoto you will stay at my brother-in-law’s inn, and there will be Geisha in the evening.”

“That’s tremendous!” I explained. The guide book said it’s difficult for Westerners to be invited to an inn or to hear Geisha. A traditional inn and traditional music. Better and better.

Roger smiled. “For my colleague from the West. Your procedure was perfect too.”

Kyoto

I can’t say enough about Kyoto. The palaces where the emperors retired are stupendous. The rock gardens, everything taking your mind back to another time, and giving you a stillness and serenity. The inn was amazing, just like the tradition of hosting samurai. The hot bath soothed my muscles, and then it was time to accept my invitation to hear Geisha. They were watching for me, and welcomed me. They played the shamisen and sang. It was all like a dream.

Back at the inn, Roger’s brother-in-law asked me if I had enjoyed the day. Had I ever! We talked over warmed sake and found many interests in common. “Roger told me you love seafood, that you came to Japan partly to try different dishes.” I nodded. “My sister,” he continued, owns a seafood restaurant in San Francisco, and she has a vineyard north of the city. She is divorced. Perhaps you would care to meet her.”

Better and better! We finished our conversation and bowed to each other, respectfully and repeatedly. As I was going to my room, my host said, “Wait, there is something else. This message came for you.”

It was a FAX from my immediate supervisor in Maryland: “Sam, the agency is very impressed with your work, and what you’ve reported is very important. You’re being transferred to San Francisco with a raise and a promotion. Thanks and congratulations.”

Whoa! I sure hope she’s not a pacifist!