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Icy seas engulf the setting sun.  Fisherman turn their boats to shore, bellies full, their murderous day is done.  Scores of frightened eyes stare to darkened skies in search of help that will not come, from hardened hands and hardened steel that disembowel the catch and feel the final throb of life.

The happy journey home is filled with laughter, beer and talk of gains, as sharks and gulls and diesel fuel absorb the guts and bloody bits of life's remains.  The ocean's calm and evening's glow belie the frenzy and the rage of giant mammals, thrashing through the night , tens of murky fathoms far below.

As hours pass and darkness falls, the herd expands confusion reigns.  The ocean's floor becomes a maze as frightened whales await the break of day's first light.  Without a sign, without a sound, the maze begins to move as one, united in it's common though befuddled cause.  The Black Armada sets it's course.

A pre-dawn haze gives way to morning sun.  The beach awakens to the sound of waves that run their never ending course, joined by waves of laughing children, racing back and forth, to taunt the ocean's pulse.  Mothers keep a watchful eye from folding chairs and blankets strewn nearby.  Lifeguards perched upon their stations scan the scene, poised to warn of dangerous situations.  Swimmers unaware.

Music blares from boxes all around.  The smell of tanning lotion fills the air. Books are read, shells and other treasures found.  Food is served.  Summer's daytime ritual playing out in much the way it always does.

But this play holds a different scene, quite bizarre, beheld by very few.  Rehearsed the night before, the stage is set, the curtains rise, Black Armada now in view.  The players charge the audience who view the play with disbelieving eyes.  A mass of angry whales breach the surf and slam upon the shallow waters, slashing out against their foe, until the Army dies one by one.

A startled group of swimmers tries to help. to no avail.  The Army's fate is sealed.  It flounders in the surf and gasps for air.  It dies in vain, its purpose unrevealed.  Fallen soldiers wash ashore, the final scene a sad and tearful sight.  The evening news declares "the whales are mad, keep your children home tonight".

Scholars roam the battlefield in search of clues, finding none and failing to agree.  In sheltered coves nearby, men sharpen knives and mend their nets and mount their boats to point them out to sea.  The day gives birth to yet another rising sun.
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