"James Tiptree Jr - The Boy Who Waterskied to Forever" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

enormous black angelfish had set up housekeeping – and there they were,
sweeping flat to the pale sand as my shadow came over, rolling their big
eyes in what seemed like an imploring plea, but was doubtless considered
menacing by their natural enemies. Then there were the tiny clouds of
color rising from where the brilliant parrotfish munched and chewed a
rock. And the white sand floor, which suddenly erupted into a four-foot
stingray, sailing off to halt in frozen invisibility a few yards away.
Obviously no one had ever used a spear gun here.
Then I began to explore, letting the gentle swells carry me over perfect
lace-coral fields, dazzled by neon-blue angels, admiring the impossible
pink of the ill-named and delectable hogfish – another proof, if one were
needed, that no one had yet shot over this reef. Clouds of blue-headed
wrasse were feeding in my shadow: I paused for a long inspection, hoping
to catch sight of one of the juvenile females, who mate in schools, in the
phase of growing into a much larger, red-and-yellow, monogamous male.
Until recently these two forms had been considered separate species, and I
never see them without wondering what our own social system would be
like had humans evolved with this trait.
Imagine our world, if all the senior males, the O.J. Simpsons, the Walter
Cronkites and Leonid Brezhnevs, had started out as little girls and young
mothers? Just in time, I remembered not to chuckle and choke myself.
Never had the underwater world been more ravishing; I flippered lazily
through turquoise and liquid air, noting that the light was now tinged
with faint gold. Even the evil head of a moray eel protruding from its hole
in the reef was a green-gold heraldic emblem of villainy, and the enormous
grouper stupidly eyeing me from a half-spear shot away was crusted with
dark jewels.
The sea was so calm that I decided to cross the inner reef and have a
look at the coral heads where the so-called sleeping sharks occasionally
hide. I had acquired companions; three young barracudas were circling
me, disappearing for moments only to rejoin me from a new angle, their
mouths as usual open in toothy gapes. I had taken the normal precaution
of removing all shiny gear, even to my medical-plaque chain, but one large
fellow was showing so much interest in my diving watch that I debated
hiding it in my suit. The local barracudas are said to be harmless – I had
been instructed, when meeting one nose-to-nose under water, to shout
“Boo!” But I had found this difficult, especially in a snorkel mask. My
sound came out as a pallid “Urk!” I found a pass in the inner reef and
flippered through, momentarily losing my carnivorous friends. The
in-shore bay was an uninteresting grass-plain relieved here and there by a
giant orange starfish, a flotilla of yellow-tails, or a huge live conch. It was
the isolated brain-coral heads which interested me. I cruised along
up-current; the old learn quickly to start their journeys upwind or uphill,
so that nature will help them home. What I was looking for was a large
pile with a cave at its base in which a sleeper shark might lie.




A NOTE ABOUT THE MAYAS OF THE QUINTANA ROO