The town is situated on a coast frequented by whales, and tourists would ascend the place to catch a glimpse of the magnificent beasts. There was a singular beauty about the whales, and people were always in awe on their first real sighting of one. You'd hear it reflected in their voices--they couldn't comprehend how such huge creatures could sing and dance under and atop the crashing waves so gracefully. The town flourished, whilst maintaining its sleepy seaside village charm. Soon there were not many open plots left, as holiday houses and bed and breakfasts were germinating all over the little place. Most of the locals viewed the early developments with much suspicion and a sprinkle of xenophobia, but with the development came opportunity and money. These were luxuries relatively unknown to us, and most welcome. We began to look forward to whale season, and whatever small businesses we had, we worked towards this time of year, reaping as many benefits as we could hope to. Where previously the whales were just part of nature around us, we now had a deeper appreciation of them. They were our celebrities, and we their agents. Although sometimes Maxwell, or Bang-bang as we dubbed him, would argue that it was the other way around.

Bang-bang was an antagonist by nature, not choice. Having the sea as his tempestuous lover might make any man grumpy. We never really knew how he earned his living, but whether he was gesticulating to the ocean or the heavens, he always drew a crowd. And so Bang-bang became known as the whale crier. Whatever it was that transpired between him and the deep blue, Bang-bang seemed to have developed his own language. None of us could really understand what he was on about half of the time, and for the most part even when he was deep in 'conversation', it seemed as if he wasn't really talking to anybody in particular. In fact, if one were to estimate a guess, it would be that he was talking to his stormy mistress. What was slightly disturbing about that, was that old Bang-bang was perfectly sane. He walked around with his old postman's bag, protecting it as though it contained all the important secrets of the world. Those of us who'd heard about them, suspected he was a switch, but we never knew for certain. Bang-bang also had a mangy mutt that looked as ancient as his owner and followed him everywhere, howling along when his master was in talks with the invisible stranger. Bang-bang could very well have been the first person to set foot in town. No one could recall if he was ever young, and that included octogenarian Mrs October, who'd lived with a varying number of oriental cats in the tumbled-down Silver Oaks flat on Main Road all her life. She never ventured out much. Her life was cloistered in four walls after her husband died countless years ago. Mrs October didn't feel the change in tide that suddenly hit the town. Not like the rest of us.

Nobody knew exactly how it happened, and even now, we're still trying to complete the puzzle. But if we remember anything, then we remember the coming of the storms. It didn't take me too long to settle into the quiet life around me. I had anticipated it to be more tumultuous but eight years down the line I was a local. Mostly.

For a seaside town, we had a fairly moderate climate: cold in winter, warm in summer, but nothing exceptional either way. 'Pleasant' comes to mind. But that changed, overnight, I think. That was the year the whales were late. That was the year the tourists left. The storms lasted for two months, without respite. Howling would be a romantic notion of it. Roofs were lifted off like Tupperware lids, walls caved in like wet cardboard. We couldn't get to work or school, because even if the roads weren't flooded, with cars afloat, there was hardly any school or workplace left undamaged. So we sat, huddled masses, inside whomever's houses were brave enough to stand tall against the vicious monster's tongue. We sat, held hostage, and waited. For two months. And we got sick, broken and diseased, and some dying. For two months. Rescue workers couldn't reach us via air, land or sea without they themselves needing rescue. On the twenty-seventh day, we heard what sounded like a foreign-language broadcast outside our doors. Children ran to the barred windows shouting:

'Bang-bang's in a boat! Bang-bang's in a boat!"

While people were losing limbs and life, Bang-bang must finally have lost his mind. The old critter was rowing around the flooded streets with loudspeaker in hand, spewing forth indecipherable proclamations.

"Hi yee! Hi yee! Sang tay seez com. Hi yee!" Bang-bang shouted to any who would listen, or maybe once again to Heaven and Sea.

Maybe it was the climate we found ourselves in, but something inside me felt like it was a warning from the whale crier. What more could go wrong? I ignored the fear slithering in my stomach on hearing Bang-bang's foreboding tone, and dismissed the old man as having one fish too few in his rapidly unraveling net. It didn't help that he was blowing on his conch, which we'd never heard before. It was almost as though he'd been waiting for the right, or wrong, moment to use it. Blowing like his life depended on it. Being holed up with 14 people in a house that wasn't mine, it sounded like a warning bell announcing the end of the world. I assured myself that everything was just heightened, wrapped up in melodrama. There was nothing to worry about. We were just weathering a really terrifying storm, I reassured myself, falling into the comfort of 'this too shall pass'.

On the 62nd day the howling fled. On the 62nd day seven whales beached. On the 62nd day He walked into town. Walked, we assume. Bang-bang was the first person to see him arrive.