It’s 1970 in Florence Oregon. The mighty ocean disgorges on the shore a blubbery, dead sperm whale. Because the Oregon beach is a public right of way, the state Highway Division has to clean up the mess. But how? They can’t bury the whale because the ocean tides will simply regurgitate the disgusting carcass. They can’t burn the creature because they don’t have the firepower and the fumes would develop and spread the horrible stench on the coast. Deep in the thick skull of an city engineer, a plan hatches: “Let’s use a half ton of dynamite blast the whale towards the sea.”
What could go wrong? The earthshaking explosion pulverized only part of the whale, sending hunks of mortified flesh soaring — not toward the ocean, as planned, but toward people watching from the dunes. A massive slab of flying blubber crushed a parked sedan. Remarkably, no onlookers were injured. They were, however, soaked in a misty rain of rancid whale slurry.
Some of them were so upset, they didn’t just cry, they WAILED.