To: Friends and Family
The whales are now migrating along the coast from Alaska to Mexico. At the Seaside Aquarium, I saw the skeleton of a gray whale. There were more square feet inside that whale than in the living area of my beach house, although my place has a microwave.
Seeing several spouts yesterday though my spotting scope, I was inspired to take a dip into the deep with Melville’s schoolteacher-narrator who also fled “the November in his soul” by going to sea.
Subject: Whale Watching
From: walden@intermind.net
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| EnchantedLearning.com |
Seeing several spouts yesterday though my spotting scope, I was inspired to take a dip into the deep with Melville’s schoolteacher-narrator who also fled “the November in his soul” by going to sea.
“ ‘Call me Ishmael,’ ” I cried upon waking this morning to sunny blue water—and seizing the day phoned Tradewinds Charters in Depoe Bay—”the Whale Watching Capital of the World.”
Pictures in the Tradewinds brochure showed boats full of people delighted by whales breaching and diving before them. My captain, the brochure promised, would have me out among whales in minutes and even introduce me to resident gray whales by name.
After booking a spot on the late morning charter, I ate a hearty breakfast, layered myself in fleece and Gortex, bid the cats adieu, and set forth on my journey into the mythical, biblical, and Melvillean world of whales.
Arriving in Depoe Bay, I found a strip of shops along the east side of the highway selling taffy, T-shirts, driftwood clocks, hand-crafted jewelry, furry sea animals, and, of course, coffee. At the Tradewinds booth, I gave my money a booking agent in a plaid shirt and down vest. “Final boarding on the Kingfisher in fifteen minutes,” he said, nodding over his left shoulder in the direction of a walkway leading down from the street through a passageway to the harbor across the street.
My meditative flow was stalled as I converged on the ramp with a pair of shrill parents attempting to subdue the hyperactivity of their three shrill children with doughnuts.
The Kingfisher—a clean white vessel with bench seats and viewing access from all angles—was already sardine-like. The only available seats were next to the hyperactives or a young couple dressed Columbia Sportswear models and juggling giant bags of popcorn, bottled water, cameras, and binoculars. I chose the later and found them engaged in a heated debate as to whether we were sitting port or starboard.
“Left,” I said, “is port.” She who disagreed shot me a venomous look.
“When I learned this,” I began my cheerful defense, “left-leaning communists were called Reds. Port wine is also red—and so, left.”
The two were now united in a stare that made me feel old and ridiculous.
“Welcome!” boomed a big peppy voice through a P.A. system designed to be heard over the roar of the sea. The man with the mike had a salt and pepper beard, crinkly weathered face under a faded blue cap, and a blue Tradewinds jacket. “I’m Cap’n Al,” he continued, “and today we’re going to find us some whales!” The crowd cheered wildly. After a few rules of safety, Cap’n Al signaled the man at the wheel, and off we sped across the harbor. As we bumped our way over white caps and swells into the Pacific, a queasiness welled up from my stomach and took possession of my body.
"Thar she blows," called Captain Al through his mike, “Three o'clock.” Heads and cameras turned to the right at the speed of whiplash just as a giant fluke went under.
A swell lifted the boat, the smell of popcorn enveloped me, and I felt myself turning a bilious green.
“High noon,” Cap’n Al called. Again, the cameras clicked at the whale tail going under.
“If you haven’t got your sea legs yet,” Cap’n Al advised, “don’t look at the water. Keep your eyes on the horizon...six-thirty,” he cried, and the lenses swept around as one.
In the distance, a spout. I thought I might die, or worse, throw up.
For the next forty minutes, not another sighting, only the bumping of the boat, the sea, and my churning green sickness. “Most whales,” Cap’n Al lamented, “are a hundred miles out this year. No one knows why.”
On my way home, I stopped for some curried lentil soup that put my stomach right. And sipping the soup, I remembered Keiko the Orca and star of Free Willy:
He’d been captured as a young whale in the North Atlantic. Following his rise to cinematic fame, he was found in a warm-water tank in Mexico—a ton underweight and ailing. In 1996, he was transported in a wooden crate on a UPS plane to an aquarium in Newport, Oregon where a massive tank was built just for his rehabilitation. I’d watched on TV as Keiko, still crated, was driven to the aquarium through streets lined with people holding welcome signs and wearing whale-faced hats.
Several months ago, a medical team proclaimed Keiko ready to be transported on an air-force jet to Iceland where he will be trained to survive in the wild. I don’t know how much this cost, but I recall at one point hearing the figure $10 million.
Maybe the imbalances destroying us and our planet are not the result of corporate exploitation and the indifference fueled by consumer interests. Maybe the sentimentality that has replaced myth lacks the strength and depth of spirit to counter the exploitation.
Native Americans believed Orcas were their ancestors and capable of great healing powers. When the whales came close to shore, they were trying to connect with humans.
The population of gray whales in the Pacific has fallen from 250,000 to 25,000.
Maybe the whales are no longer coming close because they’ve just given up on us.
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