A Whale of a Time

Few sights in the world are as awe-inspiring as that of a spout of water gushing into the air from the sea, followed by the knobbly lump of cetacean flesh that caused it rising through the waves. I’ve seen whales a few times and each time is like the first, the thrill of seeing something so huge, so alien to human life, right there in front of you. It sends shivers down my spine and causes a huge smile to break out on my face, one that won’t leave for a few days. Our most recent experience was a few days ago off the coast of Bonavista, Newfoundland and, yes, I’m still smiling. But I get ahead of myself.

It would be fair to say that the first time I saw whales, on our honeymoon, I wasn’t enthusiastic. How, without getting into the water alongside, could you see something that lives beneath the waves? They come up to breathe, my new husband told me. Having been fascinated by these leviathans of the sea since he was young he knew a fair bit about them. This, plus that he had courageously accompanied me on a horse trek earlier in the week, despite being scared stiff of anything equine, meant I had to agree to his demand, sorry, request, that we go on a Whale Watching trip. So we drove right to the end of Cape Cod to the unimaginatively named Provincetown and got on a boat that would take us out into the chilly winds of the Atlantic Ocean in the hope of spotting one. 

To be honest, I can’t remember a lot about the trip, except that the boat must have been small enough to be at the mercy of the roll of the sea as we spent the entire time holding on against the rise and fall of it underneath us. Even if we hadn’t seen a whale I would have loved it, feeling the deck of the boat beneath me bucking like a bronco trying to throw me off. Before Kate and Leo did it, I was at the pointy end of the boat pretending I was flying. Maybe James Cameron was on board?

What I can remember in vivid detail is my first glimpse of a whale. It wasn’t much, just a grey shape in the grey sea, a long log that was smooth, shiny, and dark rather than rippled and fringed with white. The spray of its breath was barely distinguishable against the spray of the waves and the colourless clouds. I held onto Neil as he nearly fell off the boat in his excitement and his effort to get a good photo, my excitement now as high as his. It was a fin whale, huge, and one of the largest on the planet, not as exciting to watch as a humpback, not as attractive as an orca, but it was a whale. I was hooked. Two days later we again drove the length of Cape Cod, this time getting a much better view as the sun glinted on the whale’s shiny back which stood out black against the blue sea, its blow a fountain against the clear sky.

Since then we’ve seen whales in many places. We watched from the beach in Hermanus, South Africa as southern right whales breached and played in the bay. Just along the coast we climbed into a small RIB, fully clad in waterproofs and life jacket, to watch a couple of them roll around beside us, again me holding tightly to my husband as he hung over the side of the boat. From a catamaran in the blue waters of Hervey Bay in Eastern Australia we sat in awe as humpbacks, Neil’s favourite, played around us, spy-hopping, breaching, flipper slapping, swimming under us so we could look into their eye. When one passenger expressed anxiety about them landing on the boat, the guide grinned and said: But what a way to go!

A few years later we were sailing with a friend off the western coast of the Wellington region when I thought I saw a spout against the dark cliffs, cursing myself for my stupidity at yelling and alerting the others on board. As if there would be whales off these shores! Then I shouted, along with the rest of the crew, as it happened again. We spent a few hours sailing close to two humpbacks who were passing by, not believing our luck, more so as Neil, for some unknown reason, had decided to bring his camera on this trip. Since then humpbacks, orca, and right whales have been seen around the coastline, even in Wellington harbour, although apart from one brief sighting of an orca dorsal fin, we’ve never managed to see them again from home.

Back to Bonavista and the lovely Lori (and her brother, Cap’n Jason) at Seas the Day boat tours. It wasn’t looking good. We’d booked for our first day there, just in case we had to cancel and, sure enough, the fog that had greeted our arrival on Newfoundland hung around and scuppered our planned trip. There was no space the next morning, but we might get a slot in the afternoon and Lori would let us know the next morning. She did, but only to say the wind was too strong and they wouldn’t be going out that day either. One day left. We were finishing breakfast when the phone pinged – Thunderbirds are go! Well, Neil and Tracy on a boat are go. Not got quite the same ring, I know.

We chugged out of the harbour on a lovely little ten-seater, glad this was a proper trip, not a ‘sit down in an air-conditioned cabin until the boat stops and we find a whale, then you can stand up and go outside’ trip (yes, I’m looking at you, Whale Watch Kaikoura). What’s the point of a life, or short trip, on the ocean waves if you aren’t actually feeling the salt air on your face, the taste of it on the nozzle of your water bottle, the stickiness of it in your hair?

As we approached the open sea one of our fellow passengers pointed out the headland where they’d stood the day before and watched whales. I was envious. Why hadn’t we thought to try that? But there was no time to think any further as a yell from the lady next to me drew everyone’s attention to the large sleek shape that had just surfaced a few metres away from the boat. If you wonder how fast Neil can move, put a camera in his hand and a whale within fifty metres. He practically left scorch marks on the pristine white deck of Jason and Lori’s boat.

The whale was so close we could see the ridges of its vertebrae, smell the vague fishiness of its breath. It rose a couple of times, then humped its back (showing how it was named) and briefly flipped its tail before disappearing. The bad news of a tail view means the whale has dived and you won’t see it for a few minutes. Also, it could surface anywhere and you might never find it again. But we did, and he had a few mates. A whooshing snort and double spouts alerted us to a pair, another boat joining in the viewing. Neil yelled as, a hundred metres or so away, one leapt out of the water and flung itself back again, creating a huge spray of water that was all the rest of us saw. Closer, one rested on its back and waved its long flippers at us, two white, black-edged sails swivelling like periscopes. 

We stayed and watched a while, the boat rising and falling on waves as we left the shelter of the headland, Jason expertly manoeuvring to safe positions without getting too close to the whales or losing sight of them. Neil braced himself against the railing and I braced myself against the cabin, occasionally moving to grab the rail on either side of him when he looked like he might get closer than he intended. The performance over, the whales went on their way and we turned to return to Bonavista harbour, smiles plastered on our faces, salt in our hair. Thanks, Lori & Jason, for a marvellous morning.