This time of year, I watch the spouts of the gray whales passing by the coast and I recall my stint of research in Alaska. Although it has been years, my memories are as vivid as the icy spray that stings my face or the tingling of my toes in the Monterey Bay. Not grays that we studied, but humpbacks, and the mist wisping above white caps on the ocean reminds me.
This particular expedition was in Southeast Alaska, around Admiralty Island, Baranov, Sitka, and Ketchikan, where we followed humpback whales, and recorded their songs and photographed their flukes. The purpose was to determine which whales traveled the Trans-Pacific, or down the Pacific coast, or across to Hawaii. The National Geographic Society photographed, while we documented everything else, entering all into an international cataloging system. It had long been observed that some humpbacks were “tagged” as far down under as Australia and as far north as Alaska, but some humpbacks followed a smaller migratory pattern of Alaska to Hawaii, while others wandered Mexico to Alaska, just as cruise ships follow different passages. Our task was merely to document—, which humpbacks traveled where.
The early days on board our vessel met with light rain, some wind, and swells—lots from different directions. This kind of weather often sends landlubbers down below deck, which is the worst possible place to be, while old “salts” face the elements, getting wind-whipped and wet, but not seasick. I remained above, rocking and rolling, acquiring my “sea-legs” and an appetite. In fact, I usually return from sea voyages ravenous and ready for a beer. On this crisp morning, I dressed in my layers of long underwear with two pair of pants, covered by t-shirt, then flannel shirt and warm fleece jacket and hat, topped with wind jacket, and finally the Coast Guard approved PFC. We tracked two mothers and two calves as they tracked the krill. The mother whales lumbered along in a direct line, strictly business, mowing a straight lawn through the euphausids, small shrimp that is their choice of food. The babies, on the other hand, acted like any juvenile animals, never traveled in a straight line, but spy-hopped, breached, rolled, loped, sped up, then slowed down, in circles or in triangles, and often too far from their mothers.
This was the initial pod of whales to trail, and since I was one of few sea-worthy researchers, I had the first opportunity to board the Boston Whaler, the type of boat usually seen on the news—with recreational divers headed to a shipwreck or Greenpeace activists taking on something much bigger than they are. The four of us cautiously climbed aboard the small boat, timing our entries between swells. Meanwhile, perhaps a half-mile ahead, the two mother humpbacks pursued their meals with their calves alternating from side to side. I secured my camera around my neck, ready to switch my lens to the telephoto, as my partners prepared the acoustic recording instruments. Ahead, the whales launched their bubble net. We cut the motor and drifted.
Directly in front our boat, perhaps 30 feet at most, the first of the bubbles surfaced. The whales submerged to feed cooperatively, releasing bubbles in a synchronous dance to trap the krill, just as bubbles pop from an uncorked champagne bottle. Only these bubbles are the size of giant balloons that pop to the surface in a boiling mass. One bubble then the next, then the next continuing in perfect circle, and once that circle is complete, the next circle fills inside the last, and then the same, ending with three perfect circles of bubbles. Finally, the whales emerge through the column of bubbles engulfing their trapped shrimp.
Sure to be the best shot ever, we were in the perfect position for capturing feeding behavior and sounds of the pod—being certain to maintain the required distance both for safety of us and for the natural behavior of those we were observing. This picture would surely net me some cash, I imagined. National Geographic staff sat retching on the main ship, yet I was the lucky one to be on this voyage, while they were over a mile away.
However, as with any adventure in the wild, things never work out as planned. The surfacing bubbles did not form the concentric circles in front of the boat, but rather turned to go around us. We were directly atop the bubble net, and we watched in horror as one bubble slowly, methodically, every second made its way to the surface. One round of bubbles completed in thirty seconds, with just two more to go. We zipped our life vests, radioed the main ship, shouting our dilemma. Turning on the outboard motor was certain death as any serious disturbance, such as a motor directly above the whales, could result in breaching of the whales and tossing us into the 32-degree salty water, and it would be minutes before the main ship could rescue us. We said little in the next few minutes, waiting perilously, for what would happen next.
Nothing we could do. Just wait.
I zipped up my camera bag—not that it mattered.
I tucked in my flannel shirt, recalling simple life saving measures, but uncertain how I could move in the frigid waters.
No one talked.
We just waited.
And waited.
I thought about the life I had not yet experienced—children and unexplored places and things I wanted to know about.
I thought of goodbyes—to my sweet husband, to my family, to my friends, even to my first husband.
I thought of my life that at 30, I was still young—much too young to die.
I thought it was over.
Two bubbles shy of the last circle and the whales would be up. By now, I was silently reciting every prayer I could recall from twelve years of Catholic schools, and there were quite a few, but in such situations, which ones to say? One bubble left, and the boat began to rock, rhythmically at first, increasing from every direction, as though whales were coming up on all sides. I braced myself against the front seat and there she was. So close, that the spout sprayed me with the most delightful mist. I captured the picture of that lovely blowhole. Mom or baby figured out something was directly above, abandoned the net, and moved off to one side, my lucky side of the boat.
One month later, after that bucket-list experience in Alaska, I was pregnant with my first child and celebrating life.
Love is Complicated 