Chasing at the Surface

by Sharon Mentyka

  “There’s my noisy bunch,” Naomi says, smiling. “Nice to hear you again.”

  “That’s L57,” Kevin announces, peering through binoculars. “Male, nickname Faith, about twenty. His mother died a couple of years ago, so he usually spends time with Canuck and her daughter Lulu. He’s a real leader. Let’s see.…” He scans slowly with the glasses. “Yep, bingo. There they are.” He points to a cluster of three whales farther west of us, heading north. “Definitely L-25 sub-pod.”

  “But … how can you tell?” Lena asks, following Kevin’s gaze.

  Before he can answer, I point at Faith, who’s rolling side to side now with another whale.

  “See the dorsal fin, and the saddle patch—the grayish white area at the base? Those are like orca fingerprints. Each whale has their own fin shape and saddle patch markings.”

  Kevin glances my way, surprised to hear my explanation.

  “Marisa’s our local orca expert,” Mr. O’Connor says. “Watch out for her—she’ll steal your job, fin-guy!”

  Lena grins and I feel my face redden. I think about Muncher, his little round black eye marking. Its placement, there on the very edge of his white oval eye patch, seems just about perfect to me.

  “The nicks and scars on their fins help too,” Naomi adds. “You train your eye. Pretty soon, it’s easy to tell them apart.”

  I spot another smaller group farther out, swimming around in slow circles, and lean in closer to Kevin.

  “Is that normal?” I have to shout to make myself heard over all the calls coming from the hydrophone.

  “All behavior is communication. It’s probably just that they’re in unknown waters,” Kevin answers. His camera clicks away furiously. “It’s too early to be alarmed, but we’ll keep a close watch. They’re eating and they seem to be vocalizing normally, so those are good signs.”

  I have this sudden urge to tell him that eating and talking normally aren’t always sure signs that things are okay. But I bite my tongue.

  “Okay, y’all, enough chattering,” Kevin tells us. “Let’s get to work.”

  For nearly an hour, the orcas stay close. We keep busy recording their sounds, taking pictures, noting all the individual whales we can identify. But whenever one breaches or spyhops, all work stops. The thrill of each new sighting is as spectacular as the first. When one whale makes a move—a cartwheel, a tail or pec slap—sure enough the rest will mimic the same routine, as if they have a choreographed dance all planned out.

  Several times, we see a few adults with calves go chasing at the surface, drawn by a cluster of chum salmon, their backs and dorsal fins slicing through the water together in a tight group.

  “Watching orcas chase fish only gives a hint of what’s going on underneath the water,” Kevin tells us. “They’ll surround the fish with rings of bubbles, then take turns diving beneath the school and looping around. It’s like an orca carousel,” he explains, “with dozens of fish being shoveled up into their enormous jaws.”

  “Watching them hunt is one of my favorite things,” Naomi adds. “You can just sense their joy and cunning, their love of the open ocean and of hunting with the group.”

  As if the most important thing is just being part of the group.

  For the rest of the day, we motor around the inlet, passing out leaflets to boaters outlining SoundKeeper’s whale watching guidelines: stay at least 200 yards away from the whales; if they move toward your boat, kill your engine; if they head south out of the inlet, stay behind and don’t cut off their line of travel.

  “That’s the most important one,” Kevin explains. “They’ll need a straight shot out when they want it.” Red and green flashes glimmer in the water—the colors of chum salmon—a sign that the whales are foraging again. “And let’s hope they make their exit soon, before the food runs out.”

  It’s getting cold now on the water. Listening to Kevin, I shiver and try to remember how many salmon a full-grown orca needs to eat every day. Twenty? Maybe twenty-five? Even though Dyes Inlet always seems chock-full of fish, salmon runs are down this year.

  And now we’ve got nineteen whales here. I do some quick math. That’s a lot of salmon—almost 500 a day! Even worse, it’s late in the season, when most chum have already made their runs back home to Chico Creek.

  Will the fish run out before the whales leave? I don’t think anybody knows the answer, not even Kevin. And I don’t want to even think about what will happen if they do.

  But it’s too late. Now I’ve got one more thing to worry about.

  CHAPTER 9

  Orca Day 8

  After the first whale weekend, we fall into a rhythm and the days pass in a busy blur. Since we’re helping with the SoundKeeper program, we’re excused from school at noon. We grab a quick lunch, then head down to where Kevin has set up his headquarters at Lions Field.

  Two days in a row, I detour over to the post office. Now that I’m expecting—hoping—for a letter from Mom, there’s nothing. Just junk mail and bills.

  Everybody keeps expecting the whales to leave, too. But they don’t, and after more than a week, Kevin seems a little more nervous each day. On Wednesday, with orca fever still running high, I navigate through the lunchtime crowd to my locker. When I slam the door shut and look up, Harris is standing right in front of me. For two days straight, I’ve been trying to find him, but now it takes all my courage not to look away.

  “Harris, hi … how’s it going?” Nothing. I clutch my books tight to my chest and take a deep breath. “Look … what happened on Saturday … I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said what I did. What you do isn’t any of my business.”

  The minute the words are out of my mouth I know they sound wrong—like I don’t care.

  Harris drops his eyes to the floor. “Whatever,” he mumbles.

  “I’m biking down to Lions Field,” I blurt out. “Want to come? We just hang out and answer questions.”

  “Can’t do that,” he says, crouching down to shove some crumbled papers into his backpack. “Don’t know nothing about whales.”

  He’s being so hard, and I feel a flash of anger, until I remember how easy it is to get to that place.

  “You sure?”

  “Yep,” he says, but doesn’t leave.

  I ask about Jesse, thinking this will be my way in but instead, a cloud passes over his dark eyes and I know I’ve upset him again.

  “Everything’s the same. Nothing ever changes.” He slings his backpack over his shoulder and brushes past me, fast. “I gotta go. See ya.”

  I want to make it better somehow, but I’ve got no clue how to begin. Then, a second later I hear his voice again.

  “Hey … whales still there?”

  “Yeah, they are,” I say, turning around, smiling. “It’s amazing! They’re—” But he’s already gone, and I’m left standing there, talking to myself.

  ––––

  Biking down to Lions Field I’m glad to have a job to do, even if it’s only sitting at a table and handing out a sheet of rules. All behavior is communication, Kevin says. And it looks like I’ve just had another screwed up one with Harris.

  “Do you know what somebody just asked me?” Lena calls out first thing when I arrive. “Could they maybe put on a wet suit and swim with the whales?” She rolls her eyes in disbelief. “Please, send me out there,” she points to the blue water of the inlet, “where there’s intelligent life.”

  We laugh and decide on the spot to keep a list of visitors’ craziest questions. Then we get to work and spend the next hour explaining breaching, the differences in dorsal fins, L Pod’s genealogy, and how you can tell who’s who by the way the whales group themselves when they swim.

  “The oldest female will always swim in the center of the pod, closest to the youngest calves,” I tell a visitor. “The adult daughters stay on the outside ring until they have their own babies. Then sometimes they’ll travel separately, but they’re always considered part of the pod.”

  As I talk,
I’m painfully aware that I wouldn’t know any of this except for Mom. Besides our annual fall trip up to the San Juans, some springs Mom also tried to squeeze in a “Welcome the Whales Home” visit in the spring when the pods start arriving back from their travels up and down the coast. Everything I know about orcas I learned on those trips. Everything.

  “Marisa, you okay?” Lena touches me on the arm.

  I nod, wondering if I’ll ever have the chance to take another one of those trips, when suddenly there’s a huge commotion. Kevin and Naomi come racing down the path toward the shoreline. Something’s happening—something big.

  “What’s going on?” Lena shouts as they pass.

  “They’re heading out!” Naomi calls back over her shoulder.

  Lena and I exchange excited glances—the whales! Without a word we race to follow. When Kevin reaches the water’s edge, he keeps running until the water is sloshing around his ankles. Close behind on his heels, Naomi is speaking into her radio, her voice rapid and tense. I strain to hear but can’t make out what she’s saying.

  Then Kevin brings the white megaphone up and his amplified voice booms out over the water.

  “ATTENTION, VESSELS. DO NOT APPROACH THE WHALES. REPEAT. ALL VESSELS KEEP YOUR DISTANCE AND STAY BEHIND THE WHALES.”

  Beyond the crush of people crowding the dock, what I can see now on the water makes my heart skip a beat. The pod is swimming fast, dead center in the inlet, heading south toward the Narrows. Behind, chasing them, is a mass of boats of every shape and size. Orcas can swim close to thirty miles an hour out in open water, but in a small bay like this they’re no match against an outboard motorboat. Even from this distance, I can already tell some of the boats are gaining.

  Naomi clicks off her radio and clips it back on her belt. “Apparently, there’s no Coast Guard boat anywhere near here.”

  “I placed that request days ago,” Kevin barks. He booms out his warning again but the boaters ignore it. Some have shot ahead now, and are running on a parallel path with the pod.

  He turns to Naomi. “You say the Port Washington police are on the bridge?”

  “I think so. They must be by now,” she says nervously, looking in the direction of the bridge. “They deployed two squad cars but I can’t raise them on the radio to confirm.”

  “The van is back at the marina and all our rafts are out.” Kevin looks around frantically. “Damn! I’ve got to get somebody out to that bridge! We have to head them off.”

  “Aw, man,” Lena whispers, shooting me a worried look. We’re both rooted to the spot, unsure what to do next. The whales are far past our line of vision now, but we can see clearly the flotilla of boats still in pursuit. The acrid smell of diesel fuel from their wake drifts toward the shore, nauseating me. I remember a trick Dad taught me and breathe out quickly several times trying to clear my head so I can think.

  Three days ago, I made the trip from almost this exact spot to the Warren Avenue Bridge on foot. Today I have my bike.

  “Mr. Brooks?” My voice sounds distant on the noisy dock. “I can bike to the bridge.”

  Kevin looks right at me and for a split second I know exactly what he’s thinking—a twelve-year-old girl? But he allows himself just one quick glance toward the water before he shouts, “GO!” And in an instant, almost as if his word was the blessing I’d been waiting for, I spring to life.

  “Tell the police we sent you,” Naomi yells, tossing me her ID pass.

  “Tell them they’ve got to clear the Narrows!” Kevin orders. “I don’t want any boat traffic anywhere near that passage. None. The whales need to have a clear shot out under the bridge to the outer bay!”

  I tuck Naomi’s pass into my back pocket, turn, and race to get my bike. Any hesitation I might have had is gone. My mind and body feel in perfect harmony. As I pedal off, I know exactly what I need to do.

  ––––

  I’m not afraid to ride my bike fast. Mom used to say I scared the daylights out of her when she saw me riding down the hill near our house. But today, I bike faster than I ever have before. I ride so fast I’m afraid I’ll lose control if my concentration breaks, so I focus on keeping my feet pumping in circles—up and down, up and down—the rhythm matching the beating of my heart.

  Somehow, I keep it up. And all the while, I can hear the continued calls Kevin is sending out over the water. From this distance, the sound is almost musical, and reminds me of the orcas’ vocalizations. Without hearing the words, you’d never know it’s really a desperate call to save the orcas. I ride on, wondering if the boaters will keep ignoring it.

  I reach the stairs that ascend to the bridge and skid my bike to a stop, throwing it aside. Panting, I climb up to the bridge deck and sprint along the side walkway to where two Port Washington patrol cars are parked.

  “Hello! Excuse me … please!” I bully my way in to get the attention of the officers. “I’m with the whales … I mean … the whale researchers. They need you to clear the Narrows!” I pull out Naomi’s ID pass allowing unrestricted access to county services. “It’s the whales … they’re coming … they want you to keep the boats away from the bridge passage so the whales can get out!”

  I must look half-crazy or maybe the officer really understands what I’m trying to say, but all that matters is that, in the heat of the moment, he believes me. He grabs the patrol car’s radio mike and together we run to the north bridge wall that overlooks the entrance to the inlet.

  “THIS IS THE PORT WASHINGTON POLICE. MARINE VESSELS … MOVE TO THE PERIMETER. CLEAR THE WATERWAY IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT. ALL MARINE VESSELS CLEAR THE WATERWAY. THIS IS THE PORT WASHINGTON POLICE.…”

  The call to clear the passage rings in my ears as the officer broadcasts the order again and again out over the water. All the traffic on the bridge is pretty much stopped now as people pour out of their cars to peer over the wall, trying to see what’s causing the disruption.

  Boats of all shapes and sizes are clustered around a center space that must be the pod. They’re close now, maybe 300 yards from the bridge, approaching steadily.

  They’re so close—almost out!

  C’mon. C’mon! I chant to myself.

  I hold my breath and allow myself to think they’re going to make it, when suddenly, the scream of an outboard motor rips through the air. A speedboat comes into view, flanking the pod on the west side, tracing a wide arc to the east. It accelerates with a tremendous roar, and passes directly in front of the whales, cutting them off. It all happens so fast it seems unreal. Standing on the bridge, I’m helpless to do anything but watch.

  In the water below, the whales’ reaction is much the same. The pod stops dead in its tracks and the sound of their exhalations fills the air.

  Pfoosh—Pfoosh—Pfooshhhhh. A massive spouting of water and mist rises up everywhere, almost to where I’m standing. I breathe in its distinctive odor—musty and rich. Some of the animals surface and exhale, then dive again. At my elbow, the police officer is repeating his call to clear the area. But it’s too late. We watch in horror as the same motorboat reverses its course and speeds again in front of the whales, crossing now in the opposite direction.

  I spot two orcas, young ones, circling, right below me. Right below the bridge. I strain to see their saddle patches. One is Muncher, I just know it. Is he all right? What are they doing?

  Two larger whales approach, mothers maybe, and I watch as they do something I’ve never seen before in all my years of whale watching. Both adults lift their tails straight up into the air, keeping their heads and blowholes under the water. Then together, they bring their tails down hard, slapping their flukes on the surface of the water. Once, twice, three times—Smack! Smack! Smack!

  The noise, so close, carried up to the bridge deck, is deafening.

  Then the huge female in the center of the pod humps her back, facing away from the bridge, and makes a deep dive. One by one the others follow, until the water between the two lines of boats is churning and rippling below, but e
mpty at the surface. I shut my eyes for a minute, hoping for a miracle, but when I open them again, Muncher and the other calf have turned back toward the inlet, and I watch as nineteen whales swim very slowly away from the Warren Avenue Bridge, back into Dyes Inlet.

  ––––

  The frenzied activity continues all around me, but I can’t seem to stop staring at the empty water below. From my spot on the bridge, I can see down the whole of the inlet—it’s a spectacular view. People are chattering and going about their business again, as if nothing unusual has happened. Maybe it hasn’t, for them. They were here just to watch the whales, not bothering to really see, not understanding how important it is for the pod—for Muncher—to leave the inlet and make it safely back home. It makes me so angry, thinking about it, that I kick my sneaker toe again and again against the deck railing.

  And what about me? I think about Mom and Harris and how hard it is to understand what makes people do what they do or act a certain way. Maybe I’m no different either from those people in their boats. If I’m really honest, I have to admit that lately I haven’t been very willing to take the time to figure out why people do what they do, or to think about how everything is connected.

  I know I should leave and ride back to Lions Field, but I can’t seem to pull myself away from the railing. The pod is far down the inlet now, split into smaller groups and swimming in slow circles. I strain to see if I can locate Muncher, but they’re too far away.

  Below me, the water that was churning and gurgling furiously only minutes ago is calm now, as if nothing had ever disturbed it. Naomi told us a story the other day. Whales, she said, never exclude anyone from their pod. It doesn’t matter if they’re weak or injured or just different. In the world of the orca, everyone is a part of the group. Harris would probably say they “get it.”

  Nineteen whales. I wonder if they know what just happened.

  I hope they know that some of us won’t stop fighting to get them home.