When Whales Watch

by Mara Purl

Light streams . . . sky-through-water.

  He burst through the glassy surface, waiting till the last possible second to open the valve on his blowhole.

  Inhale! Expand . . . dilate . . . infuse . . . stretch . . . swell. . . .

  His explosive breath rent the atmosphere off California’s Central Coast, his hinged ribs expanding to accept a gulp of kelp-scented, ion-rich air before his sixty-two-foot length splashed back into the sea. There, he floated just below the surface, resting for an oversized minute, the cauldron of spermaceti that filled half his massive head—now liquefied at the warmer surface—a perfect built-in flotation device.

  Float . . . wait . . . rest. Rolling stillness of morning. Pillowed buoyancy of brine. Lolling, solitary placidity.

  The huge mammal angled himself to point shoreward so his bioacoustic organ—that complex multi-compartmented structure that took up the other half of the space between snout and blowhole—could begin the soundings that would give him a current picture of the sloping underwater terrain.

  Now the small set of deep-set lips—what the ancient whalers had named the museau de singe or “monkey muzzle”—issued forth clicks and clangs, soprano clacks and bass percussives that resonated within his skull, shot through the surrounding water and pinged off the surfaces over which he floated. He studied the picture that formed in his mind.

  Water’s end west . . . banks south . . . food hiding.

  The Southern California Bight—which began at Point Conception off Santa Barbara and traced all the way south to Baja—beckoned with its multiple banks: Pilgrim Banks, Osborne Bank, Potato Bank, Cherry Bank, Forty-three Fathom Bank. . . . Each became a catch-point for the krill his brethren Blue and Fin whales would scoop and ingest. But for his own kind—the leviathan toothed cetacean, cousin to Orcas and Dolphins—the banks might be hiding places for the giant squid that was the staple of his diet.

  Refreshed from his brief rest, the Sperm inhaled once more, taking in enough oxygen to last through his next forty-minute dive. Angling toward his new destination, he propelled himself with a flick of his giant tail, his temperature cooling through his plunge into the dark.

  Miranda Jones woke to the chirping of a mockingbird who seemed determined to rouse everyone on Shelbourne Lane. She smiled at the persistent, joyful sound and blinked her eyes open in the guest room, convinced for a moment she’d spent the night camping in a lovely forested glen.

  From her vantage point under the coverlet, she looked up and saw details she hadn’t noticed the night before. I must’ve been tired . . . flipped off the lamp and slid under the covers. But now in the early light . . . the ceiling . . . it’s nearly covered with stenciled ferns. . . .

  Her gaze traced one of the fronds where its thick stem ran down a corner until it found a green enameled pot—a real one—holding a stand of ferns—fake ones. Silk, but very realistic. If I’d done the room, I’d have painted the plants freestyle trompe l’oeil instead of stenciling. Still, Shelly did a great job.

  The mockingbird began another chorus and Miranda took it as her cue to get her own day started. As she entered the kitchen, where morning beams were just beginning to light the clean-swept surfaces, she saw Tortie waiting patiently beside her bowl.

  “Good morning, kitty.” Miranda continued talking to the cat as she poured out some kibble. “Here you go.”

  With the feline contentedly munching, Miranda filled a blue-enameled kettle with water and placed it on one of the gas burners, then began rummaging for tea bags. My hostess is from Australia . . . I’m sure she has some terrific tea . . . maybe even some British P.G. Tipps.

  The cupboards revealed no stacked boxes, no stashes in canisters. But then her eyes widened when she opened a deep drawer containing row after row of neatly arranged tea boxes. Greens were on the right; blacks on the left; and herbals and roots in the middle—from blackberry cohosh to honey ginseng and kombucha from Japan. I can hardly decide with all these choices . . . hmm, maybe I’ll start this marine day with kombucha . . . kelp tea.

  Miranda chose a white mug with a faux-shell handle from a set she found in one of the cupboards. Into the mug she tapped some of the dark powder, a dried concoction that included rose hips for flavoring. Then, when the kettle whistled, she poured boiling water over the mixture. While she stirred it with a spoon, she glanced over at the bright orange wall clock. Six-fifteen . . . sun should rise in about ten minutes.

  Her warm beverage ready, Miranda carried it into the living room, where she moved a large sofa cushion onto the floor at the farthest point of the room, then sat staring at the ocean through the glass wall. Just like sitting at the bow of a ship . . . except without the rocking motion. This was always my favorite place to start the morning on the Planet Peace voyage a few years ago. She let the memory take her far out over the Pacific.

  Miranda clutched at the rail with one hand to steady herself, managing to hold onto her blue tea mug with the other. Still marveling that in one short week she’d mastered shipboard walking skills—albeit with jerky movements—as the vessel navigated over the swells, she made her way forward, past the steps that led up to the wheelhouse, until she stood on the foredeck. Knees bent against the gentle rocking, she inhaled the fresh, cool morning breeze.

  Dolphins often rode the bow-wake, and Miranda again took firm hold of the rail before leaning over it to check for their cetacean companions—the smaller cousins to the mighty sperm whales they hoped to save. Sure enough, sleek, pewter-colored bodies gleamed in the spray, arcing over the angled wave cut through the water by the ship.

  As the converted coastal mine-sweeper plowed on through the gray water, its white 144-foot hull rose majestically on its errand of mercy, the colorful rainbow painted down its side a harbinger of hope, if not actual rescue.

  That was the hard part. This crew of twenty-six young eco-warriors knew they’d be no match for the Russians’ 600-foot mother-ship and its fleet of eleven killer-ships gunning for the whales with steel harpoons. Yet what these admittedly idealistic Americans could do was bear witness. They knew what the whalers were up to. Promises had been agreed over bargaining tables, then broken three thousand miles out at sea. The Planet Peacers could interrupt the carnage temporarily. And they would film it for posterity, creating a permanent record of what was done . . . and how nobly the whales fought for their survival.

  This early in the voyage, Miranda didn’t yet know how she’d face the intimidating foreign fleet, nor could she quite imagine a roiling sea churned with blood. But she knew the determination that’d brought her out to sea would pour into her sinews like molten steel, just as it would for her crewmates.

  But for now, her gaze took in the peaceful exhilaration of the dolphins’ bow-dance and reminded herself this—the freedom and survival of these intelligent species—was the real reason for the voyages of all Peace Planet crews.

  Miranda took another sip of the salty-sweet kambocha and inhaled a deep breath. With the sun just about to rise over the mountains to the east, the ocean appeared as transparent as a dream, its dull-silver surface distinguished from the charcoal-blue sky by the faintest smudge of. . . . What color is that . . . peach? No . . . pale lavender, with just a trace of lemon-yellow.

  Just then, something flicked the water’s smooth surface. Wind . . . or a bird, she thought. Yet her heart already knew what she’d seen: a whale’s fluke.

  Suddenly excited, she rose from the pillow, put down her drink and pushed open the door that led to a narrow strip of yard atop the escarpment of land’s end. She saw them, then, the pod of Gray Whales heading south, clustered companionably like a flock of giant birds. And they almost seem to be swimming as effortlessly as if through air instead of water.

  She thought for a moment about the commission she’d accepted for next month: a painting of a Gray for Palos Verdes on the Net, the new Los Angeles-area non-profit. I’ve been doing my anatomy studies, and reading up on behaviors and migration patterns. But to see them up close . . . that’s the only w
ay I’ll really be able to paint them.

  To fulfill her assignment, she’d be spending time on both land and sea. Today, she’d be aboard a small whale-watching vessel to get as close as she could to the migrating species.

  Then, starting tomorrow, she’d be on land—on the Piedras Blancas peninsula where the lighthouse stood—at the official Observation Post Eight. All together there were twenty observation points from Magdalena Bay in Baja Mexico, to Alaska’s Chukchi Sea, just south of the Bering Sea. Volunteers diligently manned each post, counting the number of whales that passed the stations as they migrated south in autumn and north in spring.

  Grays were bottom feeders who turned their bodies sideways to scoop sediments from the sea floor, using their baleen as a sieve to filter out the mud and sand, but capture the sand crabs, shrimp, and miniature crustaceans that comprised their diet. The grays were non-aggressive baleen cetaceans, cousins to the singing Humpbacks who, like other large baleen species, subsisted mostly on krill.

  A sense of love for these peaceful creatures welled in her. Having watched every documentary on whales she could, she saw humpbacks as artists: dancers with elemental, weightless grace; painters who traced the foam with their masterful fins; sculptors who carved the water, molding the molecules into sublime shapes.

  And, thanks to the scientist Dr. Roger Payne, humans now understood they were also singer-songwriters, composers and performers who held the melodies—and perhaps the histories —of the deep, sharing them in troubadour-structured poems with fresh verses added to repeating choruses.

  What would it be like to swim with humpbacks? I know I’ll find out some day. Her thoughts drifted back to the Planet Peace voyage, which had been focused, not on baleen species, but on the mightiest of the toothed whales. In some ways, those seem even closer to humans, maybe because they’re like the dolphins. Yet, in other ways, they’re as alien as creatures from another planet. Will we ever understand them? Will we ever know what they think about with the largest brain on Earth?

  Of course, she knew she’d never see a sperm whale in coastal waters. Hunters by nature, they almost never ventured close to shore, as far as she knew—not when their preferred food, the giant squid, abided in the much deeper mid-ocean waters.

  Yet she had a quiet longing to see again this almost-mythical creature—but in its naturally joyful state, rather than in its death throes. Even a glimpse . . . that magnificent head rising above the waves as it bursts from the depths. . . . Well . . . maybe someday.

  Another tail fluke splashed at the surface offshore. Miranda stood and held her gaze for one moment on the watery horizon. Okay, whales. I’m coming!

  Jacob Rosenfeld took a last sip of coffee and watched a gull catch a ride on the early morning breeze. He listened to the haunting sound of the harbor fog signal, the single tone that reverberated across the bay each minute—fog or not. Sometimes it lulled him to sleep at night; other times it seemed to call to him to get his day started. The sights . . . the sounds . . . no matter the season, he always enjoyed that first cup out on his balcony. With this view of the Bay . . . what’s not to like? Like many of the other good things in his life, the idea of the extra balcony on the third level had been Cecilia’s. What with the large lower deck, he’d thought the balcony would be a waste. But they’d sat here together often through the years.

  The wealth he’d so diligently amassed . . . the travel brochures she’d carefully collected and categorized . . . the perfect retirement they’d anticipated. It wouldn’t happen now . . . not the way they’d planned, the lawyer and the accountant. “Spend it for good, Jacob,” she’d instructed. “And have some fun. You’ve earned it. It’s what I’d do.”

  Was that really true? If he’d been the first to die, would Cecilia now be having the time of her life spending their money? He supposed that, within reason, she would. She’d allocate expenses, donate lavishly to her favorite charities, then take the cruises.

  He considered for a moment what he wanted for himself. I always played it safe . . . that was my mistake. Because life wasn’t safe. She’d been gone ten months now. He took another long look at the view and wondered. Do I sit out here alone for the pure enjoyment . . . or because it makes me feel close to her?

  And yet, only by leaving this balcony, this house—and all the safety wealth had bought him—could he actually feel something again. He looked out at the placid water, imagining the slow, stately progress of a cruise ship, a behemoth drifting through the sea as it cocooned its passengers. Then he pictured its opposite: a sleek craft built for speed, flying over the waves, slamming its crew till their teeth rattled. The image brought a smile to his lips.

  No more playing it safe, Cece. Time for some adventure in my life. He stood and moved to touch the mezuzah fastened to the door frame. Then he stepped inside and closed the heavy glass slider. Maybe if that boat is fast enough, I can outrun the terrible, lingering sadness.

  Jacob arrived at Off the Charts Boat Charters & Rentals fifteen minutes early, gratified to see the shop was already open. When he stepped inside, Nick Somes looked up, a ready smile on his sun-weathered face.

  “Morning, Jacob. Taking her out today?”

  “Yeah. Got two friends joining me.”

  “You’ve got a nice morning for it. Let me just check my reservation book, see if I have a group coming in.”

  A local entrepreneur, Nick Somes chartered sport-fishing excursions, rented kayaks and sail boats, and ran half-day tours of the bay. In addition, he had a few private clients for whom he did maintenance. The city of Morro Bay offered about fifty slips that could be privately owned—meaning that an individual owned his gear and tackle, but leased the space from the City.

  Jacob knew a man like Nick probably thought of this as an extravagance—owning a boat and a slip, yet actually using the boat so seldom. But after Cecilia’s demise, Jacob had asked Nick to hire someone to add a hard top to the Manta Dance, which gave him doors that would enclose the cabin. A few other changes were made too, removing the woman’s touches like floral bedding—things that reminded him too much of his wife, and streamlining the boat for him and the male companions he’d sometimes invite.

  Meanwhile, Jacob had gone back to work with a vengeance, leaving him as little free time as possible—free time that could only be spent lamenting his pathetic loneliness. Now he put his own clients’ needs first, and he appreciated having an experienced mariner monitoring his boat. I manage their money . . . Nick manages my boat. Keeps the pros in charge.

  Nick had been looking down at a dog-eared spiral notepad, then he raised his eyebrows, as though something he saw surprised him. “Got it.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, but I see the message you left says you’re looking for speed today.” The man grinned conspiratorially.

  Jacob couldn’t help but smile back. “That’s right.”

  “Well, I don’t have a group coming in till about an hour from now, so I can walk over with you, get her opened up.”

  The two men began the short stroll down the Embarcadero, enjoying the aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls as they passed the bakery. “It’s been a while since you took her out.”

  “Her?”

  “The boat,” Nick replied, his bemused expression reminding Jacob what a neophyte he still was.

  Moments later, Jacob found himself balancing on the dock, which was nothing more than a long arm of slatted wood that poked out into the water. From here he could see the sleek, white hull of his forty-foot Sea Ray 270 Sundancer crouching under a green awning.

  He could feel his heart beat a little faster just looking at the craft with its dark blue racing stripe painted down a gleaming white hull, Manta Dance neatly scrolled in cursive lettering. Though the boat was a 1996 model, it’d actually come out last year and been purchased off the showroom floor by a man from Bakersfield. The original owner had soon decided the Sea Ray wasn’t for him, and sold it to Jacob—barely used—at a fraction of the original price.
Still feel good about that. Only two amateurs have ever taken the Manta out on the water—the original owner, and me.

  He and Cecilia had entertained grandiose ideas about extended cruises. She loved the boat’s master suite—the forward berth, he was supposed to call it—tucked below deck but still riding high enough in the water that natural light filtered in. She also made good use of the efficient galley, and enjoyed inviting friends to use the guest quarters at the stern. But now it’s not the accommodations I like. It’s the independence . . . and the speed.

  Part of Jacob’s deal with Nick was that he’d take the boat out himself sometime during each month. Jacob felt better with Nick monitoring maintenance issues first hand, and also knew he’d be more invested in caring for a boat he actually knew and enjoyed himself. “How did it go the other day?”

  Nick’s expression lit up like a small boy’s. “Aw, she handles like a sweetheart. I took her for a nice spin.”

  “Good. Glad you’re keeping it in good working order.”

  “Her,” Nick reminded. “Keeping her in good working order.”

  “Right.” Jacob returned the smile. Still can’t think of an inanimate object as a “she,” but I guess I’ll learn.

  “So. Want a quick refresher tour?”

  “Yes, good idea.” Jacob glanced back up the dock toward the parking lot, but still didn’t see either of his buddies. “My friends’ll be here eventually. If we do a walk-through now we’ll be ready to go when they arrive.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  The Female Sperm Whale rolled herself over in a weightless stretch, her fin rising to tower over the surface before slapping lazily down. Over the past months, her seventeen-ton body had expanded to an ecstasy of fullness.

  Soon, little one . . . swimming along with us. Feel you now, moving inside.