The Whale Song Translation: A Voyage of Discovery To Neptune and Beyond

by Howard Steven Pines

  The guide waved up to the pilothouse. He was answered by an amplified broadcast of the song of the humpback. He closed his eyes and paused, his head scarf rippling in the breeze. With a lilting rhythm, he said, “Reminds me of a rhapsody, filling the air with grace.” As if on cue, another cetacean missile blasted into the sky, igniting the crowd once again.

  “Happens all the time,” the guide intoned serenely, quieting the clamor. “Scientists are still unsure about the purpose of these songs. Only male humpbacks sing. Some have speculated that this indicates a high level of intelligence. It’s still a great mystery. If you’re interested, we have recordings produced by our own marine biologists for sale. Are there any more questions?”

  Despite the guide’s earlier pushback, Dmitri felt emboldened. “Have you ever broadcast a Beethoven symphony or a Verdi aria from underwater speakers during these recording sessions?”

  Before the naturalist could reply, a gravelly voice shouted, “Hey, professor, what I heard was they played a Snoop Dogg recording, and the whales swiveled back and forth to the rhythm.”

  Greg responded to the deluge of raucous laughter. “As Cicero once observed, ‘Nothing is more fickle than the favor of the crowd.’”

  Dmitri, however, was lost in his own thoughts and paid no heed to the commotion. He raised a hand once again, arousing numerous groans. “Everything you’ve described suggests these are very intelligent creatures: their songs, the cooperative behavior of the bubble nets, their big brains, and their curiosity.” He paused and exhaled a nervous chuckle. “Do you know if—?”

  Before he could finish, the boat was jolted by another breach, this time by a three-ton calf.

  “Sir,” the guide interrupted. “I’m running behind on my presentation. If you have more questions, I suggest you consult with our director, Christopher Gorman, at the PICES office.”

  Dmitri tapped Greg on the shoulder. “Remember the screaming headlines in the morning paper about dead whales washing up on local beaches?”

  “How can I forget?”

  “The article was about Gorman. In our last email exchange, he mentioned he had big problems. I expect we’ll get the straight scoop, since I’m invited to his office in a couple of hours.”

  Greg shook his head. “Like you just said, they’re his problems, not yours.”

  Despite Greg’s warnings, Dmitri remained resolute, keenly aware that destiny was quickening, moving him purposely toward some unknown destination.

  “Jesus!” Greg’s jolting cry mingled with an onslaught of chilling screams. Dmitri spun around, hard to starboard, guided by many outstretched arms pointing just a rod’s cast distance from the boat. A blot of crimson, like the giant red spot on Jupiter, bubbled up from the depths, spreading away from its center like a biblical plague.

  “Oh, my God!” It was the guide’s megaphone-amplified voice.

  A juvenile humpback emerged from a scarlet stain on the water, blood oozing from every orifice in its head.

  A CETACEAN CONVERSATION

  Kihei, Maui—early afternoon

  With the PICES tour boat back in port, Dmitri and Greg disembarked down a narrow gangway, swept forward by the crush of somber tourists.

  “What caused that awful bleeding?” asked Greg.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Shark attack? I’ll ask Gorman. You can browse the mall while you’re waiting. Maybe you’ll find a Hawaiian shirt to add to your collection?”

  “I changed my mind.” Greg’s expression had turned sheepish.

  “Huh?”

  “After the sight of that poor humpback, I’m curious about Gorman’s take on the recent whale mayhem.”

  “It would be great to have you along.” Dmitri could not have been more surprised. Until this moment, Greg had consistently lobbied against “Dmitri’s whale fixation.” Greg accepted his offered fist tap.

  The headquarters of the Pacific Institute for Cetacean Educational Studies was a short stroll away from the boat harbor. They approached a bustling waterfront shopping complex, an eclectic medley of tourist shops and small business offices. After passing through an arched gateway framed by the faces of hand-carved Tiki gods and jagged lava rocks, they entered a central courtyard.

  “It’s tropical geometry. It’s gorgeous.” Greg’s voice gushed above the soothing sounds of a natural rock waterfall.

  “Tropical geometry” was the mathematical basis of Google’s search algorithms. Accustomed to Greg’s esoteric puns, Dmitri’s eyes imbibed the riotous colors of the equatorial landscaping. Lush beds of red and purple bougainvillea, white and yellow ginger, ferns and birds of paradise fringed the curving flagstone pathways. A grove of coconut palms cast wisps of shade upon a ring of benches and a chorus of merry mynah birds rained down from the branches.

  As the enclosed courtyard blocked the ocean breeze, Dmitri wilted under the intensity of the early afternoon sun, his skin clammy beneath a flowery shirt. When he opened the PICES front door, the chilled air in the visitor’s lobby washed over him. “What a relief.” He sighed.

  Dmitri approached the good-looking, fortyish woman seated at the front desk, her arms and face as bronzed as the models in tanning salon ads. “Why does everyone in Maui look so healthy and attractive?”

  “It’s the passion fruit,” she replied.

  At a loss for a clever comeback, Dmitri shifted to business. “We’re here for a one o’clock meeting with Director Gorman.”

  “We’re not very titular.”

  Dmitri stared blankly, making a supreme effort to maintain eye contact and not let his gaze drift down to her plunging neckline.

  “To us locals, he’s just Chris,” she added with a wink, then ushered them through another door and into an inner office.

  Gorman sat at his desk, pecking at a computer keyboard with a couple of fingers. “Just give me a few seconds,” he mumbled.

  Dmitri and Greg took the opportunity to browse the photographs of whales and dolphins decorating the walls. Gorman was a renowned undersea photographer. Dmitri scrutinized one photo with such intensity that his breath fogged the glass frame.

  “Done.” Gorman stood and walked up to them, offering his hand. “Thanks for waiting. Our fundraising season never seems to end.”

  Dmitri detected a military bearing in Gorman’s posture and vise-grip handshake. Nearly six feet tall himself, he was impressed by the man’s Nordic physicality. The PICES director towered at least four inches above him. Dmitri’s own physical traits—swept-back, brown hair, prominent sideburns, and dark eyes—stood in stark contrast to Gorman’s crew-cut and lantern jaw. Dmitri’s pale complexion reflected the academic nature of his work. Gorman’s skin displayed the imprint of the sun and the wind. He estimated the PICES director was of a mid-thirtyish, Gen X age similar to himself.

  “These are extraordinary. How did you get so close?” Dmitri asked, pointing to a group of pictures of a humpback calf suckling her mother’s milk.

  “That was one hell of a memorable dive.” Gorman faced the photos. “At first the mother didn’t notice me. But after about a minute, I could see her barreling toward me on a collision course. I’ll never know if it was an intentional act. Maybe she sensed I was a danger to her child. Anyway, my life started to pass before my eyes.”

  Gorman’s recollection was so vivid Dmitri felt himself stiffen at the image of the charging behemoth. As Gorman reestablished eye contact, his irises were glimmering blue pools, like the ocean-filtered sunshine in the photo. They had a faraway look.

  “At the last possible second, she adjusted course. Just missed me.” The immediacy in Gorman’s voice suggested he was anchored back in the present. “Her wake sent me tumbling, but I was fine. A warning. Nothing violent. I knew then and there I was the recipient of a message—from a highly sentient being.”

  “Whoa-ahhh.” Dmitri’s and Greg’s harmonized response lingered in the air.

  As the trio settled into chairs, a shorter, bearded fellow entered the office, approached Gorm
an, and whispered into his ear.

  “I’d like you to meet PICES assistant director, Peter Hawkins,” Gorman said. “He just told me about an incident during this morning’s whale watch. I take it you were there?”

  “Yeah,” replied Greg. “It was a bad scene. Blood in the water . . . like Jaws.”

  “We’re thinking it was a shark attack or a ship strike,” said Hawkins. “These things do happen occasionally.”

  “It definitely shook everyone aboard,” Dmitri said. “Yesterday at the airport, we read about the beached juvenile. Did you find out yet if there’s a link to the Navy’s sonar?”

  “Peter and I visited Molokai two days ago.” Gorman seemed edgy. “We were pretty disturbed by what we found.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s rare to find a fatally stranded juvenile with no obvious external injuries. The usual causes of death—predatory attack, accidental ship strike, or disease—weren’t evident. Since whales don’t have a swim bladder, most heavy cetaceans like humpbacks sink to the bottom when they die. Things just didn’t add up, so we necropsied the skull.”

  “Why the skull?” asked Greg.

  “Our sister organization in Australia has documented a number of fatal strandings of Cuvier whales. Their calculations indicate the Navy’s sonar frequencies coincide with the resonance frequencies of the Cuvier’s cranial airspaces. The sonar can therefore destroy the delicate tissues around their brains and ears.” Gorman paused, crinkling his forehead. “Our examination in Molokai revealed extensive hemorrhaging of the brain sac and the inner ear cavity. This would clearly damage the juvenile’s balancing and echo location abilities, which probably caused the stranding.”

  “That’s grotesque!” Greg grimaced.

  “But not unexpected,” said Hawkins. “The power levels of the sonar pulses exceed two hundred decibels.”

  “The intensity of the sound pressure waves would dwarf the roar of a jet engine,” added Gorman.

  “Have you communicated your findings to the Navy?” asked Dmitri.

  “I did. I served in the Navy, so I used my connections to remind them about the dangers of advanced sonar testing in Hawaiian waters.” Gorman peeked at his wristwatch. “Time’s tight right now, as you can imagine. Let’s move on to the reason you contacted me.”

  “Yes, the whale songs,” said Dmitri.

  Gorman summarized the PICES research program, emphasizing their recent undertaking to record whale songs in Hawaii, Alaska, and Tonga. “Some researchers study the songs like musicologists searching for patterns of cadence and repetition. I’m more interested in correlating the phrase structure to social behavior such as feeding and mating.”

  “That’s what I hoped to hear,” Dmitri said. “As I mentioned in my emails, I’ve specialized in digital voice development for cell phone applications. I’ve analyzed speech waveforms to accurately reconstruct phonemes, the primitive units of spoken language. Using a similar approach, I’ll analyze the microstructure of whale vocalizations, hoping to find similarities to the frequency patterns that characterize human language.”

  “Seems like a difficult task. What makes you think you’ll find anything?”

  “Human songs are a stylized expression of our spoken languages. Of course, we can whistle or hum a song purely for musical purposes. The real question is: Are these whales merely whistling a tune or singing a story? Since they’ve evolved twelve-pound brains rich in the convolutions of cerebral cortex, similar to our gray matter, why wouldn’t they have responded to the same evolutionary pressures as humans to develop communications for purposes of cooperative hunting?”

  “Like the bubble nets,” replied Gorman.

  “Exactly,” said Dmitri. “I’ve a hunch whale talk is as expressive as English or French.”

  “You make a good case.” Gorman’s voice had become more animated. “Marine biologists, however, don’t have the expertise to analyze waveforms. In fact, we hardly know anything about the physiology of sound generation in whales. There just aren’t many opportunities to autopsy an intact humpback. However, we do know that there’s a large laryngeal cavity, a laryngeal sac, and a series of valves between the trachea and the blow hole. The sac probably functions as a resonant sound chamber. We’ve also discovered a series of blind sacs branching off of the respiratory tract. They also might play a role in sound production, but we just don’t know.”

  “Helmholz resonators,” Dmitri answered. “You know, like blowing on a coke bottle.” Gorman nodded. “It’s a fascinating clue.” Dmitri touched his Adam’s apple. “Just like humans. We adapted our respiratory and digestive systems to harness sound and create language.”

  “Yes,” replied Gorman, “but there’s a recent discovery hinting at an even more intriguing adaptation.”

  “I’m all ears.” Dmitri sensed that, beside him, Greg listened intently.

  “Our Hawaiian humpbacks feed mainly in summertime while they’re in Alaskan waters. They live off of fat reserves during their winters here in the tropics. The annual migratory round-trip is thousands of miles. A team in New Zealand recently published the results of an eight-year, satellite-tracking study.”

  As Gorman paused, Hawkins finished the thought. “They confirmed the humpbacks travelled up to twelve hundred miles in straight lines without deviating from course by more than a single degree.”

  “Like they’re using GPS.” Greg pointed at the ceiling.

  “That’s right,” replied Gorman. “The Kiwi study concluded it’s virtually impossible to achieve such remarkable navigational precision using only the sun or the earth’s magnetic fields. We’re forced to consider other alternatives such as tracking the stars or long-distance sounds.”

  Dmitri’s mind burst into overdrive. “So, you’re telling us they’ve adapted sound for feeding,” he raised a thumb, “singing, and possibly even navigation.” He counted to three with his index and middle fingers. “Given their big brains and their social behavior,” he extended two more fingers, “it seems logical to assume yet another adaptation for purposes of communication.”

  “That’s the mystery question,” said Gorman. “I’d be happy to give you a CD with recent recordings for your waveform analysis.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Dmitri replied. They shook hands. “Thanks for your hospitality. It’s time we left. I want to take Greg up to the mountaintop before sunset.”

  They were just standing up when Gorman’s front desk assistant rushed through the office door, her face grief-stricken.

  “Shelley, what’s wrong?”

  “We just received an urgent phone call from Ka’anapali . . .” She shook her head.

  “And?”

  “The Sheraton’s reported a humpback washed up on their beach. It’s still breathing.”

  The color drained from Gorman’s face. “Damn the Navy.” He spat the words.

  Silence cloaked the room. Finally Dmitri said, “If there’s anything we can do to help?”

  Gorman faced Hawkins. “This puts a whole new spin on what happened this morning. It can’t be the same whale. That’s two incidents on the same day.” He turned toward Dmitri. “Between you and me, I suspect the Navy’s killing sounds are destroying Maui’s whales. If you can find any proof of whale language, it could help to rally public opinion.”

  “I—”

  But Gorman was already out the door.

  HALEAKALA SUNSET

  Haleakala Crater Summit Lookout, Maui—midafternoon

  Nibbling on biscotti they had purchased at the PICES gift shop, Dmitri and Greg settled into their candy-apple-red Mustang GT convertible.

  “Quite a meeting,” said Greg. “This is a bad day to be a humpback whale.”

  “Gorman said a language breakthrough could help publicize the threats to their survival.”

  “There you go again. McPinsky, Part 2.”

  “Enough whale talk.” Dmitri forced himself to sound upbeat. “This is our vacation . . . time to lighten up.”

&nb
sp; “Amen, brother. Let’s pop the lid on this puppy.” Greg released the latch securing the car’s vinyl top.

  Dmitri waved his hand with a flourish, as if he held a magic wand. “Expelliarmus!” He jabbed an index finger at the dashboard. “Reducto!” He waved and jabbed again. “Expecto patronum.” Finally, he pressed a button on the control panel and watched the ceiling of the car gradually disappear, vanishing without a trace. He reached for the sky. “Let there be light.”

  “I didn’t realize my stuffed-shirt engineering colleague minored in Hogwarts incantations. There’s still hope for you, my older friend.”

  “Coming from the king of joie de vivre, I consider that a compliment.” Dmitri genuinely felt better, despite Greg’s reminder about their five-year age difference. “Considering my low-key social skills, I really appreciate your vitality.”

  “We’re a good team.” Greg slapped Dmitri on the shoulder. “I keep you loose, and you boggle me with your sense of wonder. However,” Greg thrust an arm into the air like a rush-hour traffic cop, “your lust for discovery leaves you vulnerable to visionaries like McPinsky.”

  “Vulnerable! I think you’ve got it backwards, pal. He’s given me a gift! It wouldn’t hurt you to be injected with a dose of McPinsky-itis.”

  Greg didn’t respond.

  “Speaking of wonder, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a toy like this?” Dmitri brushed a hand across the leather-wrapped steering wheel. He gripped the wheel and shuttered his eyes. When the textured touch activated a region of dormant neural circuitry, he zoomed through a wormhole in his subconscious to the memory of a cold Christmas morning long ago. He was bundled in a toasty Pooh blanket. The room smelled like tangy evergreen, and the branches glittered with tinsel. Stroking the leather saddle of a shiny red bicycle, Dmitri’s developing mind puzzled over a problem. How did Santa know that, during family shopping trips, he’d stopped to admire the very bike under the tree? On that Christmas day, he’d solved his first major mystery. It also was the day he stopped believing in Santa Claus, realizing instead something even more wonderful—that he would always be embraced by his parents’ love.