At Sea with the Humpbacks

"Exultation is the going of an inland soul to sea..." or so says that sober-silent friend of ours, Emily Dickinson. And when one is asked to play chaperone to a group of children hungry for the sea and the salt spray and adventure, one must say a definite yes. 

And so that was that. A boat, a multitude of bright blues, and the purest air ever breathed at noontime. And this for our front yard, this I would be happy to call my welcome mat:

The boat, a catamaran with sails, was laid with a tight trampoline in the bow. Here is where the children - and eventually a circle of youth-renewed women whose more cautious children went below decks to become dry - balanced, their hands grasping the ropes, their faces forward with wind-pressed smiles, their feet swinging free into the salt-air with every swell of the sea.

And if that wasn't enough, there were the whales, the humpbacks, who rose and fell, dipping themselves into the air like toddlers dipping their feet into a pool. Like icebergs, these whales show only a fraction of themselves above the surface, yet we know that their giant bodies are there at home under the waves. They spout their fish-eaten breath into the air and sink back down, only to wave a fingertip fin at all us spectators, only to gradually raise a fingerprint tail gracefully as they dive.

I soon discovered that whales are more photo-shy than even I am. And to catch on film a breach, a whale lifting itself completely out of the water, is to near the impossible. So I gave myself up to mental photography, taking with my eyes the pictures of humpbacks side-by-side, of the baby whale learning to jump, of pectorals and dorsals and flukes stretched at the sky.

I will not lie, for my heart was heavy that day. I crept often to the bow of the boat, inching as close as I could to the sea - if only to touch with my toes the liquid air of home - only to be called back again by the crew. Silly of them, really. As close as I wanted to be, I would not have fallen in. And if I had? It is but the sea, this straining, striving, struggling mass of energy that our very lives are balanced on. It is just like our every day, this life, this sea. We are afloat for today, rising and falling on the hourly swells. We do not drown. Not now.

Watching Whales

Sunday afternoon was perfect for whale watching. The sea was winter-calm, deep blue. Any signs of white against the blue were almost definitely the flurry of a whale. We sat at a distance from the main beach - crowded, cramped - where we would only feel like intruders on other people's vacations. The clatter of the crowd was muffled before a buttery sea breeze, and flowed together with the rhythm of the ocean breaking on the rocks beneath us. A warm sun shared its warmth without pain, and the afternoon sank away as we watched the whales spouting off the coast. 

The whales are humpbacks from the northern seas. They travel here every winter to give birth to their young in the shallow warm waters of the Hawaiian islands. And we can only watch from the shore or from a boat, catching a glimpse now and then of a fin, a tail - only a fraction of these massive creatures. 

Once in a while, one of the whales will breach - fling itself headlong out of the sea toward the sky. For a moment, it is almost completely in the air where it cannot breathe, then the humpback comes crashing back down to to the water with a cannonball tidal-wave. You are blessed to be a witness to such a feat, much more to catch a rare shot with a camera.

Whaling Remnants

Pardon me for shouting, but I was only trying to get your attention. Occasionally I wonder whether anyone is reading this as I send my pointless ramblings into the bottomless void otherwise known as the internet. It doesn't really matter... I'll still be at the bottom of the stairs, screaming.

Talking about bottoms... a shipwreck was discovered on the bottom of the sea, 600 miles off the coast of Hawaii. The ship was a whaler named Two Brothers and just happened to be captained by George Pollard, Jr., a man cursed with a habit of sinking ships, apparently. He was captain of the Essex which sank in 1820 due to a collision with a giant sperm whale, thus generating the story that was the inspiration for Moby Dick. A few years later, in 1823, he was captain of the Two Brothers and promptly sank it near the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands. Needless to say, he quit whaling after that. Two Brothers was discovered in 2008, but no one was sure which ship it was. Just a few days ago the wreck was announced to be the long-lost whaler of the unlucky Captain Pollard.

Remnants of the whaling days in Hawaii can be seen around the islands. Here is a try-works pot that sits peacefully in a park, its blubber-boiling days being long over - note the flat sides that were used for lining up the pots on the cramped ships.

The whaling days are over, but the whales are not, thank goodness. I love to spot them out in the ocean, spouting and splashing in the warm tropical waters. They'll be here for a couple more months maybe before they head back up north.

 

Yes, I do know it's Valentine's Day - you don't have to keep reminding me.