Bohemia Village Voice

Whaleswim

What is she singing about, this elderly, lone female? Too old to mate, she has still journeyed thousands of miles from the Antarctic to the warm, shallow Tongan breeding-grounds.
How many times has she come here? Where are the males who once competed for her favours? How many calves has she borne, one every few years, nurturing them until strong enough and then guiding them on the hazardous way South? Is she a matriarch, accompanying her offspring now it’s their turn, offering ‘good advice’ on parenthood and consoling unsuccessful young males? Or is she just having a jolly good nag that no-one pays any attention to the elderly?
Whichever, the continuous stream of low notes, burbles and wails, inaudible above, surrounds you as soon as you slip into the water and is more felt than heard. It is beautiful, really soothing, and I can’t wait to meet the songstress.
But she has been hard to find. We have been at sea since nine this morning and it is now three in the afternoon. Scanning the sea for spouts, MD and I are caught out by a deceptively fierce sun through thin cloud and have bright-red noses that will peel alarmingly in a few days. One mother with her calf would have nothing of our approaches, moving on every time we thought they might have settled and our having got into the water for the thirty-ish metre swim to them.
We’d headed towards a mighty display of fin-slapping and been treated to the awesome sight of a massive male breaching then half twisting before crashing back into the water. This is a sight you’d never forget but he is not something you’d want landing on top of you, believe me, so we move on. And there she is, gently rising for air and spouting not far off Submarine Rock and seemingly in no hurry.
Even then she’s elusive. The rules are that boats must approach singly, alongside and at least thirty metres from whales, then four swimmers follow an instructor if the whales settle and accept our company. We move onto station, first four ready at the back of the boat while the rest watch for her to resurface. And we wait. And wait. Later, our instructor, Pete, tells me he’d given up and was on the point of calling it a day – we are due back on the mooring at half-past four.
“Pete, how deep is this water? Should we be able to see the bottom here?”
“No way!”
“What’s that under the boat, then?”
“It’s the whale! First lot in the water, NOW!”
Crafty Old Girl! You know these are highly intelligent creatures, fully aware of our presence on the boat and in the water, and I believe she really could be playing with us.
Then it’s my turn to get in and I’m face down in the very large, very deep, Pacific Ocean. All I can see is blue, streaked by sunrays. I’m dragging my bulky underwater camera, struggling to reach where Pete is waiting for us.
“Now, look down!”
There below, at first just the white pattern of the underside of her tail faint in the depths, then clearer and clearer she comes fully into view, floating tail up and rising gently all the way to the surface in front of us. Out pops her tail for a wave, then down and forward a little as she raises her head, spouts and breathes before slowly diving away and out of sight.
Nice meeting you, Beautiful Old Lady, it has been my privilege!