A Whale of a Sight

by Marco Monteiro-Silva, 1 September 2007

A man with sunglasses and a tanned face steps out of the small blue whale shack. We huddle around him eagerly, like penguins clamouring for free sardines outside a back alley fish shop. It's a sunny afternoon in Hermanus, and we're here for the whales.

Our skipper introduces himself and gives us a brief lesson on southern right whales. We try to pay attention but our crew of excited whale watchers are twitching to jump aboard; to brave the ocean and track down the whales that, in the winter months of May to December, migrate some 3000 miles north from Antarctica to this small South African coastal town.

All Hands on Deck

Small colourful boats bob on the calm water, waving goodbye as we pull away from the quiet surrounds of the new harbour and head for the open sea. Captain's gold earring twinkles in the early afternoon sun. His silver hair and tanned leathery neck - the medals of a life at sea - display his rank and command our obedience. To my eyes he seems incomplete though; carrying with him the abrupt and grumpy manner of a pirate who has lost his green parrot.

The waters are choppy; the air is cold and fast, wet with the spray of motorboat engines. People huddle into their jerseys and rain coats like shivering moles. Upstairs, on the observation deck, I grip the iron railing as the captain points out the first sighting. He points to his left: "The lobster poachers are out this afternoon."

As we pass, embarrassed faces stare up at us from the boats. A high lobster demand sees poachers harvesting out of season and selling them to some sly restaurateurs on the cheap.

Mutiny

A British tourist asks Captain if whale-spotting boats ever collide with the southern rights. "Sound travels five times as far and fast underwater," says Captain, "they know we're coming, friend."

After a brief pause, the tourist mentions that he is in fact a marine insurance analyst. "Where I'm from," says the marine insurance man, "big boats hit big whales all the time," in a polite but unmistakably mutinous tone.

Captain grunts, unaccustomed to contradiction. A brief image of an insurance salesman walking the plank plays through my mind to the soundtrack of an invisible parrot laughing. Even on a tourist boat, I note, there are different rules when you're out on the open sea.

Whale Footprints

"Footprints!" yells Captain. All 20 passengers - five upstairs, 15 down below - start scanning the surface, twisting our necks in hope of our first whale sighting. A slick sheen of oil on the surface gives her away. "Large, pregnant mother nearby," Captain says.

Soon enough, a tail begins to snake along the water. I swallow, and taste a salty mix of sea air and electricity. Eventually it sprouts out in full view - black, clean lines, wide and sleek against a backdrop of rugged mountains. Postcards don't get more perfect than this.

Human-Whale Relations

An hour quickly passes as we find, spot and lose a number of southern right whales. It's the luck of the day. Whales, like people, are social individuals - some are shy, some curious and others are just plain moody. On a good day they will approach the boat, almost rubbing against its sides; on others they'll ignore you. Boats are only allowed to come within a 30m range of the whales. It's then up to the southern rights to further any human-whale relations.

Something Stirs

We move in fives, upstairs and downstairs, rotating the shift and giving everyone a chance to enjoy the view. On my second stint upstairs, Captain's voice pitches and booms. "One hundred metres ahead. Eyes up!" Captain yells out, "He's gonna breach!"

I twist my long lens violently, swinging from left to right, between the sandy steep of the Hangklip Mountains and the Hermanus shoreline. Finally, a hulking monster breaks the silence; breaching the surface, he spins slowly and lands on his back with a roaring splash.

The surface waters settle; the boat is dead quiet. There is the eerie silence of suspense. "Hold steady, another breach in five seconds". Yells and shrieks accompany the second breach, punctuated with the deafening sound of the giant sea monster landing on his back. Cameras hum and whir and energy runs up and down the boat like screaming children at a sugar-fuelled birthday party.

One last surge, our whale launches again, this time his thunderous fall disperses and the calm returns as he disappears from our lives forever - swallowed by the deep blue sea.

The Seven-Ton Itch

Downstairs, we take our seats and embark on the half-hour return journey. Appetites are sated; it's been a quiet trip, not much action today, but the last performance, a sight Captain hasn't seen for almost a month, is well worth it.

Back in port, we pass a small colourful boat; a small black face punctures the water, I smile at the lonely scuba diver tending to some business under the bright blue boat. The crew jumps off, the adventure is done. Land ho.

As we walk along the pier, a faint but deep-bellied sound reaches us from the other side of town. The Whale Crier is blowing his conical horn, signalling a whale sighting very close to shore. Our crew scatters, each chasing their own adventure.

Now, it's time for this pirate to run amuck in the sleepy town, with its cafes, cliffs and kilometres of carved walking trails. This is whale land, a religious site inhabited by giant sea monsters, lobster pirates, whale criers and captains with invisible green parrots on their leathery shoulders.

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