Fear and Whaling in Monterey Bay
Conquering fears and diving deeper into my new universe
Like my dad, I get carsick if I’m not the one driving. Had I been in the passenger seat during my PCH day, it wouldn’t have been a good day at all. But I spent a lot of time on boats on lakes as a kid and did alright. I did get really queasy on a ferry crossing Lake Champlain between New York and Vermont when I was 17, though.
That was enough to make me pretty nervous about doing a whale watching cruise, almost to the point of not buying the ticket. Especially now that vestibular migraines are a part of my life (and likely the cause of my carsickness for all these years. Dad likely has it, too.) I rationalized that, because of my condition, I’ve gotten pretty acclimated to throwing up a lot more than a normal person does, even in public, so what if I did it on a boat?
All this is to say that, on the last full day of my Monterey County trip, I did a three-hour whale-watching cruise without so much as a wisp of nausea. Plus, they had seasickness bags on the boat.
I followed the tips given by Monterey Bay Whale Watch, who are total pros. Literally. They’re all marine biologists, which is why I chose them over other whale tours. In addition to focusing on educating passengers and protecting the wildlife and the bay, they offered some sickness-prevention tips that I followed. Pretty easy: take a Bonine before bed the night before the ride, and another half an hour before the ride begins.
Generally, I’m not a fearful person. I like to move through the world with the belief that most things we fear aren’t nearly as harmful as we think. Which might be naive, but so far the odds have supported my belief.
But the whale tour tested a lot of things that make me ill at ease, at least. They include:
Bodies of water where I can’t see the bottom.
Drowning
My body failing me (vomiting [still], falling)
Birds
Touching slimy things
Walking down Old Fisheman’s Wharf to the boat, I was greeted by more cat-sized seagulls, one of them swooping close enough to ruffle my hair. And then there was this double treat—a large gull eating a slimy, dead fish.
Fears one, two, and four converged when it was time to get on the boat. There was a sizeable gap between the dock and the stairs, straight to the bottom of the bay (probably). Having hobbled around for so many years on broken knees and new knees, and a weakened body from the downtime, along with being a whole 5’3” tall, I didn’t have a lot of faith in my ability to clear the gap.
I’m proud to say that I did it, and I didn’t ask a marine biologist if they could lift me across. Isn’t there a hoist for this?
When I was checking in, one of the marine biologists voiced his approval of my Ramones shirt.
“Thanks. It’s for proving my punk cred after I run from a seagull, cry because I have to walk over water, and I throw up eight times on this three-hour tour.”
Luckily, as we launched into the bay, I was distracted by my first glimpses of sea lions. I don’t remember what started my early childhood love of sea lions, but boy, I sure think they’re cool.
As we launched, our guide Sara introduced Daniel, the professional photographer who goes on their trips. When he spoke, he thanked us all for our spirit of adventure and willingness to do something that a lot of people don’t have the courage to do. And I unclenched a bit, getting this acknowledgement that yes, even though this is a routine trip, it’s kind of a big deal for many of us. Maybe a fearful thing. That little bit of validation helped me shift into a less anxious frame of mind, and I soon found myself enjoying the ride on the bay.
It took almost an hour before we saw our first humpback whale. Our guide pointed out the bobbing heads of a group of sea lions and circling birds, waiting to dive for the food that the whale would leave behind.
I wish I’d been able to overcome my fear of drowning so I could have gotten a better look, but with the slippery floor and low sides of the boat, I was more comfortable standing with a hand on the back of the bench. I missed some sights, including a whale breaching the water (that’s when they leap out of the water, twist, and splash down, an act Sara called the whale equivalent of running a marathon).
Instead of dwelling, I focused on seeing what would happen next. Daniel spent quite a bit of time shooting photos of the wildlife from the back of the boat, so I just let my eyes follow his lens instead of scanning the sea like I might recognize something before he did.
I only took a few photos and videos, because I didn’t want to have this experience through my phone screen. Apologies, but not really. This was something I wanted to see with my eyes, turn myself over to the moment. The photos I took were ones where I happened to have my camera ready. Whales are pretty slow, and when they dove with their tail (fluke) out of the water, there was just enough time to capture the image, albeit rather sloppily.
It seemed the highlight of our trip would be an encounter with a mother humback and her juvenile. Sara assessed that the young whale was likely close to a year old and would soon be leaving its mother. While we watched, the youngster did what kids do—they played. Rolling in a patch of floating kelp, slapping the surface of the water with their pectoral fin, and smacking their chin to splash. Soon it disappeared, the mother dove, and we waited. This was likely post-play naptime, so we moved the boat along so as not to disturb them.
We saw quite a bit over the course of an hour, and as we started back towards the pier, Sara reminded us that the trip wasn’t over until we were off the boat—just because we were heading back didn’t mean we wouldn’t see more. And she was correct.
We came upon another whale, doing its whale things—diving and splashing, even partially jumping out of the water. Sometimes, that’s a sign. Sara encouraged us not to look away.
And then, the humpback, 60 feet and 30-some tons, launched out of the water, its tail wrapped against its body many feet over the bay’s surface, twisting in mid-air before splashing down to rest under the surface.
I put my camera out of my mind. It was easy because, as she rose from the water, I was too busy shrieking with wonder. I’ve never felt my eyes grow so wide, and the smile spreading across my cold and chapped face might have cracked me wide open.
While we kept a good bit of distance between all the whales, it wasn’t difficult to feel the enormity. Witnessing her power to separate the ocean currents and launch. We don’t really know why whales breach. Why do some humans run marathons? Why do others jump onto boats when they’re afraid of just about every aspect of the experience?
Because we can. And we are rewarded with the enormity of this world and the vitality within it.
In our three hours on the bay, we saw 13 humpback whales along with many sea lions who swim far into the bay for days on end to feed, returning to land or rocks or piers to recover from their feasting journeys.
News broke from the Oregon coast on Saturday that a 2-year-old female humpback whale was tangled in crabbing nets left behind from two years ago. She was beached, tangled in human garbage, crying for help.
Extraordinary efforts were made to free her and get her back out to sea, but ultimately she had to be euthanized.
In addition to scientists and veterinarians, members of the Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians performed traditional ceremonies for the whale.
My heart has broken for this young whale. Not in the same way it broke for the father and daughter who died after being swept away at Big Sur last week. That’s mourning because I’m empathetic and can only begin to imagine the absolute hell that family is experiencing.
I think I’m grieving for this humpback because I’ve had a moment of experiencing the incredible energy and power these creatures bring to our world, but also for what is lost every time human interference causes a loss of an animal whose population isn’t large enough to handle untimely deaths. Without them, we lose a link in the chain that makes it possible for human life to keep lurching on. We lose animals like whales, we lose ourselves.
I was wrong the other day when my experience on 17-Mile Drive led me to say that Monterey Bay and the Pacific Ocean are a universe different from mine. Maybe that was the case on Sunday. Tuesday taught me that these universes swirl and slam into each other, making one world, connected.
I never knew how much until I got over myself and got on the boat.
Make a donation to the Siletz Tribal Arts & Heritage Society.
Donate to the conservation efforts of the Monterey Bay Aquarium.
When I was in high school, I had the "Nuke a Gay Whale for Christ" button on my jean jacket. I would like to publicly apologize for that, mainly to the whales, who didn't deserve to get dragged into that.