The Whale Story I Promised

Paddling our tandem kayak out into the calm early morning waters of Makena beach off the far southwest shore of Maui, my sister and I wondered what we had gotten ourselves into. We signed on to a kayak whale watching tour in the hopes of encountering the visiting humpbacks without the distraction of noisy boat motors or clusters of picture-happy, chatty tourists, the kinds of trips we'd taken before. I had never kayaked, and Molly had minimal experience, but once our guide finished giving the basic instructions for our excursion, we gamely offered to be the first to wade out and push off. I sat in the front while Molly took on steering responsibilities in the back. Secretly, I think we were anxious to get a handle on our paddling rhythm and control, so we wouldn't look like puppies tossed out to sea, moving energetically but with no clue how to change course. We quickly discovered our tendency to veer left, with slow recovery time, while the other two couples made their way into the water.

Once we were all together, our guide instructed us to continue heading straight west from shore. Talking and giggling, Molly and I pulled ahead, and, of course, to the left of everyone else. Glancing back, the beach already looked very distant, and Molly and I realized we were truly teeny tiny dots in the wide open ocean. We could see through the crystal clear water to the bottom in many places, but we were cautious about leaning over too far and toppling our balance. We also noticed and commented on our inability to stick with the group, but we shrugged it off and kept up our pace, figuring there was no way we would become too separated.

Fifteen minutes in, our guide called our attention to whales swimming near a boat about 50 yards to the north, and we all turned and stopped. While humpbacks don't usually travel in pods, they tend to make up small clusters including a mother, her calf (who will stay with mom for about a year), and a male escort (dude who is hoping to get some action with the hot mama), which is exactly what we were observing. We watched in fascination--their size and movement impressive even from that distance--which turned to disappointment when it appeared they were on course to continue heading north away from us. When the whales dove under and out of sight for a couple of minutes, our guide shouted for us to hang out and wait to see where they might pop up again.

Molly and I sat in silence appreciating the quiet calm of the water, outside of the faint ramblings from our talkative guide who was sharing a steady stream of whale wisdom with the other tour participants. Suddenly, the humpbacks appeared again, still directly north of us, but this time heading straight toward Molly and me. Stunned, we sat frozen and watched their progress, staring in disbelief as they made leisurely progress toward our boat. Another large tour of kayakers approached the spot where our guide waited with the rest of our small group, and some people started calling out to the whales.

When you see a whale breach way out in the distance, you watch in awe understanding that it is an enormous and powerful creature. On the other hand, when you are practically sitting on top of the water in a little plastic boat the size of a humpback's fin, and three of these giants (altogether roughly the size of two and a half school buses) are heading toward you, you feel to the core the enormity of your situation.

Molly and I talked quietly to each other throughout the experience. We felt excited, lucky, a little afraid, and very much alone. Both of us love the whales and, you may find this childish, even believe there is something magical about them. Neither one of us thinks they would ever intentionally hurt a human, yet it was hard to push nagging thoughts of what if they capsize our boat or what if one breaches and crushes us out of our minds, no matter how remote the possibility or how much we were enjoying their proximity.

As they got closer, there were stretches of time when they'd dive under and we had no idea when or where they'd show up again. We encouraged each other to stay calm and not make any sudden movements, even when surprised. At one point, Molly called out "I'm scared!" to our guide, and he hollered back, "Don't be! They know exactly where you are and what they are doing. They're gentle giants! GENTLE GIANTS!" Reassuring. My camera was buried in the dry sack strapped down directly in front of me, and, after a brief discussion, we decided it was more important to stay in the moment than try to dig it out to catch a snapshot. I wanted my mind to record everything, since a picture rarely captures a memory anyway.

After a couple of minutes of quiet, we knew they were approaching when we started to hear the social chattering and singing of the male. I can't even describe the sound, except to say that it is a totally unique and interesting combination of clicks, deep moans, and high pitched wails with no real pattern. Happy whale jazz. :) The songs grew louder, as did the thumping of my heart, which meant they were very close even if we couldn't see them. About 10 seconds later, the mother and the baby crested the surface roughly 20 feet from our kayak. This additional sound startled us, but we sat still and watched. A whale coming up kind of reminds me of the noise a speed boat makes bouncing off a wave combined with a great puff of air, like blowing water out of a huge snorkel.

Seeing them up close was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. It's hard to believe that these big clunky whales can move with such grace and fluidity. They are at one with the water, gliding along with ease, yet look like they are made from very basic pieces of the rich brown earth, totally beautiful and awesome in their obvious ugliness.

We realized we hadn't yet seen the male, but the singing continued as we watched the mother and her baby swim by. Finally, the song resonated to the point of distraction, and the bottom of our boat began to vibrate. Molly and I both sat rigidly, gripping the sides of the boat, well aware that most likely the male was right below us. I couldn't tell from my line of vision, and we were too chicken to shift positions to look down and check, eager to avoid actually swimming with the whales. We breathed a collective sigh of relief when he popped up about 30 feet directly behind our boat.

After the humpbacks were a fair distance away, we reconnected with our group. Our guide told us we had a pretty unusual experience, and his best guess was that, with the other boats around, the whales found Molly and I in our lone kayak the least threatening option to pass on their way. We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon paddling to different locations, although we saw very few other whales. Molly and I didn't care much, as we were still too excited by our adventure. At the end, we stopped at a reef near shore to snorkel with gorgeous tropical fish and sea turtles, and, when you put your head all the way under water, you could hear the whales talking and singing. Our guide shared that the sounds are constant while the humpbacks are in Hawaii, and I wondered if the other fish and creatures are ever annoyed and want to scream, "Shut up already! Can't we have some peace and quiet? Go back to where you came from!"

As we tiredly made our way back to Makena at the end of the trip, a couple of sea turtles popped up around us, one right in front of our kayak. Both of us saw it. I stopped paddling to slow us down and called out, Veer right! Molly responded with, "I'm trying!" We continued straight, and the turtle held its position. Concerned that we were about to knock into an endangered species and possibly be arrested for our crime, I leaned forward to use the powers of mental telepathy to persuade him (felt strongly it was a him) to move. He gazed into my eyes with a look I can only guess was alarm, yet stayed floating on the surface. I sat back, cringed, and waited for impact while Molly furiously paddled away. At the last possible second, the turtle in danger dove below and made a beeline for the safety of the sandy ocean floor.

It was a pretty perfect day.