Our first day swimming with whales was not swimming with whales. We spent five hours on a boat traversing the ocean, eyes intent on the horizon, on the distant left, right, and behind the boat. We saw plenty of whales, they were just never in the mood to hang out. Like teenagers.
So we watched tail flukes arise and descend, and fluke imprints--the flat space left after a whale tail lands. We saw breaching whales. We saw babies. We saw two giant males breaching one after the other. We saw spouts. Whales close and far away. And we heard the whales. Their songs are mysterious and beautiful in an alien kind of way. There are many theories about the reasons they sing: communication, mating calls, beauty.
There were four "almost" moments.
"Nine'clock, a hundred meters," the swim guide called out. All eyes darted to the left of the front of the boat.
"Group one, get ready."
We scrambled. Took off hats and jackets, grabbed fins, masks and snorkels, climbed onto the side of the boat and waited for the whale to reemerge and to signal it was willing to have observers. I called these moments our fire drills.
We were ready for a blaze. But the blaze never came. There were a couple of close calls. Once the guide jumped in the water to check on the whale's location. By the fourth drill, I was moving faster and more sure than the first time, but all in vain.
When we were more than an hour from shore, still searching for the elusive whale, I was cold, tired, and pining for the distant shore. It seemed so distant. Still in my wetsuit, the wind was incessant and even though we never swam, I was plenty wet.
I call this my vulnerable state and during this state, a lot of stuff went through my mind. It's a hard truth when you acknowledge how negative the mind can be. When I'm cold and nauseous from the ten thousandth wave bump, when I'm done, I perseverate. I'm like a two-year-old without the ability to reason.
I perseverated on the inconvenience of having traveled so far. I perseverated on the cost to suffer. I perseverated on the white caps, the wind, and how I would skip tomorrow's excursion.
Fortunately, when I realize I'm in my vulnerable state, I can pause and say, "Hang on." This will pass. The ride, the pain, the fear will end. That's all I do is make it to the end. It always comes.
And fortunately, I'm writing this after having a Day 2. So I know the end came and a glorious whale day arrived. Stay tuned.
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