The Gray Whales of Baja
She’s more than 30 feet long, and has surely come to this beautiful lagoon midway down the west coast of the Baja California peninsula for dozens of winters. I am amazed how she seems simply to emerge, ghostlike at first, then as mottled slate-dark rising from below.
I reach into the water, seeking connection. To touch a whale! To be so close to such an immense mammal whose life is lived so differently from mine! She rises to the surface, a living submarine, noses into the ponga, our Mexican fishing boat, and places her forehead into my outstretched hand. I know I am in the presence of grandeur and grace.
The “knuckles” of the backbone
At first I absorb the wet feel of her, the reluctant springiness of the well-insulated hide bolstered by up to 10 inches of blubber. I gain confidence and press my hand into the rubbery softness of her forehead. I think: she likes this. So I give her a measured but vigorous massage with both hands, and she stays and stays. Her head feels sort of like those foam mattresses where the shape of a hand remains when it is taken away. But just “sort of,” because this is a gray whale, one of the largest of the baleen whales, and she’s right here, right now, and utterly unafraid.
Maybe she should be. Not because of how any of our group would ever treat her, but considering what’s been done to whales historically, what’s still happening in other places right now, I ponder how forgiving her species is proving to be.
Whale “spy-hopping” (Photo credit: Ranulfo)
She is rising like a ghost to the surface
The backbone of a gray whale swimming close to the water’s surface appears like a giant series of knuckles. There is no dorsal fin. This makes it understandable why gray whales were often mistaken in olden times for sea monsters. When they exhale and the sun catches it right, it’s called “rainblow.” When they exhale and you’re hovering over the blowhole, I discovered that it’s a very odd sort of whale-spit facial, gooey and fish-scented.
With luck, gray whales live into their 60s, and some possibly much longer, if the evidence is true. Their migration is among the longest of any animal (8,000-10,000 miles average, and up to 14,000 miles) [source: www.whalefacts.org]. They travel from the Bering and Chukchi Seas each fall to this lagoon in western Baja to have their babies. In March and April, they guide their young back to the north to feed.
Flying in over our camp
The Mexican fishermen whose families have lived here for generations understand these whales and the shared space here. The whole width of the midpoint of the Baja peninsula was given over to a bio-reserve some years ago, with rules about preservation of wildlife. Here in San Ignacio lagoon, where we are, the locals have added their own rules. There is a well-defined whale-watching area, and only 16 boats can enter it at a time, for just 90 minutes. No more than two boats can hover around a particular whale at a time. The whales who don’t want to be visited have plenty of other areas to hang out. They do not feel harassed, not here. They visit us, they “spy-hop” (raise the head vertically out of the water), and even sometimes leap clear into the open air.
Travel buddies on the beach
For three days, we camp on the shore of the peninsula in safari tents, well-supported with good food and a peaceful place. We head into the whale watching area two times a day, and are amply rewarded. Many times, a mother brings her baby to the ponga for a visit. Several times, I touch two gray whales at once. I lean out and kiss more than one. I wish each of them godspeed and safe travels. My heart is filled with great respect, and awe.
[Note: This blog first appeared in April 2014 at “Design Destinations” (http://www.designdestinations.org/2014/04/the-splendor-of-whales/) and has been updated and revised.]
Kate kisses her whale! (Photo credit: Ranulfo)
