Thar she blows
A light drizzle was falling as we left the car and headed down the coastal track. We figured it would soon clear. We ignored the people running back towards shelter, going the opposite direction to us. But by the time we had gone a couple of hundred metres, the rain was falling steadily and the wind whipping in from the ocean was cold. Rob and I looked at each other and, both with the same thought, turned and headed back to the car. We weren’t prepared for a wet weather walk; we’d donned sunscreen and hats before heading out, but weather near the cape can turn quickly. We were soaked and cold by the time we closed the car doors on the wind and rain. The whales would have to wait. Or rather, we would have to wait until we attempted to spot any whales.
Cape Naturalist in the south-western corner of the Australian continent is billed as one of the few places it is possible to see whales from the shore. Humpbacks, southern rights and blue whales all migrate past annually. They go north to the calve in warm waters near the equator, then head back south to their summer feeding grounds in the Antarctic. Our ill-fated coastal walk was in the hope of seeing some as they journey south.
We went back to our friends’ house where we were staying. Dried off. Drank tea. Ate. Watched the rain from inside by the fire.
Later in the day, the weather cleared, so we decided to go back and try again to see the whales.
The track through coastal heath leads to a viewing platform high above the rocky coast. We walked under a clouded sky. The steel-grey sea stretched out to the distant horizon. We were still on the boardwalk, heading to the viewing platform, when we saw our first whales. ‘Thar she blows!’ Just a splash out of the corner of my eye. Then the tell-tale pattern on the surface as the whale sinks – a mixture of swirling white water and smooth patches. Simply different to the surrounding wave pattern. We stopped and watched, pointing: There! And there! Did you see that one!
We walked on and stood on the viewing platform with a family, three generations enjoying the show. All eyes out to the sea. Watching.
I don’t know how many we saw. I didn’t count. Maybe a dozen or so. It was impossible to tell whether we were seeing the same few whales over and again or different ones each time. A head spy hopping there. A body surfacing as it swam by, the ‘hump’ of its dorsal fin giving it away as a humpback. A flash of a tale. A blow spray as the massive mammals exhale and inhale at the surface.
The whales were maybe a couple of hundred metres away, at the closest. Some were further. Just a splash and a glimpse.
We left the viewing platform and walked along a side trail towards the headland, a path less travelled. The shrubs pressed in on us, the track beneath our shoes was sandy and rock strewn. We paused and looked out to sea. A whale, breaching. For a moment its whole body is out of the water, its white belly framed by the blue ocean. Then gone with a mighty splash. A little way off we see a flipper rise above the waves and slap down, again and again, as if signalling: a cetacean semaphore. A tail flips up, hangs for a moment then sinks below the surface. Another whale breaches.
We walk on along the trail but keep stopping and looking out to sea. Walking requires concentrating on the path. There are rocks and the likelihood of snakes. It’s necessary to look down and see where we are placing our feet. But our eyes are drawn to the sea. So we walk a little way and then stop and look. Walk. Stop. Look. Repeat. Watching for that splash. That glimpse. It’s not a lot. It’s not the up-close-and-personal views we have had of whales from boats, but nor is there the seasickness that has tended to be my closer companion on such ventures. Nor is it the detailed view wildlife documentaries have brought into the comfort of our homes. But there is something majestically real about standing on the shore and seeing the whales out there doing their thing. And the glimpses are enough.
Eventually we tear ourselves away and walk the trail back towards the car. The coastal heath is full of spring flowers, but I barely see them. My eyes are alert for snakes and my head is full of whales.
Thanks for reading,
Jill