soundexp.org

A Sound Experience (2000)

    " I'd rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on earth"
  Steve McQueen

     The whales never did show up. I waited, watched, waited. Talked to everyone I could, followed the State Park Rangers, asked the captains who ran the whale watch boats, the Whale Museum Staff, the locals. I volunteered to do extra shifts at Anchor Watch on our ship at midnight just in case the whales came. Everywhere I looked I saw orcas, painted on walls, on coffee mugs, T-shirts, in the ever-present art galleries. The San Juan Islands are famous for their resident whale pods, yet, in the month of August, they are nowhere to be found. Caught in a complicated web of politics, Native American tribal rights, commercial fishing interest and salmon farming, the whales were in search of food and salmon was scarce. It seems my luck holds true, even 1,000 miles away...

     Deciding to be a volunteer Environmental Educator and Deckhand on the "Adventuress" was an easy choice. Beautiful islands, calm seas, lots of wildlife and a chance to learn to sail an 100 year old schooner in the San Juans were some of the reasons I found myself on a plane to Seattle. I have had virtually no sailing experience but I learned so much and felt extremely proud of what I accomplished while I was there. By the end of week 5, I was tying maritime knots and singing sailor songs right along with the best of them. The weather was perfect, 60-70's during the day, 40-50's at night, cool and green with cedar-scented air. There were a few days of rain, but rain gear in the Pacific Northwest is plentiful and easy to come by. As a keeper at the Zoo for almost 16 years, I believe strongly that it is beneficial to see how "the rest of the world does it", get out there, volunteer in other places with other organizations, see wildlife and how they are managed all over the world. I guarantee you'll come back a better person for it.

     Sound Experience is a non-profit organization that teaches teamwork, respect for the environment and ecology of of the San Juan Islands on the "Adventuress", an actual historic landmark. Her crew is made up of a ragtag bunch of boat bums, professional Captains and first mates, professional teachers and volunteers such as myself (who fell somewhere in between professionals and boat bums). The trips are three to seven days and the groups varied in diversity and ages. In the month of August, we hosted girl scout troops, Elderhostels, Sierra Club and Whale Museum members.

     A typical day consisted of breakfast at 7;00am, classes until 9;00, chores, raising the sails, sailing to various Ports and around the islands (if there was wind), maybe an afternoon hike, lunch, an afternoon class, anchoring the boat, climbing the rigging, taking the little boat out to explore the shorelines, dinner and evening program. As a volunteer I did everything from scrubbing the decks to cleaning the heads, I even spent a week as the galley coordinator, making meals for 36 people for five days! I tried to protest, rather vehemently, that I was the wrong person for the job but to no avail and I actually learned to cook homemade breads, desserts, spinach lasagna and soups in that tiny kitchen! The food was all vegetarian and the galley consisted of a large diesel-powered stove named "Sadie" who was extremely temperamental and had to be cajoled and appeased each time she was fired  up to cook the meal just right. Other skills I learned while cooking in the galley: how to keep the soup pots on the stove while the boat was keeling over int he strong winds, listening to the words of "readyabout!" from the deckhands and keeping coffee, tea and snacks available at all times for hungry/tired/cold participants. Cooking in my own kitchen now lacks drama and challenge but at least the pots stay on the stove.

     Other duties of mine included; teaching Marine Mammals of Pugent Sound, Water Quality and Plankton classes, dressing up in silly costumes for evening programs, even picking up my guitar for the first time in 10 years and and actually singing in front of people! A captive audience with no access to television, radio, computers or movie theaters are actually grateful to talk to each other and sing songs together! The boat had anywhere from 10-36 people aboard at all times so you definitely got to know each other well, patience and flexibility were the most sought-after traits in a volunteer sailor. One of my favorite activities was Anchor Watch. Each night the boat would anchor in a different harbor and around the clock someone was responsible for keeping an eye on her, making sure we didn't drift too close to another vessel, reading our bearings on the compass and checking bilges for water levels (all wooden boats leak a little, just as long as it wasn't past the "call the mate" line). It was unearthly quiet (my favorite sound) on deck at night, except for the occasional sounds of seals splashing through the darkness, the stars and meteor showers were so bright and thick you thought you were actually in the middle of the universe. Bioluminescense shimmered in the water at night and sometimes we saw thousands of shrimp drift by, eyes glowing and tails swishing, clicking their "claws" as they passed under the ship!

     The "Adventuress" would dock mostly in Friday Harbor between trips and that port become home to us. We would come in each week and take hot showers (ah the luxury of it!), buy ice cream and spend the evening at Herbs Tavern singing risque songs too loud, finally coming back to the ship to get ready for another trip out the next day. Friday Harbor is one of the most popular ports in the San Juans and is home to Wolf Hollow Wildlife Rehab Center, the main offices of Sea Shepherd and the very popular Whale Museum. Summertime finds it crawling with "yachties" (worse than vermin to real sailors) and sometimes the boat traffic made the ports look a little like the LA freeways. San Juan Island actually boasts the only Whale Watch Park (Lime Kiln Park) in the world, on the west side bordering the waterway of Haro Straight, famous for it's popularity with the whales. I went there each Friday in hopes of spotting the orcas, to no avail, although the cab driver who took me there one evening said he used to go with his family to watch the whales but that it soon got "boring". He then asked "am I making you feel worse?" He was.

     Wildlife in the San Juans is plentiful. Harbor porpoise, Dalls Porpoise, River otters (who actually live on the seashore!), Minke whales, and Harbor seals are all quite common. Of course, the orcas are who everyone wants to see, including me and there are a total of 84 animals in the Southern Resident group, consisting of three separate pods (J, K and L). Usually their range consists of about 150 miles of the San Juan Islands but due to lack of salmon, the Southern residents have ventured all the way up to Tofino in Canadian waters. This particular group of whales was just put on the Threatened Species list. Although killer whales are the most widely distributed mammal on earth (besides the ever prolific man), and are not endangered as a species, this group has become alarmingly reduced in numbers in the last thirty years due to many different factors: PCB's (coolants and lubricants), lack of salmon, capture and other pollution factors. In the late 1960's 54 whales from the Southern  resident pods were captured or died in the process of capture for marine parks and aquariums around the world. Most of the whales you now see in these parks either came from these waters or were descendants of these whales. There are some organized movements to return some of these particular whales to their respective pods, which would technically be possible since each pod has a distinct dialect and can be identified by their perspective language. Whether it would work or not in reality if another story altogether. People do love whales and they love to see them up-close. Before you condemn the parks and aquariums, consider this: the "Save the Whales" movement did not begin until people began to see the intelligence, sensitivity and close family bonds these complex animals are capable of, thus sinking whaling ships became the highest of missions. Those ambassador whales have indeed done their job well.

     This particular group is, unfortunately, the most highly toxic (and most highly watched) whales in the world. Opinions vary greatly, but in general, it is felt that the whale watching operations do not significantly stress or disrupt the whales in the way of feeding, mating or usual daily routines. Non-point pollution sources; SUV's, construction site run-off, illegal logging practices and pesticides, are responsible for 60% of all pollution in the Puget Sound. In general, the people of Washington are quite responsible environmentally and are very cooperative with recycling, reduce and reuse routines. It was great to be surrounded by people who mostly had very few material possessions, knew a lot about local environmental issues and realized acutely that every decision they made had an effect on their environment. Most were either seeking or involved in careers in Environmental education, Biology or Sustained Resource practices and were passionate about teaching these values to our participants.

     Although the orcas were missing in action, we did see Minke whales, which are the smallest of the Baleen Whales. They are quite shy and do not seek attention like the Grays or Killers often do. Humpbacks and Grays are also seen in the San Juans during their annual migrations and the occasional transient orca is also seen. Transient whales are the marine mammal eating types that tend t o spend more time offshore and have a much larger range than the Resident whales. A third type has recently been discovered and are called Offshores. These whales seem to have characteristics of both the resident and transient types. We would sometimes have visitors on the boat, whale researcher Peter Fromm was a favorite for dinner. He would show up in his sailboat "Awilla" and then paddle over to show slides of whales and talk until midnight about his adventures.

     The day after I left the boat (with tears and hugs and promises to stay in touch), I took the bus into Seattle and spent two days in the city checking out the Aquarium, which is pretty small but they do have Sea otters and Northern Fur Seals, while trying to adjust to my life back on land (noisy, bright, moves too fast, sways a lot...). I settled into Starbucks to read the paper and there on the front page were the headlines "Whales Return to the San Juans". I had missed them by One Day. I let out a scream right there at my table and then began to laugh. It seems I can add another story to my list (what/? You spent six weeks in the San Juans and didn't see any orcas?!) While I was gone my hockey team won their first league championship (not because I was gone I hope) and my sister returned from India, she always wanted to climb Mount Everest and had at least wanted to get to Base Camp but was told she couldn't even get within fifty miles of Everest due to storms. Such is life. I wouldn't trade the memories of the time I had on that boat for anything and I came back having learned a lot about local wildlife, my fellow shipmates and myself. The whales will be there next time, I just know it...

"I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and 

the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white

sails shaking.

And a gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy

life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife.

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover.

And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long 

trip's over.

(John Masefield)

Footprints in the Snow

 Just after 3'o clock on a Tuesday, I unlock the door to my patio. Tired from working all day as an animal keeper at the local zoo--a job I have held for 15 years, I am eager to be home, always happy to see my babies. My dogs are silent as I drive into the garage. There is no scratching on the door, no whining, no excited mom's home barking. I feel a touch of unexplained anxiety as I put my key in the door.

 I open the door and see him almost immediately. He is lying as if asleep, but I know instantly, that he is not. It is Luc, lying very still, with his head tucked under and his nose resting on his front legs. Suddenly, the universe shifts just a little bit and the warm, pleasant afternoon comes crashing to a halt and I know, without a doubt, that he is dead. I drop everything in my arms, my books, my purse and my coffee cup, where it shatters onto the patio in a million pieces. I can hear my own voice, sounding as if it belongs to somebody else talking from far, far away screaming "oh no, no, no!" over and over again. I pick him up and start to walk in circles, wondering what to do, trying to understand what has happened, unable to make any sense out of it. He was doing so well, he was fine this morning when I left him, he lifted up his ears and wagged his helicopter tail as I said goodbye and closed the door...

Finally, after what seems like hours, but I know has only been minutes, I wrap him in a blanket and sit down holding him on the stairs. My other little dog Pagan, comes over and touches him with her nose very gently and then she sits next to me, quiet, solemn. I hold Luc gently and rock back and forth while the tears come. I hold him and rock and weep.

 My father comes to the door and knocks to come in. I have fallen asleep on the stairs holding Luc and he uses his key to let himself in when I don't answer. He sits silently for awhile next to me, while I shake my head and continue to cry, unable to say a word. Finally he says, what do I want to do?

          "About what" I say...I can't understand what he's asking.
            Where would I like to take Luc? he says.
          "Okay", I say, resigned and exhausted. "Okay". "I know where, can you please drive?"

I hold Luc on my lap in the car. The freeway is a parking lot, barely moving and the rain is coming down hard and I cannot believe what has happened to this normal, everyday day. At the specialty hospital where he was being treated for his cancer; the technicians, the receptionists and the doctors keep coming into the room to say how sorry they are. He was such a sweet, little soul. Yes, yes he was I reply, and kiss him on the top of his head to say good-bye one last time as they take his body away to be cremated. I hold onto him as long as I can, saying just a few more minutes please, knowing I will never see him again. His doctor finally  says, "It's better this way. He never had a bad day; we should all be so lucky.." I blink and try to reconcile his words, and say Lucky? He was only ten years old. For all ten of those years he has been with me; through broken hearts, earthquakes, bad colds and indecision. He loved me everyday, despite my all too human shortcomings. He walked with me, slept in my bed, made me laugh everyday his joyful way of living, encouraged me to get up in the mornings... Even the best of human friends cannot be there for you like that.

On the way home, I try not to think about how different the house will be, how quiet, how empty and I cannot conceive of it. I cry once again all the way home, arms and lap empty. I pick up the phone a few days later, my heart heavy and tell my friend Tami that I can't go with her to watch the wolves in Yellowstone. I'm so sorry, I say, I know we've planned this trip for months but I don't even know what day this is and I certainly don't feel like traveling anywhere.

     My friend says, "Go! Wolves and pine trees and snow will make you feel better."
     My mom says, "Go! You need to get out of that house. Stop staring at the walls. Stop crying for a little  while.."
     My sister says, "Go. You've been looking forward to this trip for so long, I know Luc is gone but life is still beautiful. Remember those things that you love."

I pack my bags without enthusiasm, bringing everything I have that's warm, forgetting my binoculars, my pillow, my snowshoes, but remembering to bring my journal and my last picture of Luc. On the plane, I am numb, feeling like a stranger in my own body, still filled with shock and grief. Our plane ride is very rough and full of turbulence. I close my eyes and hold the hand of the stranger next to me, we are both afraid, we have resigned ourselves  to whatever might happen and I am both relieved and surprised at the simplicity of that kind of acceptance.

The beauty of Montana is hard to describe in words. Even through the darkness of night from the safety of our rented car, we can see millions of stars up in the sky, with no city lights to dull them. I have a slight moment of panic, what am I doing here? And then, suddenly, I am glad I came. Excited to see the wolves, grateful to be in a place with clear air and clear, rushing water. The wildness of the land reaches right in and wakes you up, forces you to pay attention. It makes you feel alive and strong, it sweeps right out of you whatever isn't really important and puts you up close and personal with all the things that are--like grizzly bears, snow-capped mountains and spouting geysers.

The wolves are most active from 6am to 11am, so we set our alarms for 4am and get our clothes ready to just slip into, to be ready to go first thing. Tomorrow we meet Kevin, our own personal naturalist for a few days, he will help us to locate the wolves. I fall asleep rather easily and dream of wolves, silent shadows, elusive, intoxicating, the ultimate symbol of wilderness and beauty.

As the days pass, I feel it has been a very good thing that I have come. A good thing to be someone else for a week, busy and occupied in eating good meals, sleeping well, focused only on finding wolves. We learn to live in the rhythm of Yellowstone, up with the sun (or before), sleep in the afternoons and stay awake and aware in the twilight. We form small caravans, the "wolf-watchers", climbing in and out of our cars, setting up scopes, pouring coffee from a thermos, warming our hands with the cars blasting vents. The biologists have radios and we learn to discretely listen in trying to figure out where the wolf action is for the day. We see wolves, yes, playing with mice, chasing elk, but we also see eagles, coyotes, otter and bison. We breathe in the air that smells of snow and we hike the hillsides in search of tracks or kills.

One evening, we hike through the deep snow to the lake. The woods are pitch black and still and the temperature is 12 below zero. Light snowflakes fall from the sky and dust our hair and our clothes. The trail is rutted and full of deep snowdrifts and I keep falling into every one of them, exhausted. We cannot use our flashlight for fear of scaring off the wolves. Huffing and puffing we finally reach the lake and we begin to take turns howling, hoping for an answer. At first, nothing...and then, after endless, empty minutes, we hear them, from far across the lake, the wolves answer back. They howl one by one, until the whole pack joins in. The hair on the back of my arms stands straight up and I whisper "My God", to no one in particular...

Standing on the edge of that lake, I know this trip was the best thing I could have done for myself. As we walk back to the car in the moonlight, I glance back and see my own footprints, mingled with the wolf tracks fresh on the trail. I know right then that I will always find ways to watch the wolves again, no matter where or what my life might bring to me. I realize that my love for Luc and my love of all animals are intertwined and always kept deep within my heart, accessible and necessary, reminding me of all that is real and good in the world.

It is our last night; I go home tomorrow. I have done well this week, my loss feeling far away at times, crying only once while staring out at the trees, alone in the car, overcome with the finality of death. I know Luc's ashes will be waiting for me at home, for they have been picked up by my family while I was away. I did not want him to sit on a shelf somewhere, as if he was unloved. I do not know how it will feel to see him confined in that box, to see him that way, a once vital, shiny and playful boy. Grief is personal, private. Ours alone to feel. No one else can carry that pain for me. It is mine alone. I can talk about him (and all of my heartbreaks) with friends and that helps, but each night I know it is only me who loved him and only me that feels his loss so desperately. At 3am  it is only my memories of him and his now forever absence from my life, only me that feels it.

Months later, I receive a call from a friend of mine who works at a local veterinary clinic. Someone came in today and needed to find a home for a longhaired, black and tan Dachshund. Would I be interested in him? I hesitate, wondering if it is a little too soon, but of course, I cannot resist meeting him. My dog Pagan is lonely, she was give to me many years ago after a serious car crash, she was my first Doxie and she too, misses Luc, refusing to sleep in the bed with me since his death, preferring to sleep alone outside on the patio.

Lucky is tiny and adorable. He immediately goes to get his ball for me to throw for him, he bounces up and down on his front feet until I do. Then, as he brings it back to me and sits up on his hind legs, barking, I am enchanted and take him home with me that very same day. We all know, of course, that our dogs will not live long enough, unfair as it may be and that someday, they will break our hearts, but we cannot say no, just the same.

At home, he follows me everywhere and falls asleep instantly when I rub his tummy, already filling up that hole in my heart. He reminds me that there is plenty of love to be had in this world and although sometimes it can be painful, it is always worth the price. I'm sure Luc would agree and most certainly, approve.

~ Jami (written in the late 90's)



    

Hockey Matters.

Hockey matters. It does. Today, in Los Angeles, it matters more than ever. As the Kings close in on their first ever Stanley Cup, so many thoughts and emotions are swirling around in my ever hopeful mind. For those who love hockey, the feelings of euphoria and collective happiness make sense, to those who don't know a blue line from a blue ox, they are mystified (and sometimes annoyed) by the hype. I think about all the ways hockey has mattered to me over the years. Why does one love something? Not easily described or explained, love is a word that is amorphous, it is felt rather than described. The whole purpose of a blog, in my opinion, is to say things in a way that people can relate to, to conjure up feelings of yeah, I get that. It's a bit pretentious, I admit, which is why I resisted the blog bug for so long, among other reasons. Challenging to put down into words feelings that don't always have descriptions attached. Writing about hockey is one such challenge. Since I can't think of much else today, I'm gonna do my best and write about why I love hockey anyway...

My family is hockey crazy. No, they weren't born in Minnesota or Canada, most have been born and raised right here in sunny, hot (very little ice to be found) California. My niece went to hockey camp when she was nine, she was the only girl in her session, she got dressed in the women's bathroom, skipping the locker room full of boys. My nephews both played and still do. Both my sisters are rabid Kings fans. My brother and I recently attended a baby shower and probably annoyed those around us talking about nothing but hockey.  My parents had season seats to the Kings for 17 years, most of those years when they played at the Great Western Forum. For us, it's a family affair. I started playing hockey at around 40. Had been to hundreds of games before I decided to give it a try myself. The U.S. Women's hockey team were finally going to participate in the Winter Olympics and women's hockey leagues exploded onto the scene. My best friend Stacy and I decided to try it for ourselves. I am not an athlete, I did not play sports in high school, college or ever, for that matter. Unless it involved horses I was not interested in competition either. Still not, in some respects, I play hockey for mostly other reasons, much to the chagrin of some of my teammates, I think.

Hockey is a primal sport. It's fast, it's exciting, it takes a ton of skill to play well and I'm constantly amazed by the toughness of those who play, particularly in the NHL. The skating ability needed to play at that level is beyond crazy.  Hockey players are the last real men in sports today, IMHO. They don't boo-hoo when they get hurt, they pack that broken nose with gauze and continue to finish the game, they stitch up that 25 suture cut and come back out on the ice to play again. They still lose their teeth on a regular basis and they hug each other after each and every goal. How much do I love that? Hockey fans are a different breed as well. They do not tolerate rubber balls bouncing around the stands, they do not need cheerleaders to elicit cheers (most of the women I know and some of the men, hate the 18 year old Ice Girls in their tiny tops, feeling it demeans the game and isn't necessary) they know the game and will quickly call out someone who stands up in their row while play is still going on. They're a serious bunch. My mom knows more about hockey then most people I know. She can tell you who was traded for who, what year each team won the Cup, who the coaches are, what this player said about that one. We've all said we're gonna cry at the end of the this championship season, if the Kings win or if they lose, either way, there's going to be tears. Hockey matters to us, in a big, although often unexplainable, way.

Over the past ten years I myself have won championships, lost them, traveled to play in different states, went to hockey camp in Banff, met amazing women, formed lifelong friendships, cried some, watched friends break bones and felt feelings of frustration for not "being better". I love the smell of the ice, the sound of the puck hitting the boards and the concentration it demands. I've contemplated being too old to play and worried consistently about my poor tailbone that still hurts four months after falling (extremely hard) on it when someone took my feet out from under me during a game. Every time I seriously consider stopping, I get too depressed to get out of bed, despite all those things I just mentioned. So, I still play. I will never be a great athlete, I will never be the team savior, but I do the best I can most of the time and that's enough for me. I've accepted that and play for the fun, exercise and challenge. After a game I feel lighter, more settled, more relaxed, ready to take on another work week. For an hour I think of nothing else, it takes me out of my own head, where I desperately need to go and exercises my body to it's 51 year old limits. I've had concussions, bumps and bruises, and the occasional whip lashed sore neck, but no more injuries than 40 years of riding horses has brought me. Yes, I worry about being more seriously injured, I've seen terrible breaks over the years by those playing in my league, but I play for the same reason I ride motorcycles or ride horses, because it makes me feel good. Because it's so much fun. I worry more about not living, being too afraid to do anything but watch by the sidelines.

I went to both games when the Kings made their first Stanley Cup run, in 1993. I watched Gretzky break the record for the most points ever scored by a hockey player. I was there when Luc Robitaille broke the record for most points by a left-winger and I was there (and cried) the night he retired. He was always my favorite and I still miss watching him play. He also was my inspiration, he wasn't a pretty skater (even our beloved Bob Miller would tease him during shoot-outs), he didn't have a mad slap shot, but he had so much heart and willingness to get pummeled again and again in front of the net, he seemed to pop right back up again, rarely ruffled. I've been part of the collective roar in Staples Center this playoff run, stood on my chair, cheered my team as they won game after game, series after series, watching incredulous, after so many years of not even making the playoffs. I participated in many Skate With the Kings, Tip A King and Frozen Fury season openers in Vegas. I even had my wedding shower in a suite at Staples Center in the middle of a Kings game. I wore my favorite jersey and a wedding veil. My hockey girlfriends thought it was the best shower ever and my horsey girlfriends probably thought it was an odd choice. My cake had two hockey players on it and was designed in black and purple Kings colors. I have talked hockey with many a stranger in the supermarket, at the vet's office or on a street corner. I have a jersey signed by the entire team that went to the Stanley Cup in '93, a book signed by Gretzky and a picture of me and Luc that I adore from 20 years ago. My sisters and I have pics of ourselves with various Kings over the years, we love to pull those old pics out and talk about remember when.  This is why hockey matters to me, it is memories shared with others over twenty five years. Memories of a thousand games, a million cheers and a few tears. Memories that sustain me through more difficult times of uncertainty. Memories that make it all better when nothing else seems to be going right.


Soon after my near fatal car crash in 1989 I went to a Kings playoff game. I still had my tracheotomy and my jaws wired shut. I got lots of stares but I remember walking the "loop" at the Forum feeling relief, feeling happy and inspired. I remember wanting to go to that game so bad, just to have my life feel normal again. Wanting to be part of it, relieved to still be around and able to walk among 19,000 other people, dressed in my favorite Kings jersey. That game mattered, I still remember those feelings as if it were yesterday. My friend Amy describes it this way "We've felt that sense of belonging to a diverse tribe bound by a common goal, we've suffered through long winters of discontent. At times, we've drawn everything from solace to salvation from the eternal spring of hope that comes from looking beyond ourselves and putting our hearts into a team from year to year, win or lose. From talking in terms of "we" and not "they", I step back sometimes and think how crazy it is to invest in a group of people playing a game, but for me a big part of it is connection". Yes, it's always about connection; to others, to having fun, to living a worthwhile life. Like my Dwight Yoakam music and my horses,  hockey has been a consistent source of happiness for me over the years. The Kings did not win the Cup last night, but I believe that they will. And when they do, it will bring an incredible energy,  a collective happiness, it will be a fitting tribute to 25 years of connection in my life and I will be among the happiest of all. Because hockey matters. It does.

Mexico, 1999

http://www.miramar-adventures.com/Whale_Watching_Baja.html

"There, Leviathan, hugest of living creatures, on the deep, stretch'd like a promontory sleeps or swims, and seems a moving land". Milton (Paradise Lost)

March 12, 1999

This is the third year we have boarded the luxury bus on its way to Baja, Mexico, after swearing each year, never, ever to get back on the bus. We are twenty people traveling together in high hopes of up-close, personal contact with the magical California Gray Whale, the "most watched" whale in the world. The warm, shallow lagoons of Baja are the last stop in their 12,000 mile annual migration for the whales. It is six o'clock in the morning, we are ready, bundled up, shivering in the cold and clutching our Starbucks. We meet at the Hacienda in Los Angeles, sleepy, excited.  We have all endured this 13 hour journey before...We are armed with books, bags full of snacks, snorkels for close-up viewing and lots of sunscreen. We talk and tell each other, once again, we would Never do this except for the whales. We say this every year...

Mexico...from the bus window, is a study in extreme contrast. Huge, sweeping views of the ocean, steep cliffs, winding, bumpy roads that bear testimony to their power by offering up the rusted hulks of cars that have long ago careened off the road. Crosses line the points along the highway, like so many morbid road signs, where victims were unexpectedly claimed. Litter is prevalent, skinny, limping dogs are too. We stop often and call dogs off the road, buy them lunch, feed them the rest of our leftovers, wish we could take them all home...Wildflowers of red, yellow and blue sprout along the road, creating gorgeous backdrops for the huge Saguaro cacti behind them. Pens of chickens, blue-tiled rooftops and the best margaritas and fish tacos to be found anywhere...Mexico is all these things and the breeding and calving ground of the California Gray Whale, a 45 foot beauty who, for reasons unknown, allow their calves to inspect boats, interact with their human occupants and even, to our joy and amazement, seem to encourage touching by humans of their curious offspring.

I have, before, touched one of these completely wild animals in the middle of the ocean on a previous trip and found it to be an indescribable experience. I want, more than anything, to do it again. The laws of nature and the luck of the draw will determine if I will get so lucky this time around. I would endure days of being on a bus to do it again, and so I will, as it is only 11 'o clock. We stop for lunch briefly and eat those amazing fish tacos, continuing our winding, bumpy drive through herds of cattle and scorching heat. We arrive in Catavina around 5 'o clock. Tami and I are roommates and longtime friends, we eat a quick dinner of crackers and cheese, put on sweaters and go for a flashlight walk to see the most unbelievable spray of stars with the rest of the group. Without streetlights, we can count millions and millions of them. There is no other sounds, except for our footsteps crunching through the desert. We go to sleep early, after spending some times lights out, talking of work frustrations and inequities, losing people we love and mostly, of the whales. We are travel partners from way back and we know each other's habits and wishes. It is good to have some time to just talk. We wake up to the noisy sound of sparrows at five thirty the next morning. Today, we will see the whales, and it's easy to get up when you're not heading to work. We eat a quick breakfast, knowing today, we will be in the Lagoon before night falls.

Saturday, March 13

Two more hours on the bus before we reach Laguna Ojo de Liebre, or Scammons Lagoon, re-named for its infamous discovery by Charles Scammons in 1855. The Lagoon soon became red with the blood of thousands of slaughtered whales, who were unfairly called "devil fish" for vigorously defending their harpooned young. I prefer to call it by it's former name, some of the whales are old enough to "remember" whaling in this lagoon, which was only stopped in the 1970's, making our experience of trust and interaction with them even more miraculous. Hard to believe that anyone felt it necessary to kill these beautiful, gentle, trusting creatures. It still hurts my heart to know what has happened here, long ago.

Once we arrive, we are anxious to get into the pangas, but it is 25 minutes by van, past the salt fields, to get to the lagoon. Although on the surface it does not appear to be destructive to the whales and other wildlife, environmentalists are fiercely fighting a proposal to construct a similar factory in San Ignacio, the other famous birthing lagoon on the "other side" of Baja. Ospreys surround the area on their tall platform nests and we see Blue, White and Gray Herons everywhere. It is a bird lovers paradise as well.

The current is strong and the winds are cold, but we don't feel any of it, only excitement. The sky is clear and the sun is warm and we put on our lifejackets on the dock. It takes 15 minutes by speed boat (11 foot wooden boats with six people each inside) to reach the center of the lagoon, we stop only briefly to view the sea lions and dolphins who escort us out to sea. Suddenly, they are there. Everywhere. They surface only yards away, we can see the full length of their bodies under the surface. We feel incredibly tiny, our boat dwarfs next to their immense size. The heart pounds a bit when they surface right next to the boat, close enough to reach out and touch...

"Whale-watching" is not exactly the right word to describe what we do. We interact, we talk and cajole and beg the whales to come visit us. We reach down through the green water up to our shoulders to try to touch them as they swim under our boats and suffer bruises we don't even feel as we brace ourselves against the lip of the boat while someone who worries we'll fall in holds our feet. The whales watch us, stopping to look directly at us with wise, quiet eyes. We breathe in their spray as they exhale with a powerful blow, the mist droplets creating their own individual rainbows as the sun hits them. The calves especially are curious and they seem reluctant to end encounters, usually gently pushed back out to sea by their giant "moms". We spend hours on the water, looking through binoculars at the whales breeching and spy-hopping and blowing all around us, which appear anywhere you care to look. We will never again be satisfied with a whalewatching trip out of San Pedro. This is a true whale-lovers heaven and I, not for the first time, think to myself; you can keep your shopping binges at Macys, your fancy designer shoes, your silly, bloody action movies. If I could stay in this boat for the rest of my life, I would have everything I would ever need. The connection is profound.

Sunday, March 14

It has been a rough night. Too many margaritas and some tension among the group. It is only one outrageous teenage girl, who, at the last minute, has decided to come along on the trip to grate on our nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard (yes, I know, but even my experience with teenagers and my Psych degree fail to help me here). She is dealt with at dinner by Tami, the details of which I will not describe here, but yes, what you have probably already heard is true. Mexican bars and their famous brawls have nothing on us and we eventually are kicked out of the restaurant, staggering back to our bus.  Perhaps she will behave from here on out...the last thing I remember before we left was singing along very loudly and pouring another margarita...

I am up and awake early, only for my second chance this weekend to see the whales and I am along the first ready to go this morning, massive headache and all.
We are once again blessed with perfect weather and we head out to sea, exclaiming over the dolphins, pointing out the ospreys overhead. The rules and regulations are strict, for the protection of the whales. The number of boats allowed, the time spent in one spot at a time and the total amount of time on the lagoon are all closely watched by the Mexican coastguards and the Whale Commission. The pangas are not allowed to chase the whales, they must come to us. Although we respect and abide by each of these rules, it is always a sad moment and frustrating to have to go back to shore each time, after what seems like the briefest of minutes.

On the water, the calf is interested, curious. He swims alongside our boat, goes under and comes back up on the other side. The immense female does a slow roll, exposing her pectoral fins above the water. Eric reaches over and gently holds them between his hands, his face incredulous. The whale is motionless, as though enjoying the contact. She is so close and so large, we realize how quickly, if she wanted to, she could smash our 11 foot wooden boat to firewood in a heartbeat. Her calf raises his head only inches from my hand and I reach out to caress his mouth and lip and baleen while he watches me. He is smooth, gray and white and so beautiful. He slips down underneath the waves and I am overwhelmed by the experience and cannot stop the tears. I cannot believe the trust, cannot describe adequately the connection. He stays with our boat for about fifteen minutes allowing others to touch him and then is headed away by his "mom". He has a long trip ahead of him and I silently wish him well and hope that he will make it safe and sound to the Russian waters, out of reach of orcas, fishing nets, pollution and the cold, deep waters that await him.

To our left there are a group of whales mating, for those of you who have never seen the penis of a whale and I'm guessing that's most people, they are quite an impressive 6 feet long. The water roils and the whales roll over and over, fins above the water, tails thrashing. There are three males to one female and they continue for almost 45 minutes, in the midst of the activity, I realize that these are next year's babies, and I hope I will be back here in Scammons Lagoon to meet them.