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Travel and Leisure > Outdoors > Gentle Giants - The Gray Whales of Baja
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Article rating : 0.00, 0 votes. Author : Karin Kinsey
I’m not a very sentimental person. I don't think we ought
to save whales because they're cuddly or pettable. But it’s
simply an amazing experience having those whales roll over
and look at you eye to eye. There's really an interspecies
contact there. There's an intelligence.... That's about as far
as I want to go with that, but it's... extraordinary.
—Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.,
National Resources Defense Council (NRDC) Lawyer
(from Eye of the Whale by Dick Russell)
I watched as a long, thin, gray-knuckled ridge rose to the top
of the water from the aquamarine depths below. Like some
great primordial water dragon, it slowly widened to reveal a
patchy gray and white exterior that extended about eight feet
across and the length of two boats. It was a California gray
whale that had just surfaced about nine meters to the port
side of our panga, a small motorized skiff operated
by one of the locals.
I was in Magdalena Bay, near Boca de Soledad on the Baja
Peninsula. The bay is one of three lagoons on the Pacific
side that have been safeguarded as sanctuaries for the gray
whales who migrate here every year to breed and birth their
young. It was February, and I was here on a weeklong
expedition to kayak along the mangrove estuaries and to
see the whales.
In the summer of 2004 I had traveled up to the lush isles of
British Columbia on a paddling adventure with the orcas.
Now, six months later, opportunity had brought me south to
the cacti and arid vistas of Mexico. I had heard about the
"friendly" whales of Baja -- the mother whales and their
babies, especially -- who would approach visitors in their
boats seeking contact. Here was my chance to experience
firsthand the truth to these whale tales. I was curious to see
how the whales' interest in humans compared to that of
dolphins.
There is a remarkable story about how a human is first
reported to have touched one of Baja's "friendly" whales. In
1972, a man named Pachico Mayoral and a friend were out
in a small fishing boat in Laguna San Ignacio, another wide
bay along Baja's western coast. Quite unexpectedly, they
were approached by a large gray whale that rubbed up
against the side of their boat. At first, the two men feared for
their lives, but as the whale continued its attentions, Pachico
finally reached over the side and touched it. Later, he talked
of this event as being a profound and life-changing
experience, similar to that of holding his first-born child. The
gigantic whale seemed to relish the contact and continued
to submerge itself and reappear on the other side of
the panga for at least another two hours. Pachico
returned to his village, and the story spread about how the
two men had touched a whale. This was the beginning of a
whole new change in attitude toward the whales and the
start of a new industry in whale-watching and whale-petting.
The story of the first "friendlies" stayed in the back of my
mind as our group of eleven kayakers and three guides
quietly paddled by the tangled roots of red and white
mangroves. We were headed for our campsite on a remote
and windswept island in Bahia Magdalena. Great white
heron and snowy egrets roosted in the thick branches on
either side. Pelicans, ospreys, cormorants and gulls flew
overhead and lined the edges of sandy coves. In the
distance we could see the feathery spouts of whales as they
surfaced for air. As we skirted a final bend in the channel,
we saw the rounded white domes of two spacious tents on
a wide beach. We had arrived at what would be our new
home for the next week.
Tomorrow would be our first day on the water for a closer
look at these gentle giants. Instead of using our kayaks, we
would be adhering to whale-watching regulations by
traveling in two open-air pangas driven by licensed
operators. That evening, as we sat in a circle under the
flickering light of a lantern in one of the domes, we heard a
retelling of the account of the first "friendly" whale. As the
story ended, I knew we were in for a rare treat when we
learned that our guide Poncho was one of Pachico's sons.
Growing up as a fisherman, he had witnessed the gradual
shifts that had taken place in his community as a result of
the changes in attitude towards the whales and as
awareness grew for the need to preserve the environment.
This led him to work with several organizations whose aims
were to protect declining species and to train locals in
language and leadership skills. Today, he does what he
likes best -- being a guide and introducing people to the
beloved ballena gris, or gray whale.
As the evening continued, and over the days ahead, we
familiarized ourselves with whale facts and history. For
centuries, the gray whales were hunted -- first by the native
hunters of North America and Asia, and later by the Yankee
and European whalers. Whale bone and baleen were used
to make hoop skirts and corsets, and although the oil from
gray whales was of poorer quality than that of other whales,
it increased in value as the whale population declined. With
the evolution of whaling technology, and the use of explosive
harpoons and steam-powered ships, it was estimated that
less than 1,000 Pacific gray whales were left by the 1930s.
With extinction imminent, an international agreement was
finally reached in 1946 that banned all commercial whaling.
The treaty was signed by most whaling nations. Today, the
Pacific gray whales have undergone an unprece-dented
recovery, with an average annual increase of 2.5 percent.
Gray whales are part of the subclassification of cetaceans
known as the Mysticetes, or baleen whales (which use a
fine rubbery fringe on the upper and lower jaws to filter
plankton and other tiny aquatic animals). This is different
from dolphins, who are classified as Odontocetes, or
toothed "whales." Toothed whales are considered
predatory, feeding on fish or other marine mammals. For
the most part, the gray whales graze in shallow waters,
scooping up mud along the bottom, which is then pushed
and filtered through their baleen with a giant tongue. Small
invertebrates are left trapped inside their mouth and then
swallowed.
Another peculiarity of the grays is the fact that they are hosts
to several species of barnacles and amphipods, or whale
lice, which feed on the whale's skin. These tiny crustaceans
give the gray whales their characteristic mottled
appearance. Born a shiny black, the whales are soon
discolored by large distinctive patches of crusty white. The
small parasitic creatures that attach themselves seem to
assist the whales by keeping them clean.
An additional characteristic of the baleens is the presence
of two blowholes on the top of their head, as compared to
the one blowhole of a dolphin. When a gray whale surfaces
to breathe, it exhales with a tall heart-shaped spout.
Appearing like a faint mist from afar, this watery plume
actually rises up to over twice the height of a human. Later
that week, some of us would be lucky enough to see the
rainbows that sometimes blink in the sparkling haze of the
whales' breath.
Finally, the gray whales do not have a dorsal fin like
dolphins. Instead, a series of six to twelve bumps traces the
length of the whale's spine, making them at first glance look
like some ancient and primitive creature that has come back
to life from another age.
What the Pacific grays are perhaps most known for is their
extraordinary migratory route, one of the longest of any
species of mammal. Taken each winter from the
nutrient-rich arctic waters of the Chukchi and Bering Seas
off Alaska, they traverse the entire length of the North
American continent to the southern reaches of the Baja
peninsula. It's a round-trip journey of about 10,000 miles --
almost two months of travel each way. To prepare for the
trek, the whales accumulate from six to twelve inches of
extra blubber over a summer of intensive feeding. Then, with
the gestation period of a baby whale being about twelve
months, the goal of the mothers by midwinter is to reach the
tropical waters of the south where their young can be safely
born.
On our first morning of whale-watching, we gathered in the
faint early light wondering what lay ahead. After pulling on
our life jackets, and loading up on our cameras and film, we
motored out into the center of the bay. There, among a
euphony of spouts, we had our first close-up view of the
long, speckled bodies of several mamas as they rose to the
surface, and nearby their babies, whose small heads
looked like little antique dinosaurs with long downturned
mouths etched along their jaws. Gingerly, we puttered
closer, transfixed by the gentle rise and fall of their giant
bodies and the soft whooshing sound of their breathing.
One mother/baby pair, who particularly caught our attention,
quickly received the nicknames "Scarface" and "Bubbles."
The mama had a distinctive white scar near her blowhole,
and her baby, we noticed, seemed to enjoy blowing big,
round bubbles that came tumbling up to the surface
in short bursts. A few people were able to just reach
the whales from the boat for a brief touch. Otherwise, the
whales remained a discrete distance away from us.
As our session went on, we navigated out to the choppier
waters at the bay’s mouth, where a number of juveniles
frolicked in the waves, breaching and spy-hopping. I couldn't
help wonder, as I had with the dolphins and the orcas, how
much their behavior was purely for themselves and how
much might have been for us. Either way, the air was soon
filled with our delighted shrieks as these giant leviathans
came crashing down in thunderous displays of water
theatrics, or as they stood vertically, apparently eyeballing us
with curious consideration. Some of the whales would swim
alongside us about ten meters out before disappearing into
the watery depths. On our return trip we cruised into what
appeared to be a whale nursery, a quieter area off one of the
islands. Several mothers floated motionless for long
periods of time, as if they were sunbathing. Then, we would
see the small spout of a baby next to one of the mamas,
and we guessed that her calf had been nursing.
On the day of our second excursion, there was a heightened
feeling of anticipation among the group's participants.
Traveling with Poncho, our boat soon made contact with a
mother and baby. Interestingly, the mom did not interact, but
hovered protectively nearby as her youngster bumped up
against the panga and went from one person to the next
receiving scratching and caresses. Its rostrum was covered
with circular white barnacles and short little hair bristles.
When it was Poncho’s turn, he ran his hands along the
baby's mouth, which then opened to reveal a feathery fringe
of baleen that he combed with his fingers, much to
everyone’s delight and amazement. Soon afterwards, we
encountered Scarface and Bubbles again. While Bubbles
interacted with each of us along the side, his mom swam
slowly back and forth beneath our boat, rubbing her back
against the hull.
Later, as I rinsed my hands in the surf after a picnic lunch, a
sudden plopping sound caused me look up and see the
graceful silhouettes of two dolphins leaping out in front of
me. It was as if they were sending a quick "hello," wishing
me well with their large mammalian friends.
On the last day of our whale adventures, a few of us decided
to pay our driver for some extra time. We headed back out
into the lagoon with Poncho, knowing that this would be our
last encounter. Almost right away, we met Scarface and
Bubbles. With great enthusiasm, Bubbles bobbed from
person to person. As he slid along the edge of the boat,
sideways in the water, I could see his eye looking directly
into mine. Despite his size, I felt profoundly struck by his
vulnerability and apparent trust. Shyly, he opened his mouth
and allowed me to stroke his tongue. I had the feeling that if
given the opportunity, he could easily learn to recognize
simple gestures and respond to certain voice intonations,
much like bottlenose dolphins.
As our motor idled, we were joined by several other
pangas seeking a closer look. Perhaps most
impressive, the whales took care to greet each of the
newcomers, swimming from one boat to the next, giving
everyone a chance to pet or stroke them. Several times, as
the mama approached, her giant spout would douse the
passengers with a cloud of whale's breath as they shrieked
with laughter. A couple of the pangas carried Mexican
visitors, and it was particularly endearing to see them, with
ear-to-ear smiles, reaching over to pet what had once been
known as a fearsome devil-fish.
As we headed back to camp and I stared out at the large
expanse of bay with the many spouts that appeared at
regular intervals, I couldn't help but wonder how it was that
we had managed to find the same whales on each of our
excursions. Did the whales recognize and remember us
from one day to the next? Did they seek us out especially?
Of all the whales in this vast lagoon, were there only a few
interested in making contact with people? Days later, when I
perused a wall full of colorful whale photos for sale, I found
myself saying, "No, that's not Bubbles. That's not him." I left
the kiosk empty-handed, relying instead on the photography
skills of myself and our group.
At the end of the week, we loaded our gear into our kayaks
and later traveled by van through the desert landscape of
central Baja to the city of Loreto, a small tourist town on the
Sea of Cortez. Gradually, we re-entered a more "civilized"
way of life, with our metal vehicles and glass window panes,
our currency and our ice cream. I fit myself back into the
closed security of four walls, hot running water and flush
toilets. As much as we humans have come to enjoy our
creature comforts, I knew that a price comes with it — the
risk of forgetting our intimate connection to the rest of the
natural world.
As I boarded the plane, I took in a few more long breaths of
warm, moist air. Then, gluing my face to the tiny window by
my seat, I looked for the delicate spouts of the whales in the
sparkling sea below me. Inwardly, I thanked them for
offering me an experience of such disarming trust and
vulnerability. If the whales harbored any residual memories
in their cells or DNA of their earlier relationship to man, they
seem to have decided to forgive their former enemies,
offering instead a new way of relating that was both
compelling and profound. I decided to keep my personal
snapshot of Bubbles safely tucked away in my heart.
Karin Kinsey is a Bay Area freelance travel writer
and graphic designer. She leads dolphin encounter trips
and has explored such places as Hawaii, Mexico, the
Caribbean and British Columbia in search of marine
mammal life. Excerpted from Dancing on Water:
Adventures with Dolphins, Whales and Interspecies
Communication (Dolphin Press, 2005). See
http://www.dolphinpress.com/DancingOnWater/
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