The Whales That Came Back When We Almost Didn't

The Whales That Came Back When We Almost Didn't

The salt is still on my skin. I haven't washed it off. Three trips now. Mexico, the coast, and now here, in Hawaii, where the water is warm and the whales come to mate like they've never heard of fear.

Every year, the Humpback Whales travel 4,000 miles. Four thousand miles from Alaska, where they feed in the cold, to Hawaii, where the water is warm enough to forget everything. They migrate like they're running from something. Like they're running toward something. Like they know something we don't.

I stood on the deck of a boat off Maui last February, watching the water. My wife was beside me, holding the kids' hands. She hadn't spoken in two hours. Not since we left the harbor. Not since the guide told us February and March were peak months, that if we wanted to see them, we had to be here now.

The whales breached. They slapped their tails against the surface, sending water into the air like tears. They were active, the guide said. More active during mating season. Exciting surface behavior. Unforgettable adventure.

I watched them and thought about what it means to come back. To travel 4,000 miles and still find your way. To almost go extinct and still be here. Thirty thousand to forty thousand Humpbacks left in the world. That's what the guide said. That's what the brochure said. That's what the article said.

But numbers don't tell you what it feels like to almost disappear.

I thought about us. About how we almost didn't make it to this boat. About how we almost didn't make it to Hawaii. About how we almost didn't make it through last year, when the money ran out and the silence got louder and I started waking up at 2 AM muttering in my sleep.

The whales came closer. They're curious about their surroundings, the guide said. They approach the boat. Sometimes they come right up. I watched them and thought about how they don't have a rule keeping them away from us. No 100-yard minimum rule for whales. Only for people.

We can't approach within 100 yards. We can't swim near them. But they can come to us. They can choose.

I thought about how we've lost that. How we've lost the ability to choose. How we're always following rules, always staying in the safe zones, always watching over our shoulders.

The boat departed from Lahaina Harbor. There were many tours throughout the day. Seasoned, knowledgeable guides on the Big Island, on Kauai. Full schedules. Whale-watching opportunities abound.

Abound. That's a word I haven't heard in a long time. Opportunities abound. Safe zones abound. Things we're supposed to do if we want to have an unforgettable adventure.

But I'm still not sure what unforgettable means anymore.

We could have watched from land. Kilauea Lighthouse on Kauai. Kealia Lookout. High points of land in coastal areas. Just look for the plumes of water rising in the air, the playful splashes made by gigantic creatures.

But I wanted to be closer. I wanted to feel like I was in their world, not just watching from the safety of solid ground.

The guide told us about the 100-yard rule. Observers may not approach by vessel or by swimming within 100 yards of a whale. But there's no rule keeping whales from approaching people. Experienced leaders know how to gently approach these animals and encourage them to come closer.

I thought about how we need encouragement to get close to anything anymore. To get close to people. To get close to ourselves. To get close to the things that used to make us feel alive.

The humpback whale almost came to extinction in 1966. Mass commercial whaling during the early 20th century. They were hunted to the edge of nothing. And now they're here. Thirty to forty thousand of them. They came back.

I looked at my wife. She was watching the whales too. Her face was half-lit by the sun, half-shadowed by the boat's canopy. She caught my eye and smiled. For a second, she looked like the woman I fell in love with. Before the money. Before the exhaustion. Before the silence.

We can do things to help preserve them. Keep beaches clean. Participate in responsible whale watching. Support efforts to stop illegal whaling. Support legislation, research, preservation programs. Patronize eco-friendly companies.

I thought about how easy it is to say those things. How hard it is to live them. How we talk about preserving the future when we can't even preserve the present. When we can't even preserve ourselves.

The kids were happy. They were pointing at the water, shouting, asking if the whales could see us. I told them yes. I told them the whales could see us. I told them everything was okay.

I lied.

But the whales were there. They were breaching. They were slapping their tails. They were coming closer. They were alive.

Maybe that's enough for now.

Maybe coming back is enough. Maybe traveling 4,000 miles and still finding your way is enough. Maybe almost disappearing and still being here is enough.

The guide said it's fun. It's easy. It's a great experience for the whole family. You can read books about whales, but there's no reason you shouldn't start thinking now about your next whale watching tour.

I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about going back. I'm thinking about whether I'm ready to trust another boat, another guide, another place where I'm supposed to feel safe.

The whales dove. The plumes of water disappeared. The surface was calm again.

My wife took my hand. Her fingers were warm this time.

I looked at her. I looked at the kids, still pointing at the water, still believing the world was kind.

I'm still here.

I'm still trying.

I'm still broken.

But the whales came back.

And maybe that means something.