Open Writing

Last week I went on a whale watch cruise. It was the ideal opportunity to use the digital camera I received for my birthday.

Warm sun, clear skies and the slightest of breezes provided the perfect day as we sailed down the river from South Tweed, over the bar and out to sea in search of humpback whales.

Here on the Gold Coast the giant humpbacks migrate past our front doorstep in the spring of each year. The sea was calm and I sat back in my seat feeling the slow lift and shift of the boat, a motion that rocked me gently, soothing away my cares and giving me a feeling of deep contentment.

I was surrounded by people on the fore deck, most of them family groups and tourists. With excited cries of ‘Come and see. Come and look,’ young children tugged their grandparents by the hand drawing them to the rail to look down at the dolphins as they swam alongside, their gleaming bodies weaving silver threads through a navy blue sea.

A man shouted from the lookout high about us. ‘Whale at two o’clock’ and all heads swivelled right as a mother and calf broke the surface of the water together not ten metres from the boat.

‘Wow!’

The sound of awe is the same in all languages. It was followed immediately by a frenzy of camera clicking then a collective sigh as the whales disappeared from sight.

Silence. We all held our breath. Where were they? Would they surface again? No one moved. We stood, cameras at the ready and swaying slightly, as we learned to balance on our newly found sea legs.

‘There. Look!’

Those are not the exact words because the lady spoke in Japanese. But we all understood and moved to the opposite rail.

Time and time again the huge whales approached the boat. We saw fifteen during the next two hours. What a show they put on. Tail flicks, roll overs and breaching right out of the water. They blew spouts of water six metres into the air.

I was glad the whales were not alongside when that happened as the mist that drifted our way was oily and had the distinct odour of very dead fish. I imagine being drenched by a spouting whale would be decidedly unpleasant. Skunk of the sea perhaps?

Our time off shore alternated between bouts of wild excitement and activity that flowed through the sightseers each time whales appeared and periods of intense stillness and alert watchfulness whenever the whales dived and we waited for them to reappear.

I arrived home tired, a little sunburnt but very happy and hurried to plug the camera into Robert’s computer. I leaned forward as he tapped the key board, eager to see all the wonderful photos I had taken of the Humpbacks.

‘There! Look. The colour is magnificent!’ I cried pointing to the series of pictures appearing on the screen. But where were the whales?

Oh dear. It would seem I needed to learn more about my new camera. I had aimed the lens between the heads of people standing in front of me and there on the screen was the most amazing assortment of human ears. Some were tiny, delicate and pink. Others large and hairy. Some swung wide like car doors and some were so flat they might have been stapled on.

And the whales that had appeared so close through the camera lens, were black dots in a blue ocean.

Clever Robert located a ZOOM button on the computer and as we watched, the whales grew, and we were once more filled with awe at the sight of these majestic mammals.