10. Whales
Katherine D. Bennett
I have only seen one real live whale in my life. It was in 1982 after I had graduated from college. I had traveled one last time to Alaska, to work in the salmon canneries, hoping to earn enough money for graduate school.
A friend came to me on my lunch break and excitedly told me a whale had beaced itself just outside the village. Quickly a number of us piled into the back of a pick-up and drove to the site. Sure enough, there was a whale on the rocky beach.
I climbed out of the truck and walked toward the creature. There was a fisherman in hip boots pouring water on it and rubbing its side. It was a baby hump back, he explained. Just a baby.
The whale was about the size of a Ford Taurus with grayish brown skin. Embedded in its body was a yellow nylon fishing net; it threaded in and out of the animal’s head area and the skin looked puckered and raw around the wounds. It had baby eyes that were frightened, just like any baby creature who is hurt and far from its mama.
No, there was nothing we could do to help, the fisherman told us. He had notified the proper authorities. If it couldn’t be saved, it probably wouldn’t be wasted. The native tribes would harvest it if there was no hope. No, there really was nothing we could do, there was little hope, you folks go back to work.
Reluctantly we left and went back to work. The image of the fisherman, the misting rain, the wheeling gulls, the lost and hurt child whale was burned into my memory. As much as I asked over the next few days, I never found out what happened to the whale.
We Mid-Westerners tend to be practical. We understand the necessity of harvesting and that sometimes we need to make choices that are unpleasant. We make the necessary changes and then we move on. If the poor animal had to be harvested or destroyed, then that is what had to happen. I understand that, though I have to admit I never stopped wondering what had happened to the poor baby whale on that far away rocky beach. Finally, my curiosity got the better of me; I called the Alaska Department of Conservation.
I talked to a Trooper Sven Skille of the Fish and Wildlife Department. He explained that they didn’t keep records dating back further that five years, so there was no way to know what had happened to that particular whale. Chances are they had removed the netting and pushed the whale back into the sea at high tide. Hopefully, the baby had grown up. He went on to explain the majority of beached whales are never discovered and are reabsorbed into the environment. Most are too sick or injured to survive. It is all part of the balance of nature, large and small, beautiful, and sometimes harsh. The only shameful thing was waste, and nothing is wasted in nature. There is a place for death, and a place for regrowth. Harvest or cure, just don’t throw nature away. Balance is so very important.
I like to think, though, that my baby whale pulled through, and is alive even now. I like to think it strides through the oceans with authority, that it mates, and it sings its whale songs. I like to think its scars faded, that it is healed and strong. I like to think it is well, and someday I will get to see it swim. I like to think that in this case, the cycle of nature spared the child.