Song of the Humpback Whale - or 'Scientific Research'? The annual whale wars begin in the Antarctic.

Hi friends!

Sitting on the deck at the beach watching the humpback whales (Latin name  Megaptera novaeangliae - 'big-winged New Englander') -  take their annual migration south to the Antarctic, I wonder which of these beautiful creatures is destined to board a Japanese whaler ship bloody and battered as a 'scientific experiment' and which will swim past heading north after its annual feed in the cold Antarctic waters during  the Southern Hemisphere's summer. 

Some whales stay in the mid-Southern Ocean, while others feed at the edge of the pack ice. Their hunters understand their predictable movements, making them relatively easy prey. This annual battle is fought in the Antarctic with the Sea Shepherd and Greenpeace vessels hounding the huge Japanese refrigerated ships. Their philosophy is while the Japanese are fighting them they're leaving the whales alone. All the action is live on our television screens nightly. It's about to begin again...

Whaling has a long and cruel history. Australia itself, even though vehemently opposed to whale hunting today, only ceased to participate in the 1970s. Today it is easy to judge the Japanese who continue to claim they need to kill whales for 'scientific research' and that it's part of their culture, even though many Japanese people have joined in the global protests against this practice, claiming that tons of unwanted whale meat and by products languish in cold rooms.

According to the anti - whaling 'terrorist' Sea Shepherd captain, Canadian Paul Watson, alongside Japan, other countries and tribes continue to whale hunt. There's Norway, the Inuit in Alaska, USA, the Yupik in Siberia, Denmark, along with aboriginal groups in Canada and Iceland. 

Where there's whales there's birds aplenty.

Whaling is a topic dear to my heart. I have explored this issue in one of my novels. I found this poem for the frontispiece:

           Song of the Humpback Whale

From oceans huge with time the whales surface

and plunge in a rolling of hills. The curious soft

indigo explosion of their cries

that trail like comets in the night are heard as

trumpet-calls, submerged, sharp, shuddering,

as the spatial music of gulls, as sounds of blunt

tugs nosing mournfully through eternal mist.

It is a salt-white sorcery: they sing

of artic pilgrimage, the bleak migration

ordained by the rhythm of seasons. Buffeted

by surface storms of their known world, they flow

as we ourselves in terrible formation,

trapped each a lifetime in compelling seas,

plunging half-blinded, calling one to another

from green-scarped waves, set on divergent courses

but frozen, frozen to our destinies.

From Song of the Humpback Whales, Selected Verse by Jill Hellyer - open copyright

I am currently applying the final layer of nail polish to my first NaNo novel, Ruby, aimed at the HarlequinEscape market. This novel is a love story between a French girl, an Aussie sea captain and humpback whales. This scene is taken from Chapter Eleven where the heroine Ruby confronts a Japanese whaler. (I wanted to give both sides to the story). He addresses the diners at Ruby's hotel restaurant:

‘My name is Izuru Ito. I was brought up in a tiny fishing village in Japan. Everyone was involved in whaling, including my whole family. You must understand. It was our life for generations. I followed my father before me, becoming a scientist, then a whaling ship’s captain. But it was different for me.

‘My voyages to hunt the whales started my love affair with the Southern Oceans. I fell in love with the wildness, the vastness, the remoteness. The different breeds of whales–from the humpbacks to the majestic blues–took my breath away with their haunting whale songs. To hear them singing amongst the icebergs changed my life.’

The restaurant was quiet–no one lifted a knife or fork–no one swallowed–all were mesmerized by Ito's story.

‘My voyages through this great ocean overwhelmed me. There life is in its rawest, most primal form.’ 

To Ruby it was a Moby Dick tale. She leaned closer.

‘It took me many expeditions, but I came to appreciate how fragile and utterly beautiful life and the natural environment really are. Seeing whales harpooned became an ugly paradox. I had to make a choice. I chose life over death. I still hunt whales, but as an object of beauty, not prey.’

Some of the guests were dabbing their eyes. A slow clap began, picked up by everyone. Ito looked around, humbled.

‘Tomorrow will be an experience none of us will ever forget. The whales await. They are close. Tonight gave us a glimpse. Tomorrow, the conditions will be perfect. For those of you who have never seen whales up close, prepare yourself. It is a most spiritual moment.’ He gave them the thumbs up. ‘Thank you for listening to my story.’ 

He stood and bowed politely.

And was gone.

Weather Blogfest - The Whale Hunt Hots Up

Thanks to Amy and Mia at a Little Slice of Nothing for hosting this blogfest which I see has not been plain sailing (excuse the pun.) I forgot until I saw an entry flash past my blog feed - eek, but I did sort of have something in mind.

This scene takes place about halfway through my WIP novel. The MC’s love, Michael, has left his beloved Ruby behind and is following his dream of intervening in the whale slaughter in the Southern Ocean. Naturally, there is lots of weather involved, adding to the drama.

Read on:

He was growing tired of playing poker every night, watching the interplay of national characteristics—schooled British accents, flat Kiwi vowels, Australian slang, American drawl, Irish jokes. But Michael thought it’d beat steering through icebergs at night.


Restless, Michael wandered out onto the stern. There was a merciless wind, so he zipped up his parka as far as it would go. The big black ship seemed to be diving ahead—plunging, pitching, rolling. Michael stood steady, his feet firm on the deck. He’d managed to adjust to the rolling motion.


‘The weather’s being kind to us so far,’ Irish Mick said as he strolled by, ‘but you just wait...’


Michael watched the sky. To tell the truth, he wondered if this old tank could survive a storm. As he stood watching out to sea, a dense fog rolled over the water and he suddenly felt the wind and the temperature drop. He looked for the big white birds—they glided out of the fog, white on white, then were absorbed by it. Michael was comforted by their presence.


‘Hey, Mike, did you know that the albatross know when a storm is coming?’ yelled a couple of deckhands who were smoking nearby. ‘You can tell everything by the birds, y’ know.’


‘No, I didn’t know. Thanks.’ Michael watched the mist settling on the waves. He felt uneasy. He went below-decks to take a nap.


When he came back up, the fog was rolling over the decks like heavy smoke. It put a veil between him and the water. He could no longer see the wake. We are a black ghost ship, Michael thought, sailing into oblivion. We are all alone—strike an iceberg, tear the hull, down in two minutes. What good would an emergency radio beacon do in this empty vastness? He had a pang of longing for the safety of the Eco Pacific, his state-of-the-art whale watching vessel safely anchored in a marina at home.


*** Cut here in the interests of brevity for blogfest…


Michael went below decks. He fired up his laptop and began his blog post:


In pursuit of unnamed whale ship. Two miles away. The superstructure looks white and the rest looks like fog. Perfect conditions for the whalers. We are moving slowly through a dream of fog and ice. We have passed two icebergs of over 100 feet high and the size of Manhattan. We have been passing it for the past hour and have at least the same to go. I tremble to think what a splash it made as it broke off the glacier.


All around our ship are rafts of broken icebergs—some the size of ships, others as small as a dinghy, some sculpted like animals. The water is as blue as a deep lake. We are in a floating world, a monochrome world—whites, blues, greys and blacks. Little white snow petrels and little Antarctic petrels glide around the ship. The air smells pure—not a trace of smoke, earth, tree, rock, grass. In the water, a few penguins waddle along the edge of ice, flying through the dark water as did their forebears. They stand, gawking up at the black hulk passing by. They stand in a ragged line and wave stubby wings.


This place does not seem to belong to earth, yet the birds, the circling birds, remind you that you are still on the planet.


© Denise Covey 2010