Have Ye Seen the Right Whale?
 
            Aye, captain. Thar they blow!

            Twenty four hours ago, in the Bay of Fundy, the 7th and 8th graders from my school were sailing on the good ship Elsie Menota out of Grand Manan, and the bay was practically roiling with whales. In fact, we figured that we were in the presence of perhaps 25% of the known Atlantic Right Whale population, there in the middle of the Bay of Fundy where the water is 700 feet deep and the whales enjoy a summer diet rich in copepods.

            The kids’ encounters and observations began the previous day on the ferry to the island, when humpback and fin whales were surfacing to port and starboard, easily visible with the naked eye, fins flapping over languidly, spouting, and even a tail flicked before diving—augurs of closer encounters to come.

            “There’s an abundance of wildlife,” Sawyer said ecstatically on the ferry ride. Only their teacher Mr. McWeeny understood the full portent of his words.

            After an hour and a half under way beneath lowering clouds and showers, the Elsie Menota arrived at the whale grounds. The water was still, lapping the sides of the boat. Seabirds scudded the little white caps. The quicksilver whale pond stared back at the sky. It is the stillness of whales intending to appear. And they do.

            Suddenly, there were sightings in every direction, whales sounding and blowing spray in their distinctive ‘V’ pattern. As we approached we began to hear the basso profundo of air funneling back into their lungs, a whirling, scouring, tunneling of breathe bunkering into the deep. As we drifted among them, the whales cuddled and treated us to an exhibition of a “surface activity group,” whale behavior that the kids had studied. As we watched a group of 8 or 9 lunkering on the surface, splashing and wrestling, nudging and bumping, our trip was complete.

            “Shhhh! They can hear you,” said one of the whale watchers. Appropriate reverence and hushed voices clicked in.

            Back at school on Wednesday we paused to reflect and record what we had seen and felt out there on the bay. “Ask yourself, What was it like to see the Right Whales?” I instructed.  “What was it like to be on the Elsie Menota, in the middle of the Bay of Fundy, yesterday, watching whales do what whales do? What was it like to see these particular whales that you’ve studied and learned so much about? What was it like to see their spray, hear their inhalations, watch their tails flip up as they dived? What did they say to you?” It was an invitation to record our interior conversations with the great mammals—not the facts and data we know, but the soulful effects of the rare encounter, a conversation with ourselves.

            For my part, I had never seen a whale up close. It felt like an encounter with the soul of the animal world. A whale reminds us we too are mammals, that we are a species who enjoy a habitat, a diet, places to go and cuddle and play; young to feed, responsibilities to the pod—a social life, and a planetary piety.           

            Other writers shared these thoughts.

            “Seeing them fluke was amazing,” wrote Lily. “Even though you know that they probably do that every day, it is still so beautiful.  I love to hear the sound that they make when they inhale, like someone sucking through a huge hollow straw.”

        Charlotte wrote, “To see the whales, the ones I had researched for a year, was amazing. It was like meeting a famous celebrity who you’ve always longed to see, but didn’t think you would.  Soon, we saw more and more whales, and each time I saw one, I gasped and smiled… a real live Right Whale.”

        Do right whales even have ears?” asked Jen B. “Or can they kind of sense things in the water? I'll look into that. The whales didn't really say anything, but I felt a little more like I knew what I was working to save.”

            As Gordon watched the surface activity group, he thought, “As the female rolled over on her back to catch a breath, I looked into her eye and realized how something so big can be so gentle. I felt like a mouse that is friends with an elephant.”

            Science teacher Bill McWeeny, the whale whisperer, also shared his thoughts, a blend of the scientific and romantic mind. “No matter what vessel I am on I gravitate to the bow, as close to the immediate future as possible.  What may appear is totally unpredictable and yet I know so well the possibilities.  Expectations turn into anxiety as the boat travels toward the basin, the deep hollow where abyssal waters bring nutrients to the waiting diatoms that fatten the zooplankton.  I close my eyes and try to sense the whales’ steady trek toward plumes of copepods. I close my eyes again, remind myself of past experiences and recent knowledge of whales in the bay. They must be here.  Think!  Go down deep, where the whales could be.  Get under water with them.  There! I see them in my mind’s eye.  What a calm comes over me.  I feel myself swimming with the whales, water rushing by my skin, and the void in front of me perfectly clear.  For just a brief moment, on the bow, deck vibrating beneath me and wind in my face, I enter the Bay and know the whales are there.”

    How many students get to share a scientific expedition such as this with a real-life scientist like their teacher-mentor Mr. McWeeny? Not many, I suspect. But it’s a great model for how to teach: by doing. McWeeny has galvanized his class into frontline scientists, conservationists, and activists. They write letters to politicians urging legislation to save whales from ship strikes and floating fishing gear, and make presentations at scientific conventions about the story of their beloved Calvin, a Right Whale orphaned by a ship strike that took her mother, Delilah. These kids aren’t studying science; they are doing science. They are piecing together a Right Whale family tree and doing original research into genetic traits. They hope to determine whether the distinctive white callossities growing on the whales’ skin an inherited trait.

            Seeing the whales, wrote 8th grader Madison, “made all of the work and studying we do in school worth while. I also realized how much I knew about these creatures.”

            “I was wondering if there was any other place in the world I would want to be,” wrote Emilio. “I couldn’t think of any.” He speaks for us all.

            And what might those whales be whispering amongst themselves today, the day after their close encounter of the Castiner kind? I’d love to hear that conversation. Right about now the whales we saw are beginning their migration to their winter waters off the coast of South Carolina. They’ll have a great tale for their southern cousins when they get there.

Todd R. Nelson is principal of the Adams School in Castine, Maine. A version of this article appeared in the September 24th edition of the Ellsworth American. toddnelson@hughes.net