My goal was to help high school students embrace civic action. In return, my students, friends, and co-workers taught me what it means to truly live in a place.
I’ve called three places home in my short 23 years: Crawfordsville, Indiana; Akureyri, Iceland; and Whidbey Island, Washington. Two of those locations lie within close proximity to whale populations that are legendary.
I wouldn’t call me Ishmael, but I have spent a fair amount of time seeking them out, inspired by the same majesty and mystery evinced by Melville.
The first time I paid for a "guaranteed" whale sighting, I ended up at the Icelandic Phallological Museum, the other major attraction in the tiny northern seaport of Husavik. After spending a fruitless afternoon on choppy water battling constant arctic winds, the closest I came to observing whales was the museum’s collection of ceiling-length whale penises, woefully severed and floating in vertical preservation tanks. The exhibit provided a dazzling study in masculinity, but it wasn’t exactly what I had intended for the day.
I was thus cautiously optimistic when I embarked upon my second whalefaring voyage last summer, this time in Anacortes, Washington. The marketing promises and the expenses were dauntingly similar. But with my 11-month Americorps service over, I knew my time in the Puget Sound was coming to a close, limiting such opportunities in the foreseeable future. I also knew that I would have an absolute zero chance of seeing killer whales when I returned to Indiana in the fall.
The ship I chose was the largest in the fleet, complete with a heated lounge offering steamy clam chowder. The whale-watching companies are remarkably well coordinated, constantly relaying the orcas’ positions throughout the day. We knew we were close when we spotted the other boats circled loosely offshore. Within minutes the whales obligingly appeared, their streamlined bodies briefly cresting like waves before returning underwater to hunt salmon, to play, or to simply avoid our watchful eyes and incessant shutter clicks.
Like most members of my generation, I was raised on nature documentaries that relish the predator-prey relationship. I was thus underwhelmed when no seals were flipped sky-high during acrobatic breaches and blurs of black and white. Instead, I was captivated by the guide’s narration: how they identified individual whales (by name) using almost inscrutable dorsal fin markings; the stories of matriarchal power—each pod, or family group, is ruled by its oldest female; the elaborate greeting ceremonies performed by the three pods when they reunite at their summer home after wintering off the California coast; the way two whales from across the planet will learn each other’s sonar languages when forced into captivity together. It was clear that there was much more to these creatures than what met my eyes. Yet, I leaned over the bow and kept watching, not knowing when I would get such a chance again.
The orcas I saw that day are from the J, K, and L pods, whose 85-90 total members comprise the Southern Resident group. Though they are deemed residents, in many ways these whales are like the condo crowd where I lived on Whidbey Island—they come for the summer, float around with their seasonal friends, and dine tirelessly on the best salmon you will ever taste. I can see why they keep coming back—it’s not a bad way, or place, to live, even if it is only temporary.
I could have easily justified cruising around the San Juan Islands for the scenery alone, with or without the whales. The San Juan Strait provides the ideal perspective to view the Puget Sound. Looking inland, the great cities of the Pacific Northwest—Portland, Seattle, Vancouver—appear as forested urban landscapes framed by mountains and clouds. Remove the skyscrapers, the Space Needle, the Gaston Steam Clock, and you’re left with the true regional aesthetics—towering Douglas firs, ancient gnarled western red cedars, the Cascade and Olympic ranges, the relentlessly blue depths of the Pacific. It’s a combination of surroundings that’s best observed from the water, either pulling crab pots, chasing salmon, or, whale watching.
I learned that lesson while living for a year on Whidbey Island, a narrow strip of land directly below the San Juans consisting of bed-and-breakfasts, retirement homes, and artsy enclaves, all topped by the Oak Harbor Naval Air Station. It’s a remarkably beautiful place, with its beaches, its forests, and its alpine views. My goal with Americorps was to help high school-age students embrace civic action through service at community gathering places like school gardens and a nonprofit coffeehouse. In return, my students, friends, and co-workers taught me about their beloved natural community. They taught me what it means to truly live in a place.
A couple weeks before I left, some friends invited me out on one final crabbing trip. Eddie, a stocky former schoolteacher who wore his baseball cap backward, had just purchased a small boat at a bargain price and couldn’t wait to take it out on the water. As we glided out of the marina and passed his beach front home, Eddie waved gleefully at his wife and father-in-law, who again expressed their doubt about his purchase. As if on cue, the engine immediately sputtered and seized, choking in a thin cloud of two-cycle smoke and sea spray.
Eddie optimistically scanned the horizon before spotting a friend approaching from afar. Instead of towing Eddie’s lifeless boat back to the dock, the pair contrived a new way to seek their harvest—tandem crabbing. Eddie’s friend would take the lead, dragging us to the buoys. We’d snag the lines and pull the pots, rebaiting them with punctured cans of salmon-flavored Friskies.
The luck, or "juju," as Eddie would call it, eluded us until the final pot, where we found three angry crabs awaiting removal. After clearing the trap of seaweed and positioning the last set of bait cans, I looked up to see Eddie grinning widely, despite a wasted motor and an almost-empty crab bucket. "This is it, man," he said, the sinking sun mirrored in his shades. "This is it!"
I have since returned to Indiana to pursue other adventures, far from the world of whales and salmon and crabs. Still, I can’t help but agree.
Nate Mullendore has returned to Crawfordsville, where he works out of Wabash College’s Kane House and is coordinator for the Friends of Sugar Creek, a non-profit organization dedicated to restoring and protecting Sugar Creek and its tributaries throughout West Central Indiana. His essay "Angling Glory" appeared in the Spring 2007 WM.
Photo by Vladimir Menkov