Whale of a Tale
by Sue Owens Wright

When my friend, Gladys, asked me if I would like to join her on a whale-watching tour, I jumped at the chance. Whales and other sea mammals fascinate me, and I had always dreamed of just such an adventure. Grand visions of Captain Ahab shouting, "Thar she blows!" at the bow of his sturdy whaler made me momentarily forget my past experiences on the high seas and write out the check for $48.00, a real bargain for a six-hour sea cruise.

We would embark on Saturday, February 10. By the time the big day arrived, I was nursing a bad case of the flu. I almost backed out on the trip, but I hated to let Gladys down. Besides, I was determined to go whale watching, even if it killed me. It almost did. Since the brochure said to dress warmly, I wore my cross-country ski garb and a goose down coat I had borrowed from my mother. I took along thermal underwear, just in case. Doctored with Vick’s Daycare and armed with a fistful of aspirin, I climbed into the back seat of our SUV for the early morning trip to San Francisco’s Fort Mason, where the tour would begin.

My husband had kindly offered to drive Gladys and me to the city. He would spend the six hours shopping downtown while we went whale watching, then drive us home afterward. Later, I would realize what a wise decision that had been. The weather in San Francisco was balmy. I saw no need to wear the thermals, so I left them in the car.

We gathered at 9:00 a.m. outside Building A for the orientation. A crowd consisting mostly of Californians along with a Brit and a couple of New Yorkers like Gladys gathered around Cindy, our wholesome-looking, outdoorsy tour guide.

She gave us a brief talk on gray whales, the species migrating at this time, but also prepared us that there were no guarantees we would see any today. Gladys and I could hardly contain our excitement when she mentioned the upcoming June tour of the Farallon Islands, where we might see even more marine life.

Cindy covered some safety tips, including how to do a three-legged stand on deck, which meant, "Quick, grab onto something!" And, of course, she showed us how to use a life vest. She mentioned that some of us might become "gastronomically aware" during the voyage. Gladys and I weren’t a bit worried. An hour earlier we had taken our Bonine, anti-nausea medication similar to Dramamine minus the sleep-inducing effects, and we each wore a pair of those elastic wristbands that supposedly prevent seasickness using acupressure.

We boldly led the procession of passengers down to the wharf and boarded the 60-foot-long Superfin, a seaworthy craft if ever this landlubber had seen one. Friendly Captain Bill helped us climb up the ladder, and we stowed our lunch bags and gear inside one of the long, aluminum benches on deck. We introduced ourselves to Gerry, the woman sitting next to us who was visiting from London, England. We settled into our respective watch positions, giggling and joking as the Superfin left the calm waters of the harbor in search of whales.

I had brought my journal along with me to record, blow by blow
(whale-watcher’s jargon), the events of the day. My entries are as follows:

February 10, 9:00 a.m. Gladys and I are standing at the pier, wristbands firmly strapped on, Bonine tablets downed, waiting for orientation to begin.

9:15 a.m. Still not seasick. Met Gerry from London. Very nice girl. Checking wristbands. We’re off to the high seas.

That would be the last entry in my journal for the day. I remember passing beneath the splendid Golden Gate Bridge, snapping off shot after shot with my camera. Realizing I had already used six exposures of my only roll of film, I decided that I had better save some for all the whales I was sure to see later on.

It was thrilling in the beginning. Almost immediately, I spotted a harbor dolphin. Its dorsal fin looked like a Hershey’s kiss on top of the waves. Ah, yes. The waves. As the Golden Gate faded in the distance, the waves rolled higher and higher. The ride got rougher and rougher. At first, I joked about feeling like I was on one of those wild roller coasters at Marriot’s Great America. Then the joking stopped.

"Are you all right?" Gladys kept asking me as my cheery demeanor faded along with the color in my face. I must have been turning sea green, because Gladys offered me and Gerry one of her soda crackers she had brought along "just in case."

Pretty soon all three of us were downing crackers like demented parrots. Approximately twenty minutes into the trip, I announced, "Tell me about the whales later, Gladys. I’m going below."

My last cracker still clotted in my throat, I staggered down the steps into the cabin and collapsed onto the soft, cushioned seats situated around one of several retro-looking Formica dinettes. I lay there feeling every swell of the waves beneath me, wishing I had stayed at the dock, better yet at home in bed where I belonged.

An hour or so later, a stabbing pain in my gut brought me perpendicular in my seat. Without warning, my gorge rose. My avenue of escape was blocked by a woman to my left who was eating her sack lunch and a young boy sleeping on my right. Before I could figure out how to maneuver topside to hang my head over the railing as we had been instructed to do if "gastronomically aware," it was already too late. All I could do was find a convenient receptacle in which to toss my cookies, or in this case, crackers. My eyes locked on the sleeping tike’s upturned baseball cap resting unguarded on the tabletop. Instead, I grabbed for the woman’s empty lunch sack. At least, I thought it was empty.

"Wait!" she screeched, extracting the other half of her sandwich from the sack a nanosecond before I heave-hoed into it. I never knew if she was able to finish the rest of her lunch after that scenario, but somehow I doubt it.

Over the sound of my retching, I was vaguely aware of someone speaking to me. I managed to lift my head up far enough to see someone dressed in white. Since I was fairly sure this wasn’t an angel encounter, that indeed I wasn’t dead (although I would wish it many times as the day wore on), I realized it was the first mate of the good ship, Superfin.

"It’s better up top in the fresh air," he said.

"I can’t moooove," I groaned.

Suddenly, I knew I was either going to have to move or make an even worse mess than I already had. Out of courtesy to the others, I snatched my barf bag and through some miracle of navigation made it out to the railing just in time to empty out again. The steady stream of chum somehow missed the trailing ends of my favorite blue scarf and the camera that still dangled like an albatross from my neck; however, the wind was so strong a yellow-tinged spray of partially digested soda crackers blew back onto the deck. I could only hope no one was downwind at the time.

Three threads of chain link were all that restrained me from the rolling waves of the deep. For an instant, I considered jumping overboard and ending it all. Instead, I hung like a limp marionette over the top chain, slipped to the second, then finally came to my knees at the third, praying for mercy while I hung my head through the gap in the fence.

Noxious fumes from the Superfin’s straining engine billowed into my nostrils, which made me feel still sicker. I noticed a trash barrel situated between two other passengers who had collapsed within spewing distance of it. I decided that would be a good place for me to crash, too. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Besides the fact that the pitching of the boat was even more pronounced at the boat’s stern, there was no protection from the freezing cold sea spray. Mom’s goose down coat was no match for Neptune’s icy wrath. I lay there helpless, shivering, and moaning a mariner’s mal-de-mer mantra. I think it was from The Wizard of Oz, "There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home." Actually, it was more like, "I wanna go home. Oh, please. I wanna go home."

Realizing that I would catch double pneumonia there on the deck, I struggled to my hands and knees. Even in my condition, I was too proud to crawl back to the cabin, although I probably should have. It would have been safer. I tried to grip onto something and do the "three-legged stand," but the metal surfaces were slicker than snot on a glass doorknob. I don’t know how many people I stepped on or poked in the eye as I staggered like drunken sailor to the steps that led down to the cabin and the soft cushions I had earlier so foolishly abandoned.

Call it an understatement that the other passengers didn’t look thrilled to see me coming back below, especially since the first thing I did when I sat down was blow more groceries. This time all that was handy was my favorite blue scarf, which henceforth would no longer be my favorite, nor very blue. Some kind soul—only later would I learn who—kept handing me wads of paper towels.

At that point, it seemed to me that the area around me suddenly cleared. No wonder! I dropped my ruined scarf to the floor, toppled like a rag doll onto the length of comfortable cushions, curled up inside a wet layer of goose feathers, and tried to forget at least for a little while where I was and that this voyage of the damned was still only half over.

The next thing I was aware of was the sound of the engine stopping. Immediately, the boat began to buck like a bronco. I groaned in unison with each swell. I heard the oooh’s and aaah’s of the other passengers and the sound of Cindy’s nauseatingly perky voice on the loudspeaker. Although I couldn’t comprehend exactly what she was saying, I understood that they had at last spotted the elusive gray whale. "Thar she blows!" had taken on a whole new meaning for me at this point.

I propped myself up on one elbow and peered through the port side windows. Through the row of whale watchers’ dangling feet, I caught sight of a tell-tale "blow" in the distance that signaled the presence of a whale. I saw the mottled brown color of the whale’s hump as it surfaced, which made me wonder why they call it a gray whale. I tried to stay upright long enough to see more, but my strength failed me.

"Aw, the hell with it!" I muttered, satisfied that I had seen at least one damn whale on this ill-fated expedition, then dropped back down to the comfort of the cushions. I tried to go back to sleep, but the intermittent hurrahs of appreciative whale watchers and the incessant pitching of the boat made it impossible. I kept worrying that with all the passengers perched on the port side, we would surely capsize. Somehow, being buried at sea wasn’t what I had in mind when I had agreed to go whale watching with Gladys.

"Why don’t they turn this tub around?" I wailed to the still-empty cabin. It seemed like eternity before I heard the engine cough to life and felt the welcomed sensation of forward movement. I sighed with relief, then fell into a fitful sleep.

At one point, I became aware of a commotion. I managed to open one eye and peek from under my coat to see some of the crew carrying blankets to the deck. Oh, how I wished that they would throw one of them over me as they passed by. I was lying too close to the cabin door, which remained agape during the entire trip, exposing us all to the cold and damp. Even though I was still cocooned in my borrowed coat, it was too short to effectively cover my legs and feet. By now, I couldn’t feel anything below my waist. My ears ached, and my hands were two popsicles at the ends of my wrists, but I had foolishly stowed my gloves and hat when we boarded and was now incapable of retrieving them or even asking someone else to. I later learned that the blankets had been for a man who had collapsed topside. The crew had covered him up and left him where he dropped. Poor guy. I’m surprised none of us was forced to walk the plank during the voyage.

At long last, I felt the air grow warmer. Even I knew that this meant we must be approaching land. My toes gradually thawed, and I began to stir ever so slightly. My left leg was still numb from sleeping on my left side the whole time.

Too ashamed to face anyone, I tried to stay hidden under my shield of soggy goose feathers as long as possible. I had made such a spectacle of myself. Then I felt someone tap me gently on the shoulder. A young Asian woman smiled wanly at me and announced, "We made it!" I smiled wanly back and gave her the thumbs up sign. Apparently, many others had also had an unforgettable whale-watching experience. Londoner Gerry commented that she would certainly never forget it.

I noticed that Gladys looked a little green around the gills, too. She told me she and Gerry had both been sick, too, and that it was Gerry who had mercifully passed the wads of paper towels to me. Gladys had used a few wads herself but missed once and splattered my journal instead. This was definitely a job for Bounty, and I don’t mean the one of "mutiny" fame.

Although, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if there had been a mutiny on the Superfin that day. When Gladys showed me the souvenir our tour guide, Cindy, had given her, which was a jar containing slithery sea creatures preserved in a murky liquid, I jokingly asked her if they were something I had jettisoned during the trip.

By now I could stand upright again, if somewhat stiffly. I retrieved my personal belongings I had stowed in the deck benches a full seven-and-a-half hours earlier. We had paid for a six-hour tour. At least we didn’t end up like Gilligan and his shipmates. From the look on Gladys’s face, I’m sure she agreed that, like the Minnow’s crew, we had gotten much more tour than we bargained for. We also agreed that we would skip the voyage to the Farallon Islands the following June. In fact, we had come within seven miles of the islands that day. For all I knew, we might have sailed to the Aleutian Islands, except nothing in Alaska is that cold. Even a polar bear has enough fur coat to cover his ass.

"I feel like I’ve been to Hell and back," I commented as I fell into the line of jostling passengers who were as eager as I to disembark that ship of fools. I noticed I wasn’t the only one who looked a little pooped on the poopdeck as we descended the ladder of the not-so-good-ship Superfin. Perhaps they should consider rechristening it the Pequod and renaming its demented captain Ahab, I mused.

When the trip deteriorated into a barf-o-rama, any sane man would surely have turned back for safe harbor. Like Ahab, Captain Bill was determined to find that cursed whale. I resisted the temptation to kiss the ground when my feet finally touched down, but I vowed they would never leave terra firma again if I could help it. The firma the betta, as Gladys would say in her New York accent.

We bade farewell to Gerry, our English friend. "Enjoy the rest of your visit," I called after her. She wasn’t humming "Britannia Rule the Waves" as she beat a hasty retreat from the dock.

The scent that emanated from us was no doubt the reason Gladys and I were seated well out of sniffing distance from the other diners at Houlihan’s in Sausalito, where we stopped for a bite to eat on the way home. And I do mean a bite. The thought of a meal was unbearable, but after our bone-chilling escapade, we both felt that a hot beverage or some steaming soup was definitely in order. One thing was certain, neither of us would be ordering the catch of the day. In fact, we’d decided to avoid the seafood section of the menu altogether.

"What’s your soup?" Gladys asked the server. "Clam chowder," she answered, then looked puzzled when we both broke into hysterics. We would have explained to her why we were laughing so hard, but it’s a whale of a tale.