I glance back at Garopaba. Like many settlements along the Santa Catarina coast, this town owes its history to whale blubber. Not just its economic base, but its physical sustenance, too. Even that quaint church upon the hill counts blubber extract among its building materials.
Some 30 years ago, our captain and first mate might have been rowing out in a wooden skiff. With a handful of crewmates, Severo and Wilson would have crept up carefully on an unsuspecting Right Whale, an aquatic cow lounging dreamily in the shoreline waters. The men would cringe with apprehension. When the 50-ton beast loomed just astride their thin craft, the designated harpooner would cast his explosive-laden javelin into the meaty tissue of the whale's neck.
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This morning Severo stands behind an instrument-laden panel near the stern of a 9-meter rigid hull inflatable boat, specially designed to never, ever capsize. One wonders then why we are dressed as if to visit a nuclear reactor just south of Davy Jones' Locker. We sweat under our florescent yellow shields - synthetic waterproof overalls topped by heavy-duty life vests. For all our discomfort, I must admit that we're better prepared than those old whalers were. Though few of them could execute a satisfactory breaststroke, they'd venture out protected by nothing but a stiff shot of bravura.
Wilson stands at attention in the bow, taking full advantage of the sole opening at the front of our fiberglass-enclosed craft. For those of us seated the middle, the ocean air seems somehow torpid. We wonder if the anti-seasickness pills foisted upon us by the staff will take effect. And we wonder if the trip will be worth the risk of puking our guts out. With our tablets came a general issue truth-in-advertising disclaimer: "Whale watching depends upon the wild whales and the weather conditions, thus making the encounter itself not 100% guaranteed."
It is 9:45 and the sun is shining. The weather, at least, seems to be cooperating. Severo guns the engine... And there it is. To our left, a whale is leaping across the bay. This kangaroo-esque movement, known in biologist-speak as breaching, constitutes the moral equivalent of a Right Whale sprint. We have no means to measure its velocity, but the hulk seems to be moving much faster than the leisurely 12 kilometers per hour (less than 8 mph) average that our handouts set as the species speed limit.
Illusion at first sight, perhaps. Right Whales like the one we just saw were thus named because they were literally the "right" ones to hunt. Slow swimmers, they became the perennial losers in a mortal game of water tag. Not only were they slow, but serene - laying about as 17-meter long sitting ducks. Their thick layers of blubber, the source of the valuable oil that once lit up the streets of Europe, ensured that the carcasses would float as fishermen towed them to shore.
Given such an easy target, whalers bagged an estimated 15,000 animals along the southern Brazilian coast between 1770 and 1950. The last capture was recorded in 1973. Hunting ended for the simple reason that nobody could find anymore whales to kill.
Around 1980 locals began to spot them again. But they weren't sure. A group of four volunteer biologists set out to confirm the rumors. They founded the Right Whale Project in 1981 to study and protect the animals. Meanwhile global opposition to whaling increased, and Brazil prohibited hunting in its waters in 1985. This September the project convinced the federal government to declare this stretch of coast a nature sanctuary. The project runs whale-watching tours to help fund its scientific and environmental endeavors. So here I am sweating under my bright yellow plastic overalls.
Our group of ecologically-correct hunters takes a northeasterly tack toward the open seas, stalking that now invisible breaching whale. Paulo Flores, a biologist who serves as the expedition's record keeper and photographer, fumbles with his clipboard. There have been so many sightings during the first two months of this season - 170 in all from mid-June through the end of August - that Flores and his colleagues can hardly keep up with their data entry chores. Year-on-year estimates say that the whale population is growing by 100% per annum. The southern Right Whale population now numbers at about 7,000.
"Penguins at nine o'clock!" shouts Fabiana Mourão, a second biologist accompanying our group. No, Fabiana is not announcing the menu for tonight's seafood dinner. She's telling us where to look to catch glimpse of a group of swimming birds. If 12 o'clock is straight ahead, they must be off to our left somewhere. By the time I make the mental calculations and turn my head, they're gone. Pretty soon, though, at two o'clock or whatever, we spot four floundering little critters. They're Magellans up from Patagonia. When they pucker out, these little fellows sometimes wash up dead on the coast - indeed becoming a seafood dinner for local vultures. We saw a couple of winged dumpster divers feasting on the beach the other day.
Our breaching whale seems to have disappeared, but the crew swears there's another nearby. At nine o'clock. My directional watch must be out of kilter. I see nothing. Severo cuts the engine, as he must according to Brazilian law when the boat comes within 100 meters of a whale. Everyone grows very quiet. Waves lap against the orange tubes of our boat.
After several minutes, a woman in our group can stand it no longer. She's itching under her life vest and cries out for help. A friend comes to the rescue with a well-placed scratch. "You bite my back, I'll bite yours," he remarks.
The crew seems to take the broken silence as a signal. Fabiana has received a radio report of a group of three whales up further north. We'll chase them instead of languishing here. "This one must have submerged," she says. Since whales boast lung capacity sufficient to allow them to dive for as long as 20 minutes, that seems like a good decision.
It is now 10:15. We've been out 30 minutes, and we're still inside the bay. Leaving it, we approach a rocky island populated by frigate birds. The strong-winged frigate doesn't bother to snare its own food: it steals prey captured by others. If the toucan can serve as the mascot of President Fernando Henrique Cardoso's PSDB, perhaps somebody on the Brazilian political scene should adopt the frigate as a symbol. Let's see, who would it be?...
My watch says 10:29 as we shift into a slow cruise. We're nearing a rocky shore that serves as a prime land-based whale-watching site. "More whales," mutters Paulo. On the bay side of our boat, perhaps less than 100 meters from the beach, a slow moving black mound appears, accompanied by what looks like an asphalt colored speed bump. A mother and a calf. A fin rises. "You can stand in the boat, but don't scream," warns Paulo. "It's against the law." The mother shoots a spray from her blowhole. The wind twists it out of its typical V-shape into a vague mist.
At less than two months, the baby must weight upwards of five tons. It does little flips over mom's back. Everybody crowds the front of the boat. Cameras whiz.
Conveniently for the shutterbugs (as for the harpooners in the old days), mothers lurk shockingly near the coast as they nurture their young. That's pretty much what they do here between July and November. Along the Santa Catarina shoreline, they can come as close as 30 meters to the beach. (Nobody knows why they hug the coast. Scientists speculate that it might be in search of calmer waters.)
Up for the season from their feeding areas in the Southern Atlantic, Right Whales have been sighted as far north as the coast of Bahia, says José Truda Palazzo Jr. If anybody knows, Truda's the guy. He helped found the Right Whale Project and now heads it up. Truda looks the part of the veteran in his very comfortable-looking wetsuit, I note enviously.
Off to the right two more black lumps rupture the water's surface. "Whale rocks," says Paulo. Veritable mirages of nature. "When people call our office to report a whale sighting there, we log them in: whale rock sightings at 200 meters."
Meanwhile the real whales continue to loaf and snuggle. Our boat drifts, not necessarily where we'd like it to. "The idea is to try to get on the side where the wind and the tide help," says Truda. Guess that's not the side we're on.
Fabiana interrupts with a proposition: "An albino calf has been sighted about 45 minutes south of here. Do you guys want to go for it?"
Trying to be polite, everyone looks at one another. Call me Ishmael, but I found myself the first to pipe up: "Let's go."
I always assumed the White Leviathan to be an invention of Herman Melville's imagination. But here I am in Santa Catarina, motoring my way towards one. While not particularly commonplace, albino whales have been seen often enough by contemporary experts - 14 times, Paulo says - that we can believe in them without risking ridicule from landlubbers.
As I daydream of Moby Dick Jr., Severo abruptly cuts the engine. Heading towards us from the open seas is a fishing boat. And heading towards us from the south, yet another whale. The fishing craft putters forward. The whale scampers back toward the relative safety of the shoreline rocks. The fishermen pass. The whale returns to its charted northerly course. We resume our southerly quest of the White Whale. It is now 11:27.
Heading south, we pass some of the world's most primo surfing spots. No wonder Praia do Rosa was preparing to host the Oxbow World Longboard Championship in October.
12:33. We reach our destination. And there on our left is the albino baby with its mother. Severo cuts the engine and we make an approach toward what seems a pretty frisky target. "The white calf is the most playful of the season so far," says Truda.
We get as close as 50 meters. Yes, Virginia, there are White Whales.
And plenty of others, as well. On our right, we spy two more adults. One swims close enough that we can hear the "pffft!" sound when it lets loose from its blowhole. There it is again, "Grrpfft!"
The water around here is only about five meters deep. It is a wonder how these beasts manage to keep from scraping bottom.
12:58. We're going to try another approach to the adults on our right. We cruise slowly for a few moments before Severo cuts the engine again. Soon a tail fin sticks straight up out of the water. Amateur photogs stumble over each other and nearly through the front watch-hole into the sea. Without a camera, I'm perhaps the only one really paying attention. The tail fin lingers for several seconds before dropping back below the surface.
Then it's up again. And again. And again - a fourth time.
"This is the first serious flirting of the season," remarks Truda. The comment strikes me as a bit odd. The members of our tour group are indeed grasping at each other, but I'd hardly call the encounter an erotic one.
Only later did I learn the truth. The uplifted tail fin, a gesture called lob-tailing, is a girl whale's way of telling a boy whale to bug off. As they say in Brazil, "Dar uma fora." Literally.
Now that the love scene is over, we're treated to Whale Surround Vision. The white and its mom at 10 o'clock. The jilted suitor backing off from the object of his unrequited love at two o'clock. A fin at 12 o'clock. A head swims slowly by some 20 meters to our right. "Pffft!"
We're all hypnotized, but Truda seems to be holding his breath for another reason. "We have to move," he announces. "Because of the waves. We don't want to wash up on the beach." Good thinking, Truda. Imagine having to trudge back overland to Garopaba in these plastic overalls.
Our visit to Praia do Rosa was made possible by the support of the Associated Inns of Rosa (PROA), New Age Tour Operator, and Transbrasil.
Plan Your Whale Watching Trip to Santa Catarina, Brazil
Visit the PROA website for more information about whale watching, ecotourism, surfing and lodging in and near Praia do Rosa, Santa Catarina.
