I tentatively reached up and laid my hand on the huge sea creature. It seemed neither hot nor cold to my touch. Our bodies in a kind of temperature equilibrium.
“It is a mammal after all.” I thought. “Just a really big one!”
Before me lay the largest denizen of the deep I had ever seen. A giant whale, now stranded in a foot of water and fighting for its life.
As my hand remained there for a few seconds the whale released a breath from its blowhole making me jump and I felt the vibration go all through me. I was touching another mammal, but one so magnificent, so wonderous, it felt a sacred moment.
It was an early summer Friday and I had completed my work for the week. My plans were to head to Wharariki Beach in Golden Bay on the very north-western tip of New Zealand’s South Island, set up my tent at the nearby campground and indulge in some landscape photography, before tackling the long drive home the next day.
Spirits were high as I meandered along the narrow and winding road. On my left green hills covered in lush native forest were now in late afternoon shadow. In the distance on my right, the sand dunes of Farewell Spit itself. The spit is also known by its Māori name – ‘Tuhuroa’. It is shaped like a sickle, curving inwards towards the mainland side of the bay and so creating a horseshoe shape.
I came across cars parked awkwardly along the sides of the road in a way that suggested their occupants had exited in a hurry. Notably there was a 4WD Department of Conservation vehicle among them. I decided to pull over and investigate. Looking between the huge trees scattered along the edge of the road, I scanned the eastern horizon and there, about a kilometre out on the tidal platform was a beached whale, its huge size accentuated by the smallness of the humans gathered around it. I’d never laid eyes on anything like this before and stood staring for a moment taking it all in. All week I had been looking forward to some landscape photography and I come across this! There was no choice to be made, really.
I threw on a sweatshirt and cap, weaved my way through the undergrowth on the side of the road before stepping onto the beach to begin the long walk out to the scene. Coloured stones and shells soon gave way to Sastrugi like corrugations – but of sand instead of snow.
Out on the platform, I was suddenly exposed to the keen westerly that prevails over this part of New Zealand. The pooled sea water that remains between tides rippled as wind gusts blew over them. Sunny periods interrupted banks of showery cloud as I grew nearer the drama.
I stood stunned for a few moments at the surreal scene unfolding before me. A group of 15 people were gathered around the whale. Everyone present was working with buckets of sea water, pouring their contents over the huge mammal in an effort to keep it cool.
The whale was lying on its right side, parallel to the shore and pointing north like a compass needle. Its back, which was toward us, shone like silver where it caught the late afternoon sun. There was a quiet and focused intensity in the air, a single-mindedness amongst those gathered; to keep the whale as cool as possible.
Department of Conservation staff told us it was a fully grown Sei whale (Balaenoptera borealis), a male, 17 metres in length and they estimated its weight at about 30,000 kilograms.
As a new arrival, it dawned on me that my experiences with the natural world had never included saving a whale. I initially felt helpless and ill-equipped. Despite the simple task before me, I thought it better to hang back and observe for a few minutes rather than grab a bucket and plough into it like some know-it-all.
I was moved by the visceral scene before me and decided to remain for the duration no matter how it played out, determined to help in any way I could. To be up close and personal with a red-blooded mammal of such enormity was a great honour and likely to be a once in a lifetime opportunity. I hoped we could save it.
Low tide had just past and the ocean was at least another 100 metres out beyond where the whale was stranded. The next high tide was not expected until about 1.30am. It was going to be a long night.
Getting everyone’s attention, a representative from New Zealand’s Project Jonah gave us a lesson in how to go about caring for the whale in a safe way. The two Doc staff present had shovels and dug holes in the sand where water already lay in pools, so that when we dipped our buckets, they would fill all the way to the top. The pools would then refill with gravity fed water as it drained towards the ocean.
Cotton sheets were also on hand and these were draped over the whale to help keep it cool. With no way of securing them, any misdirected bucket of water would cause a sheet to slip off like freshly hung wallpaper peeling away or icing slipping off the sides of a cake. No one complained when this happened, however. The nearest person would simply replace the sheet and the labour would continue, each working in solitude, and yet as a team. It seemed a number of different nationalities were represented that evening. Though I knew none of their names, nor where they were from, we were all speaking the same language. The language of collective caring. When at last someone wanted a break from bucketing, I eagerly took over, glad to finally have an opportunity to contribute.
The whale’s skin was perfect, unblemished with a slight slick feel to it and a shininess akin to varnish. Its colour was a deepest grey being almost, but not quite, black. The tail stock had a mottled appearance like lichen on rock. Its rippled and supple underside was pure white, dense and milky with a pink tinge that ran along the inside of the ridges. Wherever white met grey there was the appearance of a flick like an artist gives with a brush. Every 10 or 15 seconds, the whale’s whole body would writhe - as much as a 30 tonne sea creature could stranded on land.
“But what had caused this magnificent individual to strand in the first place?” I wondered.
The whale appeared to be in good shape, seemed a healthy weight and showed no visible signs of injury. The picture I was attempting to build up in my mind was somewhat confusing and I hoped for answers as the evening wore on.
Sei whales are the third largest on the planet after the Blue and Fin whales, being from the Baleen whale family. These global gliders travel in small pods of up to five and can live to a remarkable 70 years. It was quite possible this specimen was older than I. It is estimated there are about 80,000 Southern Sei Whales left and they can be found in most oceans of the world. On a typical day they will consume a massive 900 kilograms of copepods, krill and zooplankton as well as schools of small fish.
Between 1910 and 1979 more than 152,000 were hunted and taken from Southern Hemisphere oceans alone. At the peak of the hunting, some 12,000 were taken in the 1964-1965 southern season alone, and now here we were nearly 60 years later doing all we could to save just one.
Sei whales roam between 40-50 degrees latitude which means they are likely common travellers up and down New Zealand’s coastline along with 42 other recorded whale species that pass through our waters. They are among the fastest of all Cetaceans, according to American Naturalist Roy Chapman Andrews, and can be compared to Cheetahs. These seaway speedsters can swim at speeds of up to 50km per hour over short distances. Impressive speed indeed.
Approximately 300 whales of various species strand on New Zealand’s shoreline every year. Our shallow beaches and big tidal ranges pose no problems during high tides, but are often death traps when tides are low. This is especially true in the Golden Bay area where the slope is so gradual that whales don’t realise they are passing over large sand banks and into ever shallower water. At times the tide in the bay can recede as much as seven kilometres exacerbating the risk.
In a situation like this, however, for a whale this size to strand usually indicates an underlying health problem. It may be an illness such as a parasite infection or perhaps an injury, or perhaps simply old age. Too weak to swim and support its own weight in the water any longer, a whale may beach itself to prevent drowning, only delaying the inevitable.
A mammal of such mass is designed to be in the weightless environment that only the open ocean brings. A stranding would likely break its ribs and crush its internal organs. These things alone would mean certain death.
As the gentle emptying of buckets continued, a shower of rain passed over and with it increased wind strength bringing a drop in temperature. I was glad of this as it would further help to keep the whale cool.
Realising I needed to be better prepared if I was going to go long into the night, I returned to my car, had something to eat and drink before layering up in some warmer clothes and rejoining those out on the platform.
With no one picking up a suggestion by one of the DoC Rangers, I assigned myself to keeping the tail-end of the whale wet. A lot of blood vessels are in the tail we were told, and it would need extra attention if it was to be kept cool. Every few minutes, while others were asked to stand back, I threw a bucket of water making its huge tail shine again.
I noticed one young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, had the most intense look of concern in her eyes. She never took a break or spoke to anybody, but just kept administering bucket after bucket taking great care to aim its contents where the whale’s body seemed the driest. The front of her thick grey hoodie and sleeves were soaked with sea water, leaving a dark patch.
“She must be cold.” I thought.
I wanted to approach her and reassure her that she was not alone in the strength of her feelings. That while the buckets of water we were dispensing were heavy enough, like hers, my heart was even heavier.
Her every action was fervent and so full of devotion. I took comfort in her demeanour and wondered if others were experiencing the same depth of emotion but were instead putting on brave faces.
A blood-tinged pool of water began to surround the whale, especially nears its tail. It was explained to us that whales do not have thick skin and the friction from its agitated movements on sand or shells would cause it to bleed. We were told these were likely only superficial wounds. Just like us, I suspected this red-blooded mammal felt every wound – no matter how small.
The blood-red tinge also started to form in the holes we were replenishing our buckets from. It was unavoidable. We were now washing the whale in more and more of its own blood. Bloody water, watery blood. It was as though we were performing some kind of ancient ritual. A healing ritual. Trying to give this red-blooded mammal back it’s life force. But failing. With every bucket poured and then replenished, the hue of the water deepened, and with it my doubts also.
The tide was on its march in by now, but still seemed a long way off. The sky darkened as another light shower of rain passed over. Some caregivers took small breaks. Others kept bucketing without stopping. In our hearts we were all asking ourselves if this whale could be saved, but none of us knew the answer. I chatted with the DoC Rangers seeking reassurance without directly asking the question. They seemed as unsure as the rest of us, but I felt with their level of experience around stranding’s, they knew more than they were letting on.
Then, without warning, as the whale exhaled, a thick, white, foamy substance, like bile, began to spew out of its blowholes. We were all asked to stand back. Closing one blowhole for the last time, the laboured breathing continued from its remaining lung. Blood, thick and undiluted was now also leaking from the whale’s mouth.
There were now stronger movements of agitation. Not good signs.
Such a graceful mover in the water, the whale was now completely helpless and dying.
“It was only nature taking its natural course.” I thought, trying to reassure myself.
The cycle of life was coming to an end for this gentle, yet immense creature. It was still hard to witness, and harder to accept.
“It’s not looking good.” exclaimed one of the DoC Rangers.
“If it dies, it will provide weeks of food for others in the food chain and likely be all but gone within a few months - consumed by the ocean’s cleaners.”
The young woman finally took a break. Turning over her bucket, she sat and was immediately struck with leg cramps. She stretched them out, then put her head into her hands and gave an exhausted sigh. I was also beginning to feel the emotional strain. In the space of a few minutes our task had gone from one of great hope, to providing comfort as the whale’s life ebbed away. It seemed neither tide nor our striving could make any difference now.
“It ought not to be this way.” I thought. But it was.
Though the wind had never let up all day, blue skies opened up above us as the cloud retreated to the western hills. With dusk and the tide fast approaching, we knew that soon we would have to abandon our efforts.
As the daylight faded, the giant creature somehow summoned the strength to roll over into an upright position. Everyone stood back - confused. Was there hope? Minutes passed, several breaths were taken and released, then after one inhalation, no exhalation followed. Gently, and with a quiet dignity, the whale died. Its struggle was over.
After a few moments, The DoC Rangers encouraged us to leave and so escape the incoming tide. It was almost dark now. Reluctant to go, I paused for a few moments before walking back to my car in silence. My heart was heavy, yet grateful. I now realised there was realistically nothing we could have done to change the outcome, but at least we had been able to provide comfort and relieve some stress from this great mammal in its final hours. Grateful too, it hadn’t been necessary to abandon the whale to die alone in the darkness and in silence.
I wondered how much it had sensed of our presence. Had it felt my hand on its body when I touched it. Or how it had interpreted the vibrations of being surrounded by humans as we kept our vigil of comfort? Though our battle had been lost, sitting in my car I felt an incredible sense of privilege at having crossed paths with this magnificent mammal. If my journey had been made even a couple of hours earlier, I would have passed by the area before the stranding and been none the wiser. Had my work week gone differently, I may have not have passed this way at all. A positive sense of fate came over me.
I thought about how almost unfathomably huge the natural world is, and this was just one tiny act among the millions that had taken place around the planet that day – both in the ocean and above it. This fragile place of habitation reflects so harmoniously the cycle of birth, life and death. What an honour it was to witness even one act in this perpetual drama.
I drove the last several kilometres to the campground, paid the manager for my site and collapsed into my sleeping bag in the back of my car, too tired to set up my tent. Yet I was unable to sleep. I lay staring out the window at the few stars strong enough to break through the layer of cloud.
I thought about the heightened level of adrenalin and sheer physical effort made by volunteers who attend strandings of perhaps dozens or even hundreds of smaller whales, for example.
In the hours of stranding between high tides, a bond develops between the rescuer and the one being rescued. The lifesavers, working in pairs or threes and taking care of a single whale are encouraged to touch them, talk to them, all the while keeping them as cool and upright as possible.
As I lay there, I imagined the euphoria of seeing your whale refloat on the high tide, the deliverer helping the one being delivered to get its bearings, before guiding it out towards the open ocean again, and freedom from the bonds of gravity.
Conversely, other lifesavers experience the pain and sadness of watching their whale die or have to be euthanised. Such intensity of hours. Such extremes of emotion. Such devotion.
Birdsong that I had never heard before woke me in the pre-dawn light the next morning.
“The natural world continues.” I thought looking out at the grey sky.
I dressed, made myself a cup of tea and watched clouds gather again, enveloping the farm hills to the west as they moved closer.
My route home would take me past the site of the previous evening’s drama and rain began to fall as I approached along the road. The tide was once again low. Looking seawards out over the sandy platform, the whale’s dark, solitary form was the only thing breaking the horizon between the grey skies and muted taupe sands. Such a lonely, desolate scene. I stopped the car where I had parked the evening before and decided to give my own quiet eulogy to this once mighty creature of the ocean. After all, it had given me so much.
I donned my wet weather gear and made the kilometre pilgrimage across the tidal platform to where its lifeless body lay. It was just the whale and me and I was glad of this.
As if preparing the whale for burial or its final journey, the night’s rain and high tide had cleansed the scene, washing all traces of blood away. Decomposition had begun, its underbelly that had been shiny and pristine white just 12 hours earlier, now dull and discoloured. The tail stock was already browning. Only the pectoral and tail fins had any resemblance of sheen to them. I stood at a respectful distance. It seemed right and proper to do this.
I was soon joined by the local farmer who had noticed the stranding the afternoon before as he herded his cows in for milking. He made a call to DoC, then carried on.
I told him that I had been here the previous evening as we tried to save the whale.
“What happens next? Will they try to find out why it died?” I asked.
“Don’t think so.” Came the reply.
“DoC plans to get a powerful boat in here on this afternoon’s high tide. They will hitch a chain to the tail and tow it further up the coast, tether it with an anchor so it doesn’t float away, and let nature do the rest. Up there on the inner side of the spit itself.” he said, pointing.
“Farewell Spit seemed a perfect final resting place, returning the great creature from whence it came. I hope kaumātua (Māori elder) would perform a karakia (prayer).” I thought. I thanked him and he carried on with his morning walk further out on the tidal platform heading south along its edge.
As I stood there, I wondered how far this great beast had travelled in its long life? How many of the world’s oceans had it inhabited? Or did it return to the same feeding grounds, perhaps around our coastlines every year? How many offspring had it sired and what was the response of the rest of its pod as it peeled away one last time, never to return?
The rain continued, heavier now. Puddles that had been easily negotiated on the walk out, were quickly filling up with water and everything was getting wetter by the minute. It was time to go. I looked towards the whale.
“Thank you. You have changed my life.” I said aloud, just as a strong gust of wind blew across me, scattering my words and nearly sending me off balance.
I weaved my way back between the puddles across the platform and towards the road.
I was almost back at the car, when as quickly as the rain had started, it stopped. A break in the clouds brought bright warm sunlight flooding all around me as if I was under a huge spotlight. Then the light moved, toward the solemn scene further out on the tidal platform.
I turned, my gaze drawn back towards the whale one last time.
Like the close of a soloist’s final recital, savouring those last few moments of audience applause and lit by a single spotlight, the whale appeared in silhouette and the water around it shone as bright as silver. I felt like I was in the very back row of a huge auditorium, applauding from a heart overflowing with gratitude as it took its final bow.
