With Beaufort 0 conditions it is a still-air-calm-water
kind of day when Swarovski binocs reveal
the whole world and you can hear those Steller sea lions’
watery huffs from a half-mile away. It is easy to confuse them
for the sounds for a small group of killer whales. The flukes
and spouts of humpbacks are sharp against the sfumato of blues
the sea and sky are dyeing today. A dorsal fin
like a overturned keel cuts amidst the flurry of seabirds
and humpback whales: the orcas are here. The whales
scatter and forage, active surface behavior you could say.
Binoculars, telephoto, get out any lens to see more clearly.
Look, here come some individuals with a very small calf
tucked alongside them: our little deity that we worshiped
in the news of a declining population. But no, this calf
is small, emaciated, lumpy and skinny, not that healthy
baby to a new mother that we rejoiced:
Ballena, you are biblical. But where are you?
Who is this surrogate who carries your little girl
draped across her rostrum for you? Who carries this message
down the side of the boat, sinking our hearts,
jiggling the calf as if desperately trying to revive it?
Look, zoom in on what we’ve done.
L128, unnamed one, where is your hum,
your young terror, joy, all of it splicing
through the water we heard into our hydrophones.
We are losing the love of our water
lives so soon.
The calf takes a faint breath
and returns to her side.
It is time to end
the encounter.
—
Hannah Martin is a poet, former naturalist, and cold-water enthusiast living by the Salish Sea.
