The Whale Song Translation: A Voyage of Discovery To Neptune and Beyond (2 page)

“Mommy, look!” A freckled, red-haired girl near Dmitri pointed to twin geysers erupting from the sea. Like giant water pistols, they erased the precise V-shaped formation of a flock of jabbering cormorants.

“Don’t be alarmed, folks,” said the guide. “Humpbacks are air-breathing mammals who, remarkably, can hold their breath for up to forty-five minutes. They surface and exhale through their blowholes at speeds approaching three hundred miles per hour to generate the twenty-foot-high vapor plumes you just experienced. They’re called ‘blows.’ After they replenish the air supply in their lungs, each the size of a Volkswagen bug, they can dive for another ten to fifteen minutes. Since the blows are visible at great distances, they’re a surefire way to locate the pods.”

Dmitri’s thumbs played across the touch screen of his iPhone. He tapped Greg on the shoulder. “I just did a calculation about the breach.” He pointed to the numbers on the display. “It’s simple physics. The kinetic energy of the humpback exiting the water is the same as the potential energy of its body at the maximum height above the surface. Since I estimated its center of mass nearly twenty feet above the water, then its exit velocity is close to twenty-three miles per hour.”

“Very cool,” Greg replied with a sly smile. “Amazing what engineers can discover using basic algebra.”

“So here’s the punch line,” Dmitri went on. “If the whale is about forty tons, then it only takes him a fraction of the time to accelerate to the same speed as a fully-loaded eighteen-wheeler.”

“I’m impressed.” A heavy-set, middle-aged woman stood next to him. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.” Smiling, she removed her big-brimmed straw hat and waved it in the air. She would have smacked Dmitri in the face, but he ducked. “Excuse me,” she singsonged at the guide, “but I believe the gentleman next to me has something interesting to share.” She pointed directly at Dmitri, who slipped behind Greg.

“No need to be shy, sir,” said the guide in a teasing tone.

With urging from a few bystanders, Dmitri submitted to his fate and repeated the story to his fellow passengers. The shared discovery was greeted by oohing and aahing. Greg turned the bill of a blue L.A. Dodgers baseball cap backward and launched into an exuberant fan’s display of handclapping and shrill whistling. His enthusiasm was contagious. The crowd roared.

The guide grimaced and thrust his hands skyward. However, he couldn’t resume until the celebration had passed. In a half-hearted tone, he said, “Very impressive, sir. Most folks on a Hawaiian holiday leave their calculators at home. This is the first time anyone on my tour ever put a Bill Nye spin on the physics of whales.”

Already embarrassed by the scattered laughter, Dmitri turned to see the guide staring directly at him, eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry for the interruption.”

“No problem.” The guide brandished the megaphone with an authoritative flair. “I—” His words were swamped by a collective outcry. Like a giant periscope, a whale’s head slowly emerged straight up out of the sea until its eyes were a foot above the water line. Then it rotated a full one-hundred-eighty degrees to scan the boat, like a submarine commander searching for friend or foe.

“The whales seem to enjoy studying us as much as we study them,” said the guide. “This type of head display is known as a spy hop
.”

Another humpback surfaced, circling the vessel, getting closer and closer, until it finally snuggled up to the starboard side. When the whale began to rub its backside against the hull, a dissonant mix of shrieks and laughter abounded around the upper deck. Animated hands reached in vain to touch the gregarious giant. After a brief massage, it backed away, rolled languorously on its side, and extended its fifteen-foot pectoral fin toward the boat. It tilted its head with an eye open, appearing to look up at everyone on board.

“See,” announced the guide. “This boat’s no more than a scratching post for the mighty cetaceans.”

The red-haired girl waved her arm and hopped in place. “What’s a citation?”

The guide summoned up a grin. “That’s a very good question, young lady.” He gazed only at her, as if addressing a VIP. “Cetaceans are the dozens of species of large, air-breathing marine mammals, including whales, dolphins, and porpoises.” Reengaging with his audience, he said, “In recent years, many humpback whales in this population have approached boats for friendly encounters. Such behavior has increased each year. It might be because of the relatively recent national and international bans on hunting humpbacks. These new generations of whales have never known whaling. They’re curious and they initiate contact. They often stay for several hours, investigating.”

The girl’s eyes were huge as she listened.

Dmitri raised a hand. “It strikes me that their behavior indicates an extremely inquisitive mindset, not to mention the fact that cetaceans have, by far, the largest advanced brains in the solar system. Has anyone attempted to signal back to them during these encounters?”

The guide crossed his arms and clutched the megaphone like a shield. “There was one occasion when everyone on board started to dance the Macarena, which resulted in the whale splashing them.”

He drawled the last few words.

The snickers swirled around Dmitri like the buzz of bees. He fumed, not accustomed to being the butt of a public joke, particularly when perpetrated by a cocky alpha male. Seeing Greg’s concerned expression, he realized he’d better count to ten in an effort to calm himself.

“Seriously, folks,” the guide continued. “The typical reaction is to wave back and shout greetings. Moving along now, the humpbacks have the most diverse repertoire of filter-feeding methods of all baleen whales. Their most inventive technique is known as bubble-net feeding. A group of up to a dozen whales blow bubbles while swimming in circles to create a ring. The ring of bubbles, sometimes a hundred feet in diameter, encircles the fish, which are confined in an ever-tighter area. The whales swim in smaller and smaller circles until suddenly they burst upward through the bubble net, their mouths wide open, swallowing hundreds of fish in one gulp. Some of the whales dive deeper to drive fish toward the surface while others herd fish into the net by vocalizing.”

A gum-chewing, teen-aged girl raised her hand. In the span of a few seconds, a volley of expanding purple spheres emerged from the space between her lips.

Dmitri stage whispered into his companion’s ear. “Humpbacks aren’t the only intelligent species with the mastery to blow bubbles.” Greg’s trademark sign of approval, puckered lips and a thumbs-up sign, more than offset the nearby straw hat lady’s “Shh!” of rebuke.

“My boyfriend gave me an iPod download of whale songs for my birthday,” said the bubblegum girl. She popped a headphone bud from her ear and raised it above her head. “I’m listening to them right now. They’re so cool.”

“Thank you,” said the guide. “As this young lady just reminded us, a humpback’s haunting melodies can last for fifteen to twenty minutes. Some singers have been observed repeating the song cycle for a symphony lasting longer than twenty-four hours. Those of a particular region, like the North Atlantic, all sing the same song while the humpbacks of the North Pacific sing another. Each population’s song changes slowly over a period of years, never returning to the same sequence of notes.”

The guide waved up to the pilothouse. He was answered by an amplified broadcast of the song of the humpback. He closed his eyes and paused, his head scarf rippling in the breeze. With a lilting rhythm, he said, “Reminds me of a rhapsody, filling the air with grace.” As if on cue, another cetacean missile blasted into the sky, igniting the crowd once again.

“Happens all the time,” the guide intoned serenely, quieting the clamor. “Scientists are still unsure about the purpose of these songs. Only male humpbacks sing. Some have speculated that this indicates a high level of intelligence. It’s still a great mystery. If you’re interested, we have recordings produced by our own marine biologists for sale. Are there any more questions?”

Despite the guide’s earlier pushback, Dmitri felt emboldened. “Have you ever broadcast a Beethoven symphony or a Verdi aria from underwater speakers during these recording sessions?”

Before the naturalist could reply, a gravelly voice shouted, “Hey, professor, what I heard was they played a Snoop Dogg recording, and the whales swiveled back and forth to the rhythm.”

Greg responded to the deluge of raucous laughter. “As Cicero once observed, ‘Nothing is more fickle than the favor of the crowd.’”

Dmitri, however, was lost in his own thoughts and paid no heed to the commotion. He raised a hand once again, arousing numerous groans. “Everything you’ve described suggests these are very intelligent creatures: their songs, the cooperative behavior of the bubble nets, their big brains, and their curiosity.” He paused and exhaled a nervous chuckle. “Do you know if—?”

Before he could finish, the boat was jolted by another breach, this time by a three-ton calf.

“Sir,” the guide interrupted. “I’m running behind on my presentation. If you have more questions, I suggest you consult with our director, Christopher Gorman, at the PICES office.”

Dmitri tapped Greg on the shoulder. “Remember the screaming headlines in the morning paper about dead whales washing up on local beaches?”

“How can I forget?”

“The article was about Gorman. In our last email exchange, he mentioned he had big problems. I expect we’ll get the straight scoop, since I’m invited to his office in a couple of hours.”

Greg shook his head. “Like you just said, they’re his problems, not yours.”

Despite Greg’s warnings, Dmitri remained resolute, keenly aware that destiny was quickening, moving him purposely toward some unknown destination.

“Jesus!” Greg’s jolting cry mingled with an onslaught of chilling screams. Dmitri spun around, hard to starboard, guided by many outstretched arms pointing just a rod’s cast distance from the boat. A blot of crimson, like the giant red spot on Jupiter, bubbled up from the depths, spreading away from its center like a biblical plague.

“Oh, my God!” It was the guide’s megaphone-amplified voice.

A juvenile humpback emerged from a scarlet stain on the water, blood oozing from every orifice in its head.

A
C
ETACEAN
C
ONVERSATION

Kihei, Maui—early afternoon

With the PICES tour boat back in port, Dmitri and Greg disembarked down a narrow gangway, swept forward by the crush of somber tourists.

“What caused that awful bleeding?” asked Greg.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Shark attack? I’ll ask Gorman. You can browse the mall while you’re waiting. Maybe you’ll find a Hawaiian shirt to add to your collection?”

“I changed my mind.” Greg’s expression had turned sheepish.

“Huh?”

“After the sight of that poor humpback, I’m curious about Gorman’s take on the recent whale mayhem.”

“It would be great to have you along.” Dmitri could not have been more surprised. Until this moment, Greg had consistently lobbied against “Dmitri’s whale fixation.” Greg accepted his offered fist tap.

The headquarters of the Pacific Institute for Cetacean Educational Studies was a short stroll away from the boat harbor. They approached a bustling waterfront shopping complex, an eclectic medley of tourist shops and small business offices. After passing through an arched gateway framed by the faces of hand-carved Tiki gods and jagged lava rocks, they entered a central courtyard.

“It’s tropical geometry. It’s gorgeous.” Greg’s voice gushed above the soothing sounds of a natural rock waterfall.

“Tropical geometry” was the mathematical basis of Google’s search algorithms. Accustomed to Greg’s esoteric puns, Dmitri’s eyes imbibed the riotous colors of the equatorial landscaping. Lush beds of red and purple bougainvillea, white and yellow ginger, ferns and birds of paradise fringed the curving flagstone pathways. A grove of coconut palms cast wisps of shade upon a ring of benches and a chorus of merry mynah birds rained down from the branches.

As the enclosed courtyard blocked the ocean breeze, Dmitri wilted under the intensity of the early afternoon sun, his skin clammy beneath a flowery shirt. When he opened the PICES front door, the chilled air in the visitor’s lobby washed over him. “What a relief.” He sighed.

Dmitri approached the good-looking, fortyish woman seated at the front desk, her arms and face as bronzed as the models in tanning salon ads. “Why does everyone in Maui look so healthy and attractive?”

“It’s the passion fruit,” she replied.

At a loss for a clever comeback, Dmitri shifted to business. “We’re here for a one o’clock meeting with Director Gorman.”

“We’re not very titular.”

Dmitri stared blankly, making a supreme effort to maintain eye contact and not let his gaze drift down to her plunging neckline.

“To us locals, he’s just Chris,” she added with a wink, then ushered them through another door and into an inner office.

Gorman sat at his desk, pecking at a computer keyboard with a couple of fingers. “Just give me a few seconds,” he mumbled.

Dmitri and Greg took the opportunity to browse the photographs of whales and dolphins decorating the walls. Gorman was a renowned undersea photographer. Dmitri scrutinized one photo with such intensity that his breath fogged the glass frame.