September 18 -- Today, it's just Howard and me on the boat, with two yawning pilots. The scientist has his camera along, but no crossbow. I have neither official reporter's pad, nor the little yellow whale log with my doodling of dorsal fins. We have a water bottle between us, but no lunch. This is an impromptu research outing, to be sure.

We are on our way from the mainland back to Nosy Mangabe to clean up, to pack, to move out. We need to break down camp; stow away solar panels and satellite phones; put the coughing generator out of its misery, once and for all. We need to find plane tickets and passports, long ago stuffed away in the mildewed pockets of backpacks.

Despite our to-do lists, neither of us (much to the pilots' chagrin) can resist diverting the boat off its straight course toward Nosy Mangabe and looping around Antongil Bay for one last look.

Last night, Howard rented out the Calypso, the only disco in Maroantsetra, to celebrate the official end of another successful season of whale science, a season that saw researchers and volunteers and students and journalists weather a tropical depression, malfunctioning equipment, seasickness, sleeplessness and frayed nerves. And we came out on the other side not only smiling -- but dancing.

Howard extended an invitation to all the workshop students, research team members, Project Masoala office staff and sundry support people. A local hotel owner was in fine spirits even though he knew that Paula and I had allowed all the Peace Corps girls to take turns using the hot-water showers in our rooms; their first in several months.

There was lots of loud Malagasy music and smooth island nectar. The establishment's homemade rum coco, rum vanille and lychee rum flowed freely as did Madagascar's own Three Horse Beer. (If it wasn't funny before, it was hysterical last night that "whistle while you work" in Malagasy is: Asa atao ankira toa vita tsy natao. And did you know that the proper way to stop a Malagasy bus, in case you need to get off and relieve yourself, is to announce: Olombelona tsy akoho, which translates to: "I am not a chicken"? Maybe you had to be there.)

I'd never seen the boat pilots wearing anything but tattered shorts and greasy rain gear. But last night, they turned out in their best duds: stiff blue jeans and clean T-shirts. White Nikes blazed under the mirror ball. Everyone smelled of soap and after-shave instead of petrol and fish. Howard, who I never saw relax for two successive moments while on Nosy Mangabe, had the happiest feet of anyone on the dance floor.

Right about now, though, he is itching to follow the whales on their annual migration. One of these years, he hopes to begin satellite tracking them in addition to taking photographs and obtaining biopsy samples. My hopes are simpler: I want to see just one more spray; a farewell. It's hard to believe that just weeks ago, this place was hopping with humpbacks. Now, nothing.

Howard radios a local fisherman a couple kilometers away: Where are the whales, he wants to know? The fisherman hasn't seen any, he admits, and then he asks Howard if, when he comes back next season, he could bring along a book about shrimping techniques.

These waters are still; apparently empty of their most raucous inhabitants.

Twice this season, Howard conducted aerial surveys of Antongil Bay. A few weeks ago, the team counted 40 whales, including five mother-calf pairs. The latest survey, a week ago, was eye opening: They glimpsed a single whale. They think.

As winter turns to spring here in the Southern Hemisphere, the humpbacks are returning to their feeding grounds. Howard wishes he could know exactly who's going where, and when.

Most likely, they are heading from Antongil Bay deep into the Indian Ocean. From here, it's a straight shot south to Antarctica.

The good part is, they'll be back: Individuals One and Two; the focal animal and the primary escort; the breacher and the singer; the mother and the calf; Howardina and Dear John; Striations and Octavius. And Howard, too.

Taona ho avy! (Next year!)

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