August 20 -- It's 8:15 in the morning of our first day on the water. We've motored less than a mile out into the Bay of Antongil, mere minutes from camp on Nosy Mangabe, and here they are: Humpbacks.

This reward seems sudden and extreme. Despite months of preparation and days of travel, it's almost too much gratification too quickly.

"Mora, mora!" Howard instructs the two boatmen, telling them "slow, slow!" in their native Malagasy. We are virtually upon the whales. There are two groups of humpbacks, it appears -- one to our right and one left -- with two individuals in each.

Howard radios Gemini, a second research boat that is under his charge, to give our location and status. That team reports it can't come and help; they're already involved with another group of humpbacks somewhere off to the west.

"It's feast or famine," shrugs Howard with the nonchalance of one who's accustomed to feasting. Without hesitation, he picks a pair of humpbacks to follow, instructing the rest of us to "keep an eye out for the others."

This bay, about 50 miles long by 20 miles wide, is big. From the boat, it's not uncommon to detect humpback blows and breaches from as far as six miles away. At least one member of the research team is stationed daily atop a long-abandoned lighthouse -- an ideal vantage point from which to watch for surface activity and maintain radio contact with the working research boats.

The protective shoreline around the Bay of Antongil is sealed tight by rocky outcroppings and the thick tropical forest of the Masoala Peninsula. There is not the usual clutter of seaside dwellings; no boat traffic congests these waters. Virtually every sound and movement not originating on our boat indicates the presence of whales.

PFFFFFFFFFTTTT!

The spray of a blow is geyser-like. A V-shaped mist hangs in the air.

After taking an initial reading from the global positioning system (GPS) and recording it, we're off and running with this pair which is cruising along the glassy surface at a good clip -- about 15 mph.

"Tail! Tail! Tail!" Howard gives a heads-up to Yvette, his Malagasy research assistant of three seasons. She braces herself, ready with a lens-heavy Nikon to snap a series of photos as one of the whales arches in preparation to dive.

Howard is concerned with noting and recording the shapes of the glossy-black dorsal fins and the black and white patterned undersides of the flukes, as well as any other distinctive markings that will allow him to tell one individual apart from another and, ultimately, to assess this population.

Click, click, click, click. Suddenly, the pair is gone, leaving our 21-foot fiberglass boat bobbing in their substantial wake.

"Individual Number One has a rounded dorsal fin, and Two's is pointy," Howard observes. I nod in complete agreement, as if seeing these mammals up close for the first time hasn't so overwhelmed me that I can process anything more specific than their sheer size, power and grace.

In addition to taking photos, Yvette makes quick pencil sketchings of the fins and flukes of the two whales. Normally, a third person in the boat is a dedicated data recorder, charged with keeping meticulous notes about everything from our GPS readings to which photos correspond with which animal. Today, two non-members of the official expedition team are sharing that labor-intensive job: Andy Plumptre and Kate Hill who traveled here for a brief respite after the big primate party in the capital.

Andy, the assistant director of Africa programs for the Wildlife Conservation Society, has endeared himself to everyone because he came bearing chocolate.

"Andy, note the new position of the pair on the GPS at 9:02," Howard directs. "These guys are moving erratically," he adds, commenting on the fact that the two whales seem to dive and surface out of sync with each other. "Sometimes pairs can be difficult [to follow]."

"My Favorite Whale"

Howard directs the boatman to make approach after approach. In this case, it amounts to a game of cat-and-mouse across the bay. Shots showing the dorsal fins both from the right and left are snapped. Photos of the flukes are repeated. "Individual One has more of a white fluke and Two has more black marks," Howard says. "Did you notice the marking?"

It's more than a rhetorical question; there's no time for word play during field research. Everyone on this boat is expected to pitch in. Sometimes that means getting wet while retrieving a dart; sometimes it means scraping mold off the lunch cheese in the drybag; always it means staying alert.

Two other whales are coming close, seemingly to join up with our original group. "Let's keep an eye on this first group," Howard instructs. "It's important to pick out who's who; otherwise, it gets confusing when they all start to group up."

I doubt I could distinguish the whales we've identified as Individual One and Two from each other, let alone the new guys. But Howard actually recognizes one of the new individuals. In fact, he even has a name picked out for this animal: "Striations." Admittedly literal, it is fathoms more descriptive than "Individual Number Whatever".

"That's my favorite whale!" Howard blurts. I act appalled. Howard is opposed to anything that smacks of sentimental anthropomorphizing, which makes him an easy mark at times like this.

Howard smiles good-naturedly: "Do I personally like this whale more than all the other whales out there? No, but I love the intricate pattern on its flukes."

Howard says that he identified this same whale with photos and a biopsy sample two years ago. No need to do it again. "I'll show you this whale, Striations, in the 1996 catalogue when we get back to camp," he offers.

The other individuals are unknown. Howard readies a dart and sets his crossbow. Recognizing the animal that surfaces as Individual Two/Group One, he aims and shoots. The dart sails over the tail for which he was aiming. The data recorder dutifully writes: "Shot, no strike."

"That was a timing shot," he complains. "Sometimes they stick their flukes up high, sometimes low; based on how he arched his back, I thought he was going to stick it up high."

As if he has to make excuses: Think of your favorite Western, in particular the part when the hero is shooting from a standing position on a galloping horse. Granted, Howard's target is huge, but keep in mind that it travels vertical as well as horizontal.

DNA Darts

It's 9:20 and we're in pursuit again. Howard braces again, aims and makes a looooong shot, hitting his mark this time. The whale reacts to the biopsy dart with a low flick of his tail and dives. Howard guesses the dart bothers the whale about as much as a mosquito bite bothers us. The dart, which immediately bounces off the whale, bobs to the surface, and we circle to retrieve it.

Inside the hollow tip is a half-inch-long plug of tissue, the tip of which is black skin and the rest of which is white blubber. There is no blood. Using a tweezers that he sterilizes with a lighter, Howard extracts the sample and transfers it into a tube filled with preservative.

It won't be until after September, when he's finished collecting data, that he'll begin the far-more tedious job of cataloging and analyzing it all. The photos will go into the population album he's been compiling for three seasons. The tissue samples will yield DNA, genetic material from which individuals can be positively identified in terms of gender and family.

Eight hours and several groups of whales later, we arrive back at camp, soaked to the skin, exhilarated, exhausted. Howard pulls out the catalog, which numbers 225 individuals to date, and quickly flips to the page he wants. Sure enough, in black-and-white, there is Striations.

Even I recognize him.

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