September 4 -- We're on the Gemini today, a hard-bottomed inflatable boat. At 12-feet in length, it's shorter than the distinct flipper from which the humpback derives its Latin name, Megaptera, (which means "big wing"). But what the Gemini lacks in size, it makes up for in speed and maneuverability.

Our pilot, Beatrice Be Noel, straddles the controls, mid-craft. We're speeding low and loud across Antongil Bay, and Beatrice, scowling, could easily be riding a Harley. Except that he's wearing a yellow rainsuit and flip-flops.

Compared to us, however, the other research boats are city buses. We leave them in the fog.

Yvette Razafindrakoto is captain of the Gemini today. She controls the global positioning system, radio and crossbow, and also directs the activities of a crew of two: Kevin Frey, who is taking identification photos, and me. In order to secure myself a seat on this boat, I offered to pitch in and record data -- hard scientific fact -- as opposed to the usual quotes, impressions and descriptions. If I was a step removed from the actual research before, I'm a member of the gang, now.

Per Yvette's directions, I dutifully record the weather: "Beaufort zero; clouds 90 percent." What I want to write is that it's impossible to delineate sky from this undulating puddle we call Antongil Bay. I'd also add a personal footnote: that I'm dubious that we'll be able to detect any spray in this all-gray seascape. But even if there was space for editorializing in the slim, waterproof logbook, surely the nub of pencil I've been allotted would not allow it.

I flip back through the previous entries, eager to learn the lingo. The bulk of this job is recording which frame of what photo corresponds to whose fluke or dorsal fin. Hopefully, when Howard goes back to his cubicle of an office in New York with a gazillion black and white photos of flukes that need to be cataloged, it'll all make sense. Somehow.

Spouts in the Distance

Yvette and Kevin flank Beatrice. Braced in with belts and clutching lines tied to the boat, they stand for a better perspective of the bay. Yvette is heavy lidded from far too little sleep. Still, she is alert enough to detect a bushy spout in the distance, near the west shore of the bay.

It's 9:15 a.m. I fumble through my jacket pocket for the pencil. All I feel are hard, round candies. (The data taker also doubles as bon-bon attendant; talk about being burdened with responsibility ... ).

Do I begin recording now?

Soon, Yvette assures. First, we have to determine who comprises the group before we officially begin working it.

She is concentrating on counting sprays to determine the number of these still-distant whales. It's not as easy as it sounds. Humpbacks in their breeding grounds usually blow three to six times between dives, swimming all the while. When I see five blows, is it five animals? Or 10? Or one animal on the move, in between dives?

Kevin announces with authority that there are five whales, and I have no reason to doubt him. Or maybe six, he hedges.

Great. This pencil has no eraser.

Yvette, I notice, is scribbling in a logbook that looks identical to mine. I panic. Am I missing something here? I slosh over to her side of the boat and peer over her shoulder. She's drawing dorsal fins.

In my logbook, I sketch dorsal fins that look surprisingly similar to hers. Hey, this is fun.

"S.A.G." Kevin says to me.

"What?"

"Surface Active Group."

"Right."

GRP1, SAG, MN6.

We're cookin' now. Except that my pencil point just broke.

Collision Course

Kevin, I notice, is having equipment problems of his own. The frame of his glasses is in pieces; he pulls a used piece of duct tape off of one of the equipment cases piled on the floor of the boat and makes due. He begins clicking photos of the left side of the dorsal fin of Individual One. In the logbook his activity reads: "LDFs of I1."

I shove the broken point back into the pencil and make due.

Yvette is serene at the center of this storm. Already, she has a handle on who's who: Individual One has a notch on his dorsal fin; Individual Two has the biggest dorsal fin; Three has white spots on his dorsal fin; Four has a reddish slash on his dorsal fin; Five ... I forget what Five has; but Six has a white streak on his dorsal fin.

Suddenly, Beatrice gives a nervous laugh. He has steered our boat precisely where the group has chosen to surface. Individual Two's tail and the Gemini are on a collision course.

Yvette barely raises her eyebrows.

Yvette recalls her first time out with whales, back in 1996 during Howard's first season here. She recalls the boat pilots were petrified when they got this close to a whale for the first time. She was too, she admits now -- quietly, of course. She remembers how the Malagasy pilots prompted her to be the one to tell Howard that it was time to turn around and go back to Nosy Mangabe.

She told Howard nothing, of course. Nor did she let on to the boat pilots how frightened she was.

Now, she directs Beatrice to keep after Individual Two, who appears to be either the primary escort or the challenger, with Individual One being the focal animal. Yvette sets her crossbow, aims and shoots. The biopsy dart connects with and bounces off the moving target, just like it should. When Beatrice wheels around to retrieve it, we see there is no sample inside.

I write: "Biopsy I2. Strike no take; reaction low tail flick."

Yvette readies another dart, dousing it in alcohol. Again, she shoots. This time, I write: "Biopsy I2, no strike." In other words, she missed.

We collect our dart and play catch up with the whale group that appears to be swimming with a destination in mind: somewhere due south, down the coast. Antarctica?

Kevin's hat blows off. Beatrice turns hard and Kevin snags it out of a swell.

Do I need to record a course change?

Again, Yvette shoots. I write: "Biopsy I2, shot, strike, small take." She picks mere flecks of black skin out of the bolt with a tweezers and saves them in a specimen bottle. It is, however, probably enough for Howard's DNA analysis.

Now, we're after Individual One, the focal animal with the notched dorsal fin. Just when her tail fluke is pointing straight up, Yvette gets a shot off. Strike! The dart hits and bounces off. We collect it: No take.

I want to write about what a great shot it was and describe Yvette's persistence in the face of adversity, but the page on which I am writing is smudged by splashes. My neat printing has devolved into scrawl. The wind is up; there are whitecaps now. All of a sudden, our group appears to be splitting: where's Individual Three? How about Individual Five?

Yvette says something about a new group and Individual Eight and Individual Nine.

Kevin is snapping series of photos and all I am writing is I? I? I? I? I?

Individual Who?

And then we lose a dart. And then we break a dart. And then we have engine problems.

It's just another cold, clinical, unemotional day of conducting whale science. You can read all about it in my little yellow logbook.

Previous Report     Next Report