“Are we going to see whales today, Auntie Mel?” my godson asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet as we stepped onto the dock.
“I hope so,” I said, smiling at him. “But remember, these are wild animals. They show up when they want to. We have to be patient and respectful.”
His mom — my best friend — laughed. “He’s been counting down the days since breakfast. I think he’s ready to dive in after them if he could!”
We set off on a warm fall morning aboard Kula, a semi-covered vessel perfectly suited for a day of adventure on the Salish Sea. Low winds and calm waters made for ideal conditions. The mist was lifting, revealing the copper and gold hues of early fall along the coast, and the air carried the unmistakable tang of salt and cedar. Excitement hummed between us as we headed toward Snake Island, the first spot our captain suggested.
The waters were quiet at first. We scanned the shoreline and nearby coves, eyes searching for the telltale mist of a whale’s blow. My godson pressed his face against the railing, whispering, “Do whales make bubbles when they breathe?”
“Yes!” I said. “Humpbacks do. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can hear them exhale before you see them.”
As we moved south along Gabriola Island toward the open Strait of Georgia, the first signs of life appeared in the form of seabirds darting and diving over the water. Their frantic movements hinted at a rich underwater buffet — always a good sign that whales might be near. Soon after, we passed Stinky Rocks, where a haul-out of Steller Sea Lions lounged on the exposed rocks, jostling for space. The massive pinnipeds, sun-warmed and vocal, made us laugh as they argued over the prime spots.
Then, our captain made a sharp turn. Everyone leaned forward. Moments later, dark misty plumes erupted across the horizon. We had stumbled into a humpback hotspot — a feeding zone alive with energy. Humpbacks had migrated thousands of kilometres to feast here, preparing for their journey south to tropical breeding grounds.
“Look! There!” my godson shouted, pointing as a massive tail fluked gracefully out of the water.
Humpbacks were everywhere: Uluka, Neowise, Twinning, and the one I had been most eager to see — Malachite. They rolled, breached, and lunged, each movement powerful yet graceful, sending spray into the crisp air. I watched my godson’s jaw drop, his hands gripping the railing, eyes wide with pure wonder.
Then the moment we’d all been waiting for — and the one that would stay with me forever — happened. Malachite, curious and bold, glided straight toward Kula. My heart skipped a beat. The water rippled around the approaching giant as it drew nearer and nearer.
“Oh my gosh!” my godson whispered, voice trembling. “It’s right there! We could almost touch it!”
We froze, mesmerized. Malachite came so close that we could see the texture of its skin, the subtle scars that told a story of years spent navigating the open ocean. Its eye, dark and intelligent, seemed to linger on us for a heartbeat. The whale exhaled, sending a misty plume over the bow that cooled our sun-warmed faces. My friend’s hand flew to her mouth, eyes shining with amazement, and I found myself holding my breath, caught between awe and exhilaration.
Malachite lingered, circling near the boat with a gentle curiosity that felt almost intimate. Every movement was slow, deliberate, and filled with a quiet intelligence. The whale’s presence commanded the water, the air, and our hearts. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, Malachite dipped gracefully beneath the surface and rejoined the pod, leaving us breathless, laughing, and shaking our heads in disbelief.
For the next hour, we drifted with the pod, taking in the sights and sounds of these majestic animals. Humpbacks lunged and rolled, calves practiced curious acrobatics, and the rhythmic misty blows echoed in the still air. My godson peppered me and my friend with questions: “Do they sleep? Can they see us? How do they eat so much?”
“It’s okay to be curious,” I said. “They have their own world, just like we do. But sometimes, our worlds touch — like today.”
We paused for lunch on deck, sharing sandwiches and quiet reflections, while the whales continued their feeding frenzy nearby. Each sighting was a reminder of the resilience of these animals, a population once on the brink of extinction now thriving thanks to protection and conservation. Seeing them up close — and seeing Malachite approach — reinforced the fragile power of the natural world, and our small but meaningful place within it.
Later, as we made our way home, the fall light turned the coastline to fire and gold. Polier Pass and Dodd Narrows offered a dramatic finale of swirling currents and towering rock walls, while California Sea Lions greeted us with boisterous calls at Harmac log booms. We waved goodbye to the wildlife, carrying with us the stillness and magic of the day.
My godson fell asleep on the ride home, exhausted from excitement, while my friend and I quietly recounted the day’s highlights. I reflected on the extraordinary privilege of sharing such a moment with them: witnessing awe through the eyes of a child, marveling alongside a lifelong friend, and feeling, for just a few hours, completely immersed in the wild beauty of the Salish Sea.
That evening, we reviewed our photos. Malachite’s near-approach dominated the frame, a frozen moment of connection between human and whale. My godson pointed at the image, whispering, “Look! It’s smiling at me again!”
“Yes,” I said softly. “And so are we.”
As I lay in bed later that night, I thought about the rhythm of life around us — the whales returning season after season, the migrations of sea lions, the enduring bonds between friends and family. There are days that feel impossibly full, moments that are both fleeting and eternal, and today had been one of them. A day when the world felt vast, wild, and alive — and our hearts felt equally expanded.
