August 7, 2024
Dominica
January 2023
Herman Melville’s mid-19th-century novel immortalized the figure of the sperm whale. And while interpretations of the story may vary, this leviathan of the deep generally symbolized the raw power and ferocity of nature. Growing up with little knowledge of the whales themselves, I imagined the jagged teeth and aggressive nature of the animals solely based on the story.
The iconic shape of these whales has become synonymous with coastal New England. You don’t have to venture far in Mystic, Cape Cod, or Nantucket before spotting a nod to them in a restaurant, on a street sign, or on a bumper sticker. Whaling museums, state animal designations, and sculptures all reveal a clear historical connection between the animal and the region where I grew up. Whether this reflects an acknowledgement of the whales for their role in the development of these coastal cities, a recognition of their plight today, or just a curiosity about Melville’s marine menace, I decided I had to see firsthand what makes the species so special.
In January 2023, I set off on my first trip to bring my camera underwater. In my true last-minute fashion, I used a friend’s pool the day before my flight to ensure the camera housing was airtight, become comfortable with the gear underwater, and convince myself I was ready. The obvious reality is that half an hour in the pool would be like jogging around the block once to prepare for a race. But it was something.
Sperm whales are found throughout the world’s oceans, but there are a few locations where sightings are regular. Dominica is one of those places. It’s a small, lush island of about 70,000 people, positioned between Guadeloupe and Martinique in the Lesser Antilles. Its waters are home to the Eastern Caribbean Clan of whales, a resident group of between 200 and 300 individuals. The goal: to capture the essence of an animal far larger than anything I had photographed before.
I’ve often been drawn to what’s different. These whales are not the ballerinas that humpbacks are, with their large pectoral fins that slowly dance and twirl in the water. Sperm whales are more akin to submarines or torpedoes. They are the largest toothed predators in the world, with dark gray bodies growing up to 80 feet long. Their tiny pectoral fins look unfit for purpose, often flush against the body to create a streamlined shape ready to head into the depths. Sperm whales are not the singers that humpbacks are either. They communicate with clicks, creating machine-like sequences known as codas. Ongoing research in Dominica is revealing that these exchanges could be built from a phonetic alphabet, similar to the structure of human language.
When I arrived on the island, I found myself on the tail end of a nasty virus and ear infection I had picked up from a recent trip to Japan. Drugged up on antibiotics and anxious about the day ahead, I remember trying to clear my ears in the morning and getting hit with a shooting pain through my head that caused me to lose my balance completely. I wobbled up the stairs to get to the car for our drive to the boat, unsure how the rest of the trip would play out. At first, the sea air on the boat seemed to help. But after my first drop into the water, a combination of saltwater intake, fumes from the boat, and whatever my body was fighting caused me to remove my snorkel and throw up underwater. A stellar start to the adventure as I paid my dues to the sea. But the sea would end up repaying me.
The majority of encounters in the water are casual passings. You position yourself ahead of the path of the animals before they swim by and continue on their way. But my first two days were graced with rarer events. I knew I was fortunate; I just didn’t realize how fortunate. “You had two, once-a-year days in a row,” my guide told me. We were graced with the coveted encounters with this species—sleeping and socialization.
Sperm whales rest for only around 15 minutes each day, making the probability of witnessing this behavior incredibly slim. They sleep vertically, floating not too far below the surface in a scene that would be right at home in a science-fiction movie. These quiet, relaxed moments are surreal. You're swimming next to bodies larger than most on the planet—larger than anything you've been near before. Motionless, but very much alive.
Socialization events are on the opposite end of the spectrum. They occur when members within a social unit or even between different units meet at the surface. The animals rub their heads and bodies against each other, twirling in an energetic whale pile, creating a cacophony of clicks to communicate as they forge social bonds with one another.
It’s hardly synchronized—and that’s what makes it perfect.
When you first submerge yourself in the water and look down, you see nothing but blue. You hear the clicks of the animals, but you’re surrounded by endless water stretching in every direction. Then, shapes begin to emerge—figures the size of buses. But these buses are alive.
Their eyes follow you as they pass. They click you inside-out, but only to make sense of you—expressions of the same curiosity that you hold for them.
It all seems fanciful, and it’s hard not to feel moved beyond just physically by the current of water they forge. This is not an exhibit where the animals are on display. It’s a shared moment in their domain. A realization that maybe you have far more in common than you initially thought.
Melville’s man-versus-beast narrative is soon quashed.
-EK
8/7/24
