SA Guide: Dana Headlands Rocks

What is it about whales that is so endlessly fascinating?

Laura and I have been doing so much hiking and camping lately that it had been probably six months since the last time I'd taken my kayak out for a spin. But the weather was warming up, and I'd heard that several species of whale had been spotted off of our coast in recent days, so I decided it was past time to do a little paddling.

I set off from Doheny Beach hoping I hadn't forgotten anything important, either a piece of gear or a particular skill. But it didn't take very long before I found that familiar, almost meditative, rhythm that makes paddling offshore so enjoyable for me. I like flat water, don't get me wrong, but there's some sort of synergy that happens when steadily blading the water, constantly weight-shifting, feeling the sea through your boat - all in the context of wave-trains and changing surface topography - that I can only call communion.

Of course this being my first paddle in a long time there were stretches that felt a little bit more like punishment, but I made my usual trip to the rocks off the point in the normal time, so I took a quick break in the kelp beds for a drink and an orange before expecting to resume my usual routine.

That's when I heard them. I thought I'd imagined some noises behind me earlier, but this time I knew it was not imaginary. It was clearly the sound of an animal coming up for air. I suspected it was a sea lion fairly close (they had returned to all their usual spots on the buoys, as well as now taking over the end of the breakwater).

But it wasn't the sound of a sea lion. I finally swiveled my gaze far enough to catch sight of a spout about fifty yards to the south...then another one, and this time the distinctive arched back of a diving humpback whale. Shortly the two appeared again, not far from their previous location just on the edge of the kelp, and this made me think they might be hanging around fishing, or just playing.

Soon they reappeared heading in the opposite direction, toward shore. Clearly they were in no hurry, and I could finally see that one was pretty big and the other significantly smaller, very likely a mother and calf. I followed as closely as I could given their penchant for doubling back and, even in such a leisurely mood, moving so powerfully through the water.

At one point they surfaced between me and the rocks at about 20 yards - close enough that I could make out barnacles and abrasions on the larger one's dorsal ridge. I was even lucky enough to catch the calf performing a fin slap before both turned around and quickly put some distance between us again. I sat for a while - watching their spouts as a sea lion crossed my bow and a cormorant surfaced too close for his own comfort - and wondered why it had taken me so long to get back out. 

Eventually I noticed that the whales seemed to be circling around the kelp, and I wondered, somewhat self-importantly, if my presence was disturbing them. So I figured it was time to paddle in the rocks a bit, secretly hoping they'd return to the kelp beds with me no longer there. But they took off eastward toward the breakwater, and all thoughts of reef play were lost as I left in pursuit. I followed them for another twenty minutes or so, but without any good sightings. It seems they were through with whatever games or delicacies had held their attention. I saw their spouts just once more about halfway along the breakwater, before they rigged for silent running, and were gone for good.

Having followed whales and dolphins a couple of times before, I recognized the little stab of sadness that accompanies their departure. The emotion following such an encounter always seems to include a slightly regretful component, something along the lines of, "I'm so interested in them, why aren't they interested in me?"

The fact is, they really didn't care about me at all. Perhaps that's part of what makes them so fascinating.