Whale of a Job

Laurie is a science and environmental journalist and author. She wrote the Sally Ride Science book Our Changing Climate: The Oceans.

I am very lucky that I have been able to spend so much of my life on or near the ocean. It’s always been my favorite place to be—no contest.

For nearly ten years I was part of a team of researchers studying the North Atlantic right whale. These giants are some of the most endangered animals in the world--they got their name because they were long considered the "right" whale to hunt. Despite more than 60 years of protection, there are still only about three hundred of them left in the entire North Atlantic. Every year, in the deepest part of the winter, a sizable portion of that struggling population swims into Cape Cod Bay. Mothers come into these sheltered waters with their young calves to nurse, adults gather in “social groups,” and if all is right with the world, everyone feeds on thick swarms of zooplankton, patches of tiny copepod crustaceans so dense they turn those cold dark waters bright orange. And when the whales were in the bay, we would head out there every day we could to meet them—to photograph and identify individuals and observe their behavior. My particular job was to try to learn more about what exactly they were eating and help gather any clues about how they found that food.

It was cold out there. Really cold. Often our cruises would start before first light, and we wouldn’t get back to our harbor mooring until well after sunset. We worked off an old lobster boat, the Halos, that was smaller than most of the whales we were studying. Some mornings we had to scrape the ice off the decks. For this job, understanding the perfect combination of work gear was an essential skill to acquire. Knowing just the right recipe made all the difference: layers of thermal underwear, and sweatpants, two or three pairs of socks (maybe with a little cayenne pepper sprinkled in between the layers for extra heat), thick woolen fingerless gloves over lightweight nylon liners, mufflers and sweaters and balaclavas, and over everything, great big fluorescent water-resistant thermal overalls that looked just like a little kid’s bulky snowsuit. When you were finally fully dressed and ready for work, the only part of you showing would be your eyes and the bridge of your nose.

Except for the whales and us, it was completely deserted out there that time of year. On calm days when we weren’t having any luck sighting whales, we would cut the engine and drift for a while. We would silently wait, just listening. Eventually, we might hear the low whoosh as a whale exhaled after coming up from a long dive. There were times when we could hear the blows all around us, without ever seeing a single animal. We would pick out the sound of one powerful deep breath among many, and head off in that direction. Miles away, we would find them.

Being out there with the whales that time of year was an absolutely wonderful, absolutely beautiful, absolutely brutal experience. As far as I’m concerned, it was the best job in the world.