The White Whale
She swam the gauntlet
Six times, seven
Then took a chance on love
And was rewarded
Far beyond her hopes and dreams
But now this eighth trip south
Much harder than before
And she so weary
Overburdened
Unesteemed
Then it went wrong
The water
Kind no longer
Tainted and impure
Took first her child
And then, no longer caring, she
When soon she came to rest
Among the rocks
Almost as if to say
You’ve cared not for my ocean home -
Now you must deal with me.
When I started college, I majored in marine biology, and my primary interests then, as now, were whales and sharks.
This poem, written on 6Feb99, was about a pregnant female California grey whale, Eschrichtius robustus, which had died at sea and washed ashore on the Palos Verdes Peninsula, in southernmost Los Angles County. Although in life grey whales are dark to light grey, depending upon age and the amount of barnacles and sea lice encrustations on their skin, after death the outer skin sloughs off, revealing the blubber layer beneath, making the whale appear white to the casual observer.
Local residents were appalled by the stench, as whales' bodies are designed to retain heat and thus decompose rapidly, while biologists agreed that a spike in local bacterial levels in near-shore waters most likely contributed to the death of the whale and her calf.
My favorite scientific name for the grey whale, which I would like to see become California's state animal, is the obsolete Rhachianectes glaucus, which translates literally to "grey swimmer along rocky shores." I can't think of a better description of these magnificent and loving animals.
