At twelve, I was obsessed
with watching whales.
I wanted them up close: powerful —
intimate — magical — how they looked
in pictures I pored over
every single day.
That year, my dad took me whale watching
in Washington. The day was cold and gray.
My thin sweatshirt gave poor
protection against
the headwind.
We saw
no whales.
I searched eagerly for any
motion — disappointed
every time the fins
were just porpoises.
Halfway through our trip, my
long-saved-for camera slipped
out of my pocket —
tumbled
overboard — splashed
into the ocean —
I watched it fall in slow motion
as the ship raced on.
And I cried.
Three years later, my dad
took me whale watching in Hawai’i.
We saw at least
twenty humpbacks.
I wasn’t happy.
I couldn’t get a good photo.
Dad was most excited
about the free mojitos.
I distrusted moments
when it looked like any jostling
of the ship might tip
him over, his slightly slurred
speech when he smiled
sheepishly, half-joking,
“Don’t tell your mom.”
How I wandered the deck
watching whales
alone.
.
Nine years later, my mom
took me whale watching
in Washington.
The day was bright and breezy.
We ate grapes and cheese, chatted
with old friends, found a pod of orcas
feeding. Even from a distance, their violence
disturbed her.
To me, they were little
black marks against the sea’s
expanse of blue.
I watched that blue, thinking
of the tickets we had used —
tickets given to my dad and me for free
when we saw no whales
and my camera fell into the sea.
He saved them
for thirteen years.
Mom says Dad resisted
giving her the tickets.
“It’s been so long!” she cajoled, “Come on —
you’ll just buy another set next time.”
At learning this, I felt a loss. Of some
silent promise from my dad.
Some wounded hope we share.
I recalled that first, fateful trip — how
Dad bought a camera from the gift shop
to replace the one I lost — how
he looked with me, eagerly, each time
I recommitted to my hopeless search
for whales. How, as I cried,
as I shivered in my too-thin sweatshirt,
he held me close.
Cherished me
determinedly
the whole way home.
–
Alea Marie is a poet whose work meditates on embodied spirituality, pilgrimage, grief, and the deliciousness of being alive. She lives in Orange County, where she delights in long walks in her old suburban neighborhood and oranges from her grandma’s backyard.