Whale-Watching With My Father
Summer. It is summer all year round in the Gulf. It is commonplace to step outdoors and feel the sweat trickling down your back, pooling into your feet and burning onto your skin. The metallic edge of the car seatbelt singes the hair on your arms, as you try to pull it across, over your shoulders. The starched white school blouse itches all over your body, and you keep yanking at the tie, to let some air in perhaps — the only way you can gain any semblance of relief from the constant heat and humidity, in the furnace that you reside in.
But there was also a flipside to it. Summers brought along with it, the end of the scholastic year. No more lectures, no more fidgeting about in the school assembly and no more waking up at unfathomably early hours, only to fall back asleep on the toilet seat. We only had to show up for the final examination and then take a backseat for the next three months, looking forward to either a trip somewhere or lazing about and doing absolutely nothing (the latter, being the better option here).
It was in one of these summers, I do not remember what year exactly; but I was dressed in my school uniform, drenched in sweat and about to show up for my literature final. Went in, gave the exam and called my dad to pick me up. Normally, we’d grab a cool drink on the way back home, as I’d be dropped off and my dad would drive back to work. This summer, something was different. My sibling, two of my friends and I piled into the backseat, as we took an unfamiliar route to the juicing store.
Or so we thought. We weren’t headed there in fact. My father parked in front of a McDonalds and instructed us all to buy ourselves icecream. Yes, the ice cream machine works in the GCC countries (don’t ask me how). Soft-serve vanilla ice cream cone, nothing short of bliss in this August heat.
We tried asking my father again and again, as to where we were headed, but would only get a ‘You’ll see’. The car turning towards his workplace — the seaport. Perhaps we were there to pick up a package? Maybe he’d forgotten his briefcase at work? Maybe…
None of the above, actually. We were led into the restricted section, where only authorized personnel are allowed to enter. We felt important, and we were also quite tired. The soft-serve was now turning into a much softer mush and was in the danger of tattooing the carpet under our feet, with specks of white. The beach, or rather the ramp for offloading and unloading giant ships and cargo, came into sight — and so did a 13-metre sperm whale. Or rather, it’s carcass.
Beached. Bloated. Stinking.
The rancid odour was all around us. We threw the doors open and went running down the shore to get a better look at it. My father was grinning, as this was the ‘surprise’ he wanted to give us. Morbid yes, but then again you have to remember that spotting a whale (that too, a dead one) anywhere along the eastern coastline was a rarity. Not unless you ventured deep into the ocean, it was not very common and people were rightfully fascinated by it.
There were quite a few photographers, huddled around the barrier which separated them and the whale. The ship engineers were left scratching their heads, as to how to deal with the carcass, and what to do when nothing remains, but its bones. The much more experienced professionals were all too worried about this. Us kids, however? We were on cloud nine.
This was something to boast about to your friends in school. The whale lying on its back, presumed dead for 20 days or so. Its white underbelly, now slowly turning an acid green, seaweed clinging on to its fins and the once-grey body, now turning into a black mass. The gulls were attacking it with a frenzy. This is a giant monster that ruled the seven seas; now serving as a communal buffet for these seafarers. Tiny fish surrounding its body, perhaps a funerary rite of some sort. The matters of the deep sea were a mystery to us mundane beings.
I do not remember how long we stood there; the icecream halfway down my shirt sleeve now. The smell was easy to ignore amidst the chaos that was around us. People were hurrying about, readying a giant ship to pull the carcass towards dry land. We discovered a few other parents who worked in the port; they too had dragged their kids from school and led them in here to watch this debacle unfold. All these fathers and their wide-eyed children watching the fall of this once-majestic creature. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere I believe.
The most thrilling part of this experience was imagining its last moments. What had happened to the whale? Did it die of old-age as humans often do? Did it succumb to some disease, common among marine animals? Or was it human intervention (say, plastic bags) that caused it to die in such a cruel manner? We would never know.
I don’t know what became of the poor thing, last I heard was that they were planning on burying it’s body and displaying the bones in some museum. I don’t think I ever cared much, about the aftermath. We left before we could see it being shuttled away, on a giant ramp. We left, but the stench; its white blubber glistening under the sun; and the memory of my father grinning ear to ear at our excitement, never left me.
The actual new report regarding the incident:
