Symphony of the Sea

For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by the sea. As a young child, I marveled at the colorful variety of shells its shores offered and the power of its waves. Years later, the ocean has a different kind of power over me--a soothing strength that, unlike any other place on earth, draws me to a sense of peacefulness and contemplation.

But beyond the calming rhythms of its surface are the wondrous creatures and mysteries of the deep that have been a large part of the fascination for me. As a child, I devoured such books as Melville's Moby Dick and Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea, imagining myself a participant in whaling expeditions and other adventures at sea. So when my husband, Jim, and I had a chance to go whale-watching in New England last summer, it felt like an opportunity of a lifetime.

On our first evening out, we saw several finback whales. Able to travel as fast as most boats, finbacks have eluded whale hunters through the years and are faring better than other types of whales, many of which have been threatened with extinction. The view of a mother finback and her calf in a circle of the sunset's light was enough to make our venture worthwhile.

But the next day's sightings were even more spectacular. Traveling south along the Massachusetts shoreline, we came to an area into which a group of humpback whales had moved just days before. All along the horizon, we began to see the tall sprays of the whales' "blows."

Our guide explained that the hump-backs had been feeding at the surface the day before, and we were being treated to the spectacle of frequent deep dives as they went to the depths for food. A whale surfacing a bit higher with back arched was the signal for a dive. Moments later, a huge tail would break the surface and then gracefully slip into the water. The guide called a few of the whales by name--each underside of the tail has a pattern as distinctive as a human fingerprint.

Eating takes up most of a whale's day. Humpbacks can weigh up to 3,000 pounds at birth, and adults can reach lengths of 60 feet, weighing about a ton for each foot of length. An extremely rare blue whale was sighted in these waters the week before. The blue whale is the largest creature that ever lived, reaching lengths of up to 100 feet. According to one expert, "Its tongue weighs more than an elephant, its heart more than an automobile."

And all they eat are little, teeny-tiny fish and plankton and sea creatures. Lots of them. Constantly. Our guide showed us a large piece of baleen, the brush-like plates the whales have instead of teeth for straining out their food. They ingest gargantuan quantities of water and then spew it all back out, trapping the fish in the baleen and then swallowing them.

Humpbacks live in waters all over the globe, but every winter they migrate to tropical breeding grounds. Whales from the North Atlantic go to the Caribbean, where mothers give birth in its warm, shallow waters. The males go back home first, followed by the single females; then finally come the mothers with their new calves, moving slowly and stopping frequently to nurse, quite a feat accomplished underwater.

But perhaps the most fascinating characteristic of the humpbacks is their song. Only the males sing, and the song, which spans several octaves, changes every year, according to our guide. Once the song changes, the original is never repeated. The new song starts with a whale in some part of the globe, say, off the coast of Greenland, and before long every male humpback on earth is singing the same song--a sophisticated oral tradition that is transmitted across the globe underwater.

By the time they get to the Caribbean, the males are all circling the females, singing their song in an effort to impress one. The females choose a male with which to mate. As our guide explained it, "They're all singing the same thing, so content doesn't count for anything--it's all style."

AS I WRITE THIS, it's a hot and muggy mid-July afternoon in inner-city Washington. We have been warned by the atmospheric experts that the city's ozone level has hit the danger zone, and breathing today is hazardous to one's health. It is comforting to think of the whales.

If we destroy our air, or our water, or the whales, we have no one to blame but ourselves. God has given us a precious gift, and we have been commanded to be stewards of this good earth. We have not done a commendable job.

In the 98th psalm, the psalmist commands, "O sing to the Lord a new song, for God has done marvelous things!...Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth; break forth into joyous song and sing praises!...Let the sea roar, and all that fills it...."

From the depths of the sea comes a symphony of praise and life. But it--and much of our fragile earth--is threatened by our destructive carelessness. It is our responsibility to see that that beautiful symphony does not turn into a cry of anguish; to guarantee that generations of whales and children and all manner of wondrous creatures have a bright and promising future.

Let the sea roar!

Joyce Hollyday was associate editor of Sojourners when this article appeared.