Campbell Church, Jr. writing in The Sportsman, February, 1933

Whales in the air! called Captain Dykeman into the living quarters of the Westward.

We were hunting, fishing and cruising through the lovely island-studded waters of southern Alaska. Stupendous mountains, glistening white, rose on every side. It was May and spring had descended upon this land of glamour.

Whales in the air!

It sent us pell-mell on deck. Just as we reached the bow, a huge body broke water only a few hundred yards ahead of the yacht. It shot straight up into the air, it’s twelve-foot flippers spread as in a swan dive—up and up and up until it’s tail cleared the water by a quarter of its fifty-foot length—and then, describing an arc which any diver might have envied, down it came headfirst and disappeared in a smother of white spray.

We knew what stupendous energy must have sent that great fifty-ton body hurtling up through the depths to such a height.

A few moments later, still spellbound by so an unreal a performance, we saw the mirror like surface of that crimson sea of fire again broken near the spot where the mother had disappeared, and the exploit was repeated in miniature by a baby whale hardly a third as long. It too cleared the water with it’s tail by several feet, and making as beautiful an arc, dropped slowly back again headfirst.

Five minutes had not elapsed when another shout went up as the mother breached again. The little one followed shortly, as before. In the next thirty minutes, as we cruised along at half speed following them this was repeated five or six times. Each performance duplicated the first, except that in several instances the enormous bulk of the mother toppled over sideways. This was even more spectacular than the dive, for falling from such a height, her impact on the water was heralded by a great white cloud of smoky spray followed by a crash as of heavy artillery.

Just before the sunset glow faded, the mate’s sharp eye discovered something that was to put a speedy stop to this thrilling moving picture, and was, perhaps to spell death to the mother and her little one. A school of killer whales, or Orcas, their black, curved, six-foot dorsals cutting the water like scimitars, was converging upon the line of travel of the whales and would soon overtake them. We could catch now and then a flash of white on their sides as they rose above the surface. They were evidently playing, rolling and diving and reappearing shortly to blow.

All hands forgot the whales, temporarily, in hurried preparations to attack the marauders with high -powered rifles. Half a dozen shots among the protruding fins, and the killers disappeared. It was now fast getting dark, and the whales could not be picked up again even with the glasses. The shooting or the presence of the killers may have frightened them, or perhaps “playtime” was over.

During dinner someone commented upon the fact that, although the Westward carried a most efficient “light-tackle” whaling outfit, this mother whale and her baby were far safer with us, aboard a boat “armed to the teeth” for the capture of whales, than they were among their own kind; for the killer is even more deadly than a bombing gun. We all agreed that in this case we would have fought for the whales, rather than against them.

The only element of regret that lingers in my recollection of those enchanting pictures is that they were perhaps a prelude to a tragedy: to a vicious attack upon our two friends by those savage killers.

Our attitude toward hunting as reflected by the failure to unlimber the whale gun is typical, I believe, of most hunters. In the final analysis it is not the capture, nor the kill, that counts. It is not the trophy, nor even the chase. It is the close contact with nature. It is the intimate personal part of it all, seeing the creatures of the wild and studying them. It is living in the world they inhabit, or at least making an approach to it occasionally surprising them in unconscious moments when they are busy about their daily comings and goings still more rarely meeting with individual specimens that accept one and are not afraid, but just friendly. Animals soon become conscious of man’s attitude toward them, and it is often surprising with what degree of trust and understanding they repay his friendship.

We had planned an expedition after grizzlies, but whales were “in the air,” and one of our party spoke for all of us when he burst out Oh, damn the grizzlies anyway! Let’s go whaling!

Followed many consultations with Captain Dykeman, and the perusal of various and sundry charts. Then, after getting underway, an order to the mate in low tones, West by north—a half north, and the latter’s equally low response as he spun the wheel, West by north—a half north, Sir.

Soon after luncheon the mud hook was dropped in the lee of a pretty wooded island belonging to a fox farmer, and a boat was lowered for the captain. He returned shortly with the cheerful news, We’re going whaling now! They have offered us two prime silver fox skins for a forty-footer anchored to the dock by the tail.

It is a law of the Medes and Persians aboard the Westward never to try for a whale unless it can be disposed of to a whaling station for oil or to a rancher for fox feed. The average whale is worth in finished products, oil and fertilizer, about $1,500. It would be unthinkable to destroy wantonly such a prize.

Besides many fox islands there are four whaling stations in the Westward’s hunting territory; one on Akutan, among the Aleutians; one on Kodiak, of grizzly fame; and two on the Queen Charlotte group; off the northern British Columbia coast. These plants utilize everything but the smell. If they could commercialize that too, the whale would be worth easily twice as much.

Now we are cruising sou’west by south, three quarters south, among the islands bordering the Inside Passage. These are whaling waters.

Everything aboard is bustle and excitement. The canvas covers are taken from the Norwegian bottle-nosed whale gun at the bow, and from the big fishing reel just abaft it. The outrigger wooden grids, on which to stand for side shots, are hinged into place on each side of the prow. Harpoons are brought from the hold and lashed inside the bull rail for instant use. Into the head of one of these is screwed a small brass time fuse about the size of one’s thumb. Over this again is tightly screwed the hollow cast-iron harpoon point full of black powder. The gun is swabbed out, and a charge of powder, also black, rammed home with a wadding of rags. The butt of the harpoon is driven in snugly against this. We spent hours in target practice at floating logs with a dummy harpoon.

Next in order, the reel is put through its paces to limber it up. We each take a hand at it until we become familiar with its operation. It is not a hand reel, although designed after Zane Grey’s special swordfish reel. It has a free-running spool, an easily adjusted drag, heavy brakes, and two friction gears with slip-cone bearings which permit the spool to pay out line with the action running full speed ahead. The latter is to neutralize the violent lunges of the whale, that otherwise snap the line. The motive power is a modern ten-horse high-speed gas engine.

On the spool as a fishing line are four thousand feet of flexible quarter-inch plow steel cable, made by Roebling for this job. It has a breaking strain of some seven thousand pounds. This is relatively as strong for a thirty-five-ton whale as a fifty- pound test line is for a five hundred pound tuna or swordfish. We attached to this two-hundred feet of strong whale rope as a forerunner, to be coiled under the gun’s muzzle, and this in turn is made fast to the harpoon. The whale rope will part before the cable, and, in case of a break, it and the harpoon only are lost. Again, the steel cable is hardly flexible enough to uncoil rapidly under the shot.

There is one more thing to do—with the davits, lift one of the big anchors from the hawse pipe, and lash it on deck. Then attach a sling cable to the end of the anchor chain. If, and when, the whale is taken, this is thrown around the tail above the flukes. The tail is then snubbed in close against the hawse pipe with the electric anchor winch. In this way two whales, one at each bow, may be towed easily. They ride high and slip along on either beam without much drag.

Now bring on your whale!

Soon after daylight on the second morning we were awakened by the mate shouting down the stairway leading to our staterooms, A pod of whales off the starboard bow!

Out we came with pajamas and slippers.

And there, sure enough, some two miles away, was a school of whales having their morning showers. Jets of spray were being thrown into the air from a dozen different spots.

Thus was ushered in a period of twelve hours of the greatest sustained excitement that any of us had ever experienced. Each of the four men in the party manned the gun and winch alternately, half hour at a time, after drawing lots for places. The betting ran high, as to who would have the first shot, and whether or not it would be a hit.
Hour after hour we played tag with those leviathans. Time and again we were almost in range. If it had not been for the captain, many shots would have been attempted.

Thirty yards was the limit; otherwise the angle would be too flat, and the harpoon could not penetrate the vitals. It would glance off the water and inflict, at best, a shallow wound in the heavy blubber as the whale came to the surface, back only partly exposed. The game was to place the shot behind a flipper at a rather sharp angle.
Ray had the gun and I was at the throttle of the winch when Captain Dykeman exclaimed in a sharp undertone. Here he comes! Almost at once another whale, not the one we were then following, broke water twenty-five yards broad on the port bow. The captain’s Let him have it, startled Ray so that he whirled the gun at right angles and fired without taking aim. It was a clean miss, but only by inches. He was furious with himself. That finback had rolled high out of the water, fully exposing the flipper, and offering a wonderful shot.

Those maddening whales played the game better than we. They always outguessed us and came up where we least expected them. We would hang on the rail of one for an hour or so; then, in disgust, try another. But they all seemed wise. We were often so near a shot, however, that the interest never lagged. We made several attempts to eat luncheon, but didn’t get further than the first course. What little we ate was gulped down on deck.

Late in the afternoon came our second shot. Fortunately for Ray, he was again at the gun and had a chance to redeem himself. This time he was more collected, and, profiting by his haste of the morning, he sunk the harpoon into the whale’s back. It was rather far forward, though, to reach the lungs, and worse than that, the bomb on the end of the harpoon failed to explode. Too late I remembered that the percussion cap for the time fuse was in my pocket. But we had him fast.

As I played out the line in his first big rush, there was a wild shout aboard. The whale sounded and started off, quartering from the stern, at a sizzling clip. When it was evident that there was no danger of fouling the propeller, the mate threw in the clutch, turned the yacht bow on, and away we followed at ten knots.

The reel worked perfectly. I used only the brake at first, and put on just enough tension to keep the spool from over running. After the whale’s speed steadied down a bit, I slipped into low and let him work against compression. Before the cable was half out we were able to hold our own, and started the winch engine. But I could get little or no slack; the spool always slipped when I gave him the power.

After half an hour of this, the captain and mate decided the shot had done no damage; the intermittent spouting did not show red through the glasses. So the nineteen-foot motor canoe was lowered. It was manned by the mate an able seaman, and Ray as gunner, for it was his whale. They were all good swimmers, but we strapped pneumatic life preservers on each. The artillery consisted of a short bronze shoulder gun weighing twenty-five pounds. This discharged a small hollow-brass lance filled with black powder, set off by a time fuse.

The idea was to be near when the whale broke water, but not too near. For one blow of a lashing flipper, or the mighty tail, would crumple the canoe like an eggshell. Hence our solicitude as to the swimming abilities of those manning it. Fortunately this was only a small finback instead of an ugly sperm, so there was no danger of a real fight. A whale is a whale, however, they all have flukes and they all have flippers, and it makes them temperamental to be forcibly detained from going where and when they want to go.

The whale remained submerged about fifteen minutes each time, coming to the surface only long enough to blow, then sounding again at once. One had to time it about right or no shot. They approached rather carefully the first time, and were far short of the mark. It seems that they were a bit too anxious not to be taken for a ride on the monster’s back, canoe and all. The next time it rose they were much closer. The third time they overdid it. Their sporting blood was now overriding their caution.

Up to this moment the whale was traveling in a bee line. This made it simplest to pick him up, and as long as he continued these tactics, it was only a matter of time until the luck would turn. Furthermore, as he tired, he would come to the surface more often, would remain longer, and would travel more slowly. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. All the breaks had been with us since the catastrophe of the first shot and the bomb failure.

Then the son of the sea cook changed his course and came up far to port. He was now heading for the point of an island some two miles off our beam. Captain Dykeman swore! He showed us on the chart a long rocky reef extending several miles straight out from this point.
There were plenty of passages between the rocks for the whale, but they were uncharted, and the captain didn’t dare make the attempt with a hundred-ton yacht drawing nine feet of water. Our only hope was that Ray would connect before that cursed reef was reached, or that the whale would change his course again.

But he kept straight for it like a homing pigeon. We slowed up and finally lay to. The line was paying out steadily. There was still a chance that the boys, who were now speeding recklessly, would catch him in shallow water. Ray fired twice. We couldn’t tell from the yacht whether they were hits or not, and we were left in an agony of suspense.

The water, close in, was quiet and clear. The mate wigwagged us to follow the canoe slowly. He was going to try to pick a passage for the yacht by following the whale. It was risky business, but the tide was flooding and the Westward was built to take everything that came.

So in we went, feeling our way with the lead, all eyes focused on the water. The line continued to pay out, inexorably, until only a few turns remained on the reel. Then, Rocks ahead! and we had to back water in a hurry.

The line came taut suddenly and snapped at the spool.
It was a dejected looking crew of whalers that signaled the canoe to return to the ship. The men came aboard reporting both shoulder gun- shots as hits, but seemingly ineffective. The canoe was hoisted to the boat deck and the Westward’s prow was slowly put about.

Then, She flurries! came a shout from the lookout in the bos’n’s chair at the masthead. We all knew what that meant, and again our spirits soared. All whales “go into the flurry” just before they die. The little shoulder gun had done its work after all. The slender lance had found its way to “the life,” which means, in whaling parlance, the lungs.

The whale was thrashing around on the surface in a great circle just beyond the reef, nose high in the air. We could plainly see it now from the deck. Then all was quiet. The lookout with the binoculars reported that it had turned over on its back exposing the white under parts, and had then sunk slowly from sight. It was a dead whale.

The position was carefully marked. The Westward steamed around the outer end of the reef and soon picked up the cable with a grappling hook in shallow water. It was only a matter of a short time until it was re-coiled on the drum of the winch. Now the whale was gingerly hauled to the surface and another wild cheer went up when it again broke water at the bow. A sharpened one-inch pipe, connected by a rubber hose to the compressed air tanks, was driven a foot or two into the carcass, and the air was turned on. The thick blubber, which takes the place of a hide, lies rather loosely over the flesh, and the compressed air traveling between this layer of meat and blubber soon gave enough buoyancy to float the whale. With a heavy sling cable the tail was snubbed up to the bow by the anchor winch, and we were off again. We were now close to one of the whaling stations, and headed for it as it was on our route to the fox ranch, where we were to trade forty tons of meat for forty ounces of fur. It was an all-night run, as we could make only five knots under full steam instead of the customary nine.

As this strange “whaler” nosed up to the dock that bright Sunday morning, with a finback at the bow, all hands from the “super” down crowded around to inspect us. The captains and gunners of the whaling boats were particularly interested in our tackle. Point by point, item by item, they went over it with approving nods, but always ending in the same refrain: Harpoon anything you want, but steer clear of a big, fighting, bull sperm!

Take on the humpies and the fins, take on the grays and the minks, and if you don’t mind losing some gear, take on even the blues and the sulphurs—but whatever you do, leave the sperm alone! He’s a fighting fool, I tell you, so leave him alone! You’ll find him, when he isn’t feeding, lying on his side at the surface, waving a great black, lazy flipper, with an eye cocked to seaward looking for trouble. Fearing nothing that swims or floats—leave him alone! You can run right up to him, and he is just as liable to butt the ship out of the way as he is to move off. But if you do harpoon him—man, look out—you’re going to be charged—you’re going to be rammed!

They were in deadly earnest. Two of their hundred-foot ships had had their steel plates so badly buckled within the week that they had had to be beached to save them from sinking. Sperms are usually not plentiful on this northern coast, for they are warm-water whales, but recently a great pod of big bulls had appeared on the scene, and now the whalers were getting four or five sperms to one of all other varieties combined.

This was too exciting news to pass up. So we decided to present our finback to the plant as a token of good will, and trail the fleet out the next day to see the fun. We asked the “super” if he thought we could take pictures of these lords of the deep without insulting them. He opined we could if we didn’t have to get too close. So we promised to use telephoto lenses and be good—oh, yes, we meant to be good!

At dawn the four steam whalers weighed anchor, and headed out into the open Pacific. We followed. Within three or four hours, because of poor visibility and the ever diverging fanlike formation of the fleet, we found ourselves alone. There was a dead calm. The sky was leaden and hung low over a smooth and oily sea with a burnt-umber sun trying ineffectually to break through. A long ground swell was running, harbinger of an approaching storm. The glass was falling rapidly. It looked bad for pictures, but steadily we held our course, sou’-sou’west, with never a fin or a flipper showing.

Towards evening the weather miraculously cleared. Sky and then sea caught fire as that red ball, called the sun, sank into the waves. Then, we found him.

A great black flipper waving indolently. Indolently, yes, yet with a veiled threat of anger and defiance. One could never be mistaken after so vivid a picture as was painted the night before by those hardy whalers. Here was that big sperm at last. We slowed down at a hundred yards. At forty we stopped. The flipper now moved slowly towards us. We sensed that immense bulk beneath, by the drag of the water, twenty feet ahead and forty feet behind. We could feel that baleful eye looking us over. Then the long half-seen form swung around the bow to port not ten yards away.

We had started out at dawn looking for excitement. We wanted to see one of those gladiators of the sea charge an attacking boat, but hours ago the last “whaler” had merged, ghostlike, into the near horizon. Three of the party were atop the pilot house waiting expectantly, with cameras focused. They wanted action. We all wanted action. That slow-moving flipper would do as curtain raiser—but as a curtain raiser only.

The blood mounted to my forehead. I put it up to Ray, standing beside me on the gun platform. He looked me in the eye—grinned—and said, O. K., but the right knee of that two-hundred-pound football player began shaking so hard that his foot beat an uncontrollable tattoo on the wooden grid. He knew that we were alone a hundred miles at sea and if those whalers hadn’t been stringing us…? But I knew more—I knew of what stuff the Westward was built—and that she was sturdy and strong, with three water-tight compartments to protect her.

Without having heard a word, even before Ray turned and swung the gun, every man aboard knew what was happening. Each snapped to his feet, tense and rigid.

The instant the harpoon hit, the whale turned like a tiger and rammed the yacht with his great blunt head. The boat careened. The cameramen ceased to function—one dropped his movie and jumped for the lower deck—the other two clutched the stays for support.

The sperm sounded. Those terrible ten-foot flukes rose twenty feet in the air, and towered above the bow. The gunner instinctively threw his arm up in front of his face to ward off a blow that would have hurled him forty feet into the sea had it landed. It did land a moment later, striking the side of the boat with another resounding smash as the whale dove out of sight.

Two of the crew rushed below to see if we had been stove in.
Ray stood dazed on the harpoon platform while the smoking cable screamed through the blocks beside him. Realizing his danger from a snarled cable and, to prevent an over-winding reel, I threw on the powerful brake, instead of easing the clutch as I should have done. There was another loud report as the steel cable parted.

As we look back upon the experience we have to admit that although our whaling friends had treated us as equals and brothers by giving us fair warning, we were, after all, merely dude whalers, for the charge of that sperm had completely demoralized the whole crew.

In our wanderings over the Pacific aboard the Westward, should we again run across one of those big black fins waving indolently on a quiet sea, we wonder what we would do—we wonder.