Times of the Islands Summer 2019

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That these magnificent creatures, the largest our planet has ever seen, were hunted almost to extinction less than 60 years ago hardly seems possible. The consuming quest for quick riches from slaughtered whales to fuel the demand for lamp oil, buggy whips, and cheap meat for an industrializing world might well have denied us that shared moment of intense common humanity on the sea—as well as all future generations. And that should give us pause for what our progeny may say about us 60 years from now. For even today, notwithstanding protections, whales face a future as uncertain and perilous as they did when whalers relentlessly pursued them across every ocean. In a hopeful twist of fate, however, the pristine waters surrounding the Turks & Caicos Islands, that once saw its share of whale hunting, could be a respite from modern perils, a sanctuary where whales thrive and perhaps befriend us. Early whalers Humans have hunted whales since prehistoric times, but the story of commercial whaling began in the early 1700s, principally out of the New England fishing town of Nantucket. Here, ships under the power of wind and sails fanned out into the eastern seaboard of North America for what was at first easy pickings. Humpbacks, sperm whales, and right whales abounded and their numbers seemed limitless. Hardy sailors perched in crow’s nests atop masts 100 feet (30 meters) above the deck scanned the sea for the same telltale signs as tourists on whale tours do today. When the bellowing cry of “There she blows” rang out at the sighting of a whale, the crew below frantically lowered open whale boats over the side and rowed hard, guided by pointing arms from the crow’s nest. Crouched at the prow, the strongest and most agile man of the lot readied his harpoons, essentially modified wooden spears, about 6 feet (2 meters) long, with one or two metal barbs near the tip. A bucket held a long coiled rope fastened tightly to the harpoon shaft, the other end wrapped around a wooden post built into the boat. The harpooneer, as he was called, stood and braced himself as the boat closed in on the prize. The captain signaled for the crew to stop rowing and use their oars to paddle quietly. Then, just feet from the giant leviathan and when seconds counted, the harpooneer lifted his weapon high above his head and hurled it as straight and deep and true as he could into the thick blubber of the whale’s back so the barbs held fast. If he was quick and lucky, he might get off a second throw. As the wounded whale bolted from the boat using powerful thrusts from its tail, the rope rushed out, so fast the post smoked from the friction. Sometimes the rope entangled the harpooneer, severing his leg or arm or dragging him overboard. Fighting for its own life, the whale would try to dive down, swiftly towing the boat toward the horizon up to 23 mph (37 kph) in what became known as a Nantucket Sleigh Ride. Thrilling as it was terrifying, the crew hung on, hoping the out-of-control boat would not be pulled under. The struggle might go on for 30 minutes or more until the whale, exhausted and near Sometimes whales fight back. There have been at least half a dozen recorded incidents of cetaceans using their massive heads (mainly sperm whales) to ram whaling ships in apparent acts of fury. 42 www.timespub.tc
death, surfaced for one last breath of air. In the bloodsoaked sea, the whale boat would again pull close, so the captain or first mate could try to finish off the weakened whale by thrusting a trident-tipped lance into its belly. At that point, the crew had to act quickly to bring the whale back to the mother ship, as whales sink quickly after being killed. Then begin the arduous and equally dangerous task of flensing (butchering) and boiling the blubber for oil. The decks, slick with blood, caused many a whaler to slip and fall overboard into a frenzy of feeding sharks below. By the mid-1700s, New England whaling ships had reduced the whale populations off their shores, forcing the whalers to expand their searches further south to the Caribbean and off the coast of Brazil. As the whales became scarce there too, whalers sailed around the Horn, entering the vast Pacific where ships could be away from home port for years. Typically, a successful whale ship would catch between 25 and 50 whales. For all the danger the crew faced—almost every hunt produced some injury or death—the rewards depended entirely on the favorable outcome of the voyage, and few got rich. The pay for sailors was only marginally better than crewing on vessels carrying cargo. Still, the able-bodied signed up in droves for the intoxicating adventure and a chance to make a bit more money. At whale hunting’s peak (1820–1850), whalers numbered 8,000 and killed around 10,000 whales a year. In the second half of the 19th century, the whaling industry began to decline as new and less expensive petroleum products became available. Paradoxically, from 1900– 1999, 2.9 million whales were killed, according to Scientific American—four times more than were killed in the previous 400 years. Larger whale ships and the perfection of the explosively charged harpoon that could be mounted and fired from the ship deck—credited to Norwegian inventor Svend Foyn—allowed for many more whales to be taken, though mainly for meat. Whale attacks Sometimes the whales fought back. The most famous fictional account, of course, is the story of the great white whale Moby Dick by Hermann Melville. He based his epic treasure of American literature on the true story of the attack on the Nantucket whaling ship Essex in November 1820 in the South Pacific, more than 1,000 miles off the coast of Peru. (The story has since made into a major motion picture, “In the Heart of the Sea”, directed by Ron Howard.) In fact, there have been at least six other recorded incidents of cetaceans using their massive heads (mainly sperm whales) to ram whaling ships in apparent acts of fury: The Pusie Hall in 1835, the Lydia and the Two Generals in 1836, the Pocahontas in 1850, the Ann Alexander in 1851, and the Kathleen in 1902. All these wooden ships came out of New England ports, and all but the Pusie and the Pocahontas sank. In the case of the Essex, first mate Owen Chase spotted a huge sperm whale lying quietly in the distance, the head facing the ship. After two or three spouts, the colossal animal made straight for the Essex, ramming its head into the side of the ship, “with an appalling and tremendous jar, as nearly threw all of us on our faces.” The whale passed under the ship and then surfaced, allowing the first mate to see him “smite his jaws together, as if distracted with rage and fury,” and then disappeared. Shortly thereafter, a crew member cried out, “Here he is making for us again.” Head half out of the water, the whale bore down once more on the ship, this time striking the bow. Water rushed in through the busted planks and the Essex began sinking, so fast that Chase and the crew barely had enough time to escape in their whale boat. The Essex captain, George Pollard, who had been out with another whale boat pursuing and harpooning whales, returned stunned to see his ship floundering before disappearing under the waves. Bobbing on the sea in open 20 foot boats with hardly any food or water, the whalers contemplated what to do next. The captain, just 28 years old, wanted to head south to the nearest land in Marquesa Islands and Tahiti, but Chase and others talked him out of it because they believed cannibals lived there. So they steered the longer way east to South America, perhaps the most ironic decision in maritime history. In the weeks at sea that followed, the crew quickly ran out of what few provisions they had and began eating anyone who died, becoming cannibals themselves. On Pollard’s boat, when no one had died for a few days, they drew lots of who would be killed and eaten. Only eight of the original twenty survived the harrowing ordeal at sea, including Pollard and Chase, to tell their stories. Notably, the gigantic bull sperm whale that rammed the Essex had not, in fact, been harpooned himself, but may have reacted to seeing and hearing members of his pod being attacked. While whales are social creatures and normally not aggressive, they can be when challenged or feel the whale family is threatened. The attack on the Ann Alexander took place in the same area as the Essex 31 years later on August 20, 1851 (the same year Melville’s book was published) with its own Times of the Islands Summer 2019 43
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