most distressing to deal with.
As we near Speedwell we pass other boats heading the same way. One of them appears to be from the cruise ship, which isn’t great news. Island people will be pragmatic, ready to pitch in if there’s anything sensible they can do, stoical if not. Visitors from overseas, with no real understanding of the natural world, will be a different matter.
‘Why?’ Pete is mouthing at me. ‘Why does it happen?’
I couldn’t answer that one in a few words and sign language. No one really knows why it happens. My father, who made something of a life’s work studying whale beachings, argued that they were akin to road traffic accidents. Any number of things could go wrong, but the result was the same. Animals can hit ships, be attacked by predators; in the northern US, pneumonia is a common reason for beachings. The animal could have a virus, a brain lesion, parasites. Quite often animals are washed ashore posthumously.
With a mass beaching though, there’s something else going on. Strong social cohesion within a pod of whales means that if one gets sick or is injured and swims into shallower waters, it’s quite likely to be followed by the rest of the group. The whole pod then gets in trouble.
Some scientists believe the echolocation systems that whales use to navigate are less adept at picking up the gently sloping coastlines around the Falklands. The whales simply don’t see the beach until it’s too late.
The environmental lobby are quick to blame man’s habit of pillaging the planet, that military sonar can cause whales to lose their bearings, stray into shallow water and end up on the beach. On the other hand, there are reports of cetacean strandings dating back to Aristotle. My own belief is that Dad probably had it right. Lots of different causes, the same horrible result.
We see our first whale when we’re still a quarter of a mile from the beach. Dead, belly up. Janey was right. This is a long-finned pilot whale, sleek and black, with a bulbous nose. An adult, female at a guess, about four metres long.
As we approach land, we see more whales. Some of them are floating in the shallows, gently bumping up against the shore with each new wave. Most are on the beach, in a grim, straggly formation.
‘Jesus,’ says Pete.
There are several other boats in the bay, all creeping in. I count around twenty people on the shore, most of whom will be from the nearby settlements, although I can see a few of the red anoraks worn by visitors from off the cruise ships. I spot the bright blue baseball cap that Janey invariably wears to contain her mass of dark curls when she’s out of the house.
She wasn’t exaggerating. There are well over a hundred. Possibly closer to two hundred. The surf around the water’s edge is red with blood. Some of the animals are being dashed against the rocks. And the petrels haven’t waited for the whales to die.
When I glance at Pete he looks close to tears. I take the RIB up to the edge of the bay and head in. ‘I need you to be OK.’ I sound harsh, I know, but this is going to be hard enough without human sentimentality.
He sniffs. ‘I’m OK.’
A man jogs along the shore to meet us. It’s Mitchell, Janey’s husband. Pete throws him the RIB’s painter and he pulls us in.
‘One hundred and seventy-six, I counted twice,’ Mitchell tells me. I nod my thanks. Counting them would have been my first job and Mitchell has saved me the trouble. More people are arriving all the time. They’re wandering about among the whales. Some of them are going to get hurt.
I pick up my bag, gesture to Pete to bring the stretchers and stride up the beach. When I’m close to the biggest group of people I give two short blasts on my whistle.
‘I need your attention, ladies and gentlemen. Can you all gather round and listen up.’
Not everyone is listening. I give one more blast, shout at a man who is ignoring me. ‘Mate, I need you over here now. We’re running
As we near Speedwell we pass other boats heading the same way. One of them appears to be from the cruise ship, which isn’t great news. Island people will be pragmatic, ready to pitch in if there’s anything sensible they can do, stoical if not. Visitors from overseas, with no real understanding of the natural world, will be a different matter.
‘Why?’ Pete is mouthing at me. ‘Why does it happen?’
I couldn’t answer that one in a few words and sign language. No one really knows why it happens. My father, who made something of a life’s work studying whale beachings, argued that they were akin to road traffic accidents. Any number of things could go wrong, but the result was the same. Animals can hit ships, be attacked by predators; in the northern US, pneumonia is a common reason for beachings. The animal could have a virus, a brain lesion, parasites. Quite often animals are washed ashore posthumously.
With a mass beaching though, there’s something else going on. Strong social cohesion within a pod of whales means that if one gets sick or is injured and swims into shallower waters, it’s quite likely to be followed by the rest of the group. The whole pod then gets in trouble.
Some scientists believe the echolocation systems that whales use to navigate are less adept at picking up the gently sloping coastlines around the Falklands. The whales simply don’t see the beach until it’s too late.
The environmental lobby are quick to blame man’s habit of pillaging the planet, that military sonar can cause whales to lose their bearings, stray into shallow water and end up on the beach. On the other hand, there are reports of cetacean strandings dating back to Aristotle. My own belief is that Dad probably had it right. Lots of different causes, the same horrible result.
We see our first whale when we’re still a quarter of a mile from the beach. Dead, belly up. Janey was right. This is a long-finned pilot whale, sleek and black, with a bulbous nose. An adult, female at a guess, about four metres long.
As we approach land, we see more whales. Some of them are floating in the shallows, gently bumping up against the shore with each new wave. Most are on the beach, in a grim, straggly formation.
‘Jesus,’ says Pete.
There are several other boats in the bay, all creeping in. I count around twenty people on the shore, most of whom will be from the nearby settlements, although I can see a few of the red anoraks worn by visitors from off the cruise ships. I spot the bright blue baseball cap that Janey invariably wears to contain her mass of dark curls when she’s out of the house.
She wasn’t exaggerating. There are well over a hundred. Possibly closer to two hundred. The surf around the water’s edge is red with blood. Some of the animals are being dashed against the rocks. And the petrels haven’t waited for the whales to die.
When I glance at Pete he looks close to tears. I take the RIB up to the edge of the bay and head in. ‘I need you to be OK.’ I sound harsh, I know, but this is going to be hard enough without human sentimentality.
He sniffs. ‘I’m OK.’
A man jogs along the shore to meet us. It’s Mitchell, Janey’s husband. Pete throws him the RIB’s painter and he pulls us in.
‘One hundred and seventy-six, I counted twice,’ Mitchell tells me. I nod my thanks. Counting them would have been my first job and Mitchell has saved me the trouble. More people are arriving all the time. They’re wandering about among the whales. Some of them are going to get hurt.
I pick up my bag, gesture to Pete to bring the stretchers and stride up the beach. When I’m close to the biggest group of people I give two short blasts on my whistle.
‘I need your attention, ladies and gentlemen. Can you all gather round and listen up.’
Not everyone is listening. I give one more blast, shout at a man who is ignoring me. ‘Mate, I need you over here now. We’re running
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