Two days ago, whales off Frenchman’s Rock. Seven of them, southern right whales. There may have been more. I had no binoculars, hadn’t expected to see any. Was just out on a walk with the dog. Exercise.
It’s getting late in the season for the whales. They’ll start heaing for Antarctica soon.
I sat down near Seal Rock, watched, listened too; the waves, the swell, sometime breaths of the whales, hissing of the spray, the occasional shout of ooh from other whale watchers, snorts from my dog urging me to get up and continue walking.
A whale dreaming place, a man had told me once, here, they come back.
Whale dreaming, an evocative phrase. What dances up? Heaves itself from the sea of imagination?