Crying About Whales With Strangers
There was a half hour before the sun dipped below the horizon and the parking lot at the viewpoint wasn’t even half full.
The off season on the Oregon Coast thins the crowds to only the heartiest among us: tourists with a penchant for storm watching, locals in long rain coats, a handful of seagulls. This sunny October evening was an exception. Other than a fine layer of mist hanging in the air and a very subtle breeze, the skies were calm and nearly clear.
I parked, looped my camera strap around my neck, threw on a jacket, and made my way to the fence lining the perimeter of the overlook. This particular spot, the Face Rock Scenic Viewpoint in Bandon, OR, is perched atop a cliff that juts out into the Pacific Ocean. It is named after one of the nearby sea stacks that looks like the silhouette of a face looking up towards the sky.
There was a small handful of people around and all of them had their eyes trained on the horizon. I followed their gaze.
Whale spouts.
Dozens of them.
I’d seen whales before, of course, but never more than two together at a time. This was an entirely new experience.
At any given moment, at least seven or eight whales were spouting. As soon as one set faded, a new batch would spray upward. With the sheer number of spouts, there had to have been around 25-30 whales heading south for the winter.
As the sun sunk lower in the sky, it backlit every single spout, making them even more pronounced. Every now and then, there’d be a flash of black rising up out of the water, either a back or a tail, followed by more spouts.
As I stood at the railing, trying to train my zoom lens on the pod, a woman roughly my age rushed over to watch as well. She was excited. The kind of gushing, visceral excitement where you physically cannot sink deep enough into the moment. Her energy was contagious. It reminded me to put the camera down. Take it in.
I regularly weep at nature.
A scenic view: tears.
A spectacular sunset: tears.
A perfect, unbroken sand dollar rolling in the surf: inconsolable.
My eyes could not help well up at the realization that I was deeply fortunate to witness this moment. How rare is it to spot a huge pod of whales, on a warm October evening in Oregon, while the sun softly sets behind each spout?
I glanced at the woman next to me. Her eyes were as wet and full as mine. When she looked at me, we both laughed. How silly it was to be crying about whales with strangers.
And if I’m honest, it was about the whales… and it wasn’t.
It was about the emotional power of a shared human experience. It was about feeling infinitesimally small, but never alone, in this ever-expanding universe we reside in. Deep down, it was about the sheer magnitude of beauty we have the chance to witness in this lifetime and the fear of missing even a moment of it.
Modern day American society isn’t one rooted in connection. We exist bent over our phones, thumbs incessantly scrolling. We don’t introduce ourselves, we don’t make small talk, we don’t linger for long. We are individuals in proximity to each other, but rarely in community.
This moment was not that.
This stranger and I stood shoulder to shoulder, tearful eyes fixed on the horizon, fully inside the moment. Together, we experienced a rare phenomenon that we could have just as easily missed.
I hope the woman remembers this moment as vividly as I do. I hope the memory surfaces from time to time and brings a smile to her face. I hope she has a million more moments as special as this one was. I hope we all do <3
With love,
Rachel
