My White Whale, Part 1
Every trip begins before dawn. An early rise, plenty of coffee, and a long drive to the central coast. But no matter how many miles or hours it takes, Monterey Bay is always worth the effort.
This stretch of ocean is a special place, home to one of the largest marine sanctuaries in the US. But what truly sets it apart lies deep beneath the surface—an immense submarine canyon where cold, nutrient-rich waters rise from the abyss to nourish an ecosystem teeming with life.
And it’s these conditions that make Monterey Bay one of the finest locations on the planet to witness migrating marine mammals. Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to see humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae)—breaching, lung-feeding, and slapping their massive flukes on the surface. I’ve seen fin whales (Balaenoptera physalus) glide past, just feet away, and I’ve been surrounded by playful dolphins (Lagenorhynchus obliquidens) and sea lions (Zalophus californianus).
But one particular species continues to evade me—the ocean’s apex predator, the orca (Orcinus orca). Witnessing these tenacious animals, particularly here in my home state, has become something of an obsession. But orcas are elusive; their movements unpredictable. And despite many attempts, they’ve so far remained beyond reach. And so, while their striking silhouettes are primarily black in color, they’ve become my ‘white whale.’
white whale
/ˌ(h)wīt ˈ(h)wāl/
an objective that is relentlessly or obsessively pursued but difficult to achieve.
To improve my chances, I planned my latest adventure for April—peak time for the gray whale migration. Gray whales (Eschrichtius robustus) travel between Mexico and Alaska every year—a round trip of almost 12,000 miles. Along the way, their young are particularly vulnerable. This is prime hunting season for transient orcas in Monterey because these killer whales specialize in taking down marine mammals and use the bay’s natural topography to their advantage, ambushing gray whale calves.
On this trip, I joined Fast Raft Ocean Safari for another chance to spot these remarkable predators. As we headed out into the bay, the air was crisp, and the horizon stretched endlessly before us. The ocean seemed alive with possibility, and there was no telling what we might encounter.
Thankfully, wildlife was abundant. We saw sea otters (Enhydra lutris) floating near the harbor, a black-footed albatross (Phoebastria nigripes) cruising overhead, and a raft of sea lions hunting. But as we scanned the horizon, there was still no sign of orcas.
At one point, we came across a slick patch of water. Birds lingered in the area, and there was a faint scent of watermelon in the air. Our guide suggested these were clues that orcas may have recently made a kill here. It seemed we’d missed them by just a few hours.
It was frustrating to think we’d come so close. But the ocean has its own schedule, and nature’s good at keeping secrets.
Still, the day was far from wasted. The sights and sounds of the humpbacks—their spouts echoing across the bay and their grace as they dived—reminded me why I return to this place. Monterey never disappoints, and there’s always something new to experience.
Much like the gray whales, I’m on a journey too. My quest to see orcas has become more than ticking off a species on a list. It’s a reminder that sometimes the joy doesn’t lie in the destination but in the search itself. And while I didn’t find orcas this time, perhaps it meant that one more gray whale calf continued its epic migration, safe from harm.
To be continued…
