It’s been quiet here, but I haven’t been slacking, I swear! Lots of energy and time is going into a new venture that I think you’ll like: Birdseed.
Since March, I’ve been painting familiar birds each week, and posting them along with small natural histories. I figure everyone knows at least ten birds already, but the more the merrier! And I get plenty of painting practice while I’m at it!
So if you like things like this:
Skip on over and check the rest of them out! You can subscribe if you have a Tumblr account, or you can check back each Monday morning for each week’s post. Hope to see you over there!
I’ve been landbound nearly my whole life. I’ve never been so far from a shore that I couldn’t see it, unless I was in the air. And after marrying into a family of seasick landlubbers, I’ve hesitated to test myself on the open water. But Long Island is a finger extended far into the ocean, and the ocean means more than beaches.
It means whales.
This past Sunday, some friends and I joined a whale-watching-and-research-survey cruise hosted by the Coastal Research and Education Society of Long Island. Midmorning, we chugged out of Montauk Harbor at the very tip of the south fork of the island, heading toward Block Island about 14 miles away. I kept thinking, “I don’t know anyone who’s seen this view of Montauk Lighthouse.” As the lighthouse, and the WWII radar tower, and the headlands of my island faded behind us, even the gulls abandoned their seats on the tour. Block Island loomed, and then shrank to a hovering mass on the horizon. The coast of Long Island disappeared.
It takes a long time to cross that distance over water. Hours, I think, though I wasn’t checking. The ocean quietly scintillated around us, the sun beat down, and the ocean-going birds must have been somewhere else. I almost thought the whales were too. But no. We idled a few minutes. Then the captain suddenly threw the engine into gear, the PA system hummed with the voices of the spotters, and we plowed toward distant cones of steam. Fin whales blowing. Three of them.
There are only so many pictures you can take of a 60-foot sleek grey back cutting the ripples, steaming exhalations through enormous nostrils, yards of a mostly unseen body sliding past, arching up, slicing the air with a blade of fin, sinking smoothly out of sight. It all looks the same on screen, but each instance feels different. Olympic divers would be envious: 70-odd tons, and not a hint of a splash. Fin whales are so powerful, they don’t have to lift their tails out of the water like other whales. They don’t need any extra boost of power as they dive. They whip their flukes unseen under the waves, and disappear. All they leave behind are wide slicks of flattened surface water, anomalously out of sync with the rest of the wind-riffled waves.
They’re so fast they escaped the first great age of whaling, only to become the most tempting prey in the ocean once our hunting technology caught up with them. Their populations are only recently starting to recover in the North Atlantic.
Our guide, Dr. Artie Koppelman, doled out bits of information in these snail-paced doses. He told us that the whales empty their lungs at speeds of hundreds of miles per hour. Fwoom. Beinginside those giant lungs as they exhale would be like being flattened by a train, I thought. He told us that Fin whales are assymetrically colored: the right side of their face is white, contrasting with the rest of their grey-brown bodies. I didn’t catch sight of that feature, the whales surfaced, breathed, dove so fast. He told us we had seen a mother and a calf pair, and that the calf, at nearly six months old, would soon set off on its own. We watched the calf roll, lifting a fin out of the water, using the torque of its rotation to close its mouth against the 18,000 gallons of water it gulped to strain for food.
We only saw three of the giant Fin whales, though other tours have seen dozens of other whales and dolphins in the same patch of ocean. They’re big enough to find from miles away, and yet somehow the ocean isn’t big enough for them anymore. Once there were hundreds of thousands of Fins. And hundreds of thousands of Blues. And all the others, an ocean literally teeming with flocks of the most enormous creatures ever seen in the universe, and all the other things in the ocean that fed them. It teems much less now.
Eventually, we let the whales go on without us. The boat turned west, back toward the lighthouse that waited for us on Montauk’s reinforced cliffs. Sun-tired and listless, most of the passengers stopped watching the ocean, until someone spotted a dark fin cutting the water, and another blade of fin sinuously trailing it in languid figure-eights.
A real, live Hammerhead shark! In the ocean! The same ocean I swim in all summer! I wanted to put on a snorkel and trail my head in the water all the way back to port. The surface was quiet the rest of the trip, but there had to be more. I wanted to see them.
Naturalists develop the habit of visiting specific patches of earth often. Different times of year, times of day, different ways of being in the same place yield way more insight into the way other things live than a once-and-done pass through. I’ve seen more species in my patches throughout the years than I think I’d see if I chased every rare-bird sighting, or toured all most popular spots on the island.
I wish I could make a patch of the ocean, and as of this trip, I’m going to rate myself sea-worthy enough to take a stab at it. There’s no such thing as a whale-watching season pass, but I’m going to do my darndest to get out there as often as I can. It’s a big ocean, and there’s still a hell of a lot to see in it.
Things have a way of accelerating out of hand, like a job that’s unexpectedly replaced with another, dropping a whole encyclopedia’s worth of information to master on my desk and leaving very little time for snooping. Or like summer, when it’s suddenly August and the tupelo trees are turning traitor with their unseasonably orange leaves, and the birds start molting and moving, and fledging and leaving. Or like an Instagram feed that’s spontaneously 90% bugs, and you scratch your head trying to find out where all the purty sunsets went.
These are all phone photos, all poached from my Instagram. When I told folks this would be my Year of Insects, I had no idea what I got myself into. I am, to borrow an overused phrase, A Little Obsessed.
Usually when I share photos, I have an intention in mind: a story to tell, some beauty that inspires me, an amazing natural something to help us all fall a little more in love with the world around us. With the insects, I’ve at least been trying to identify them before I post, trying to tie on a tiny scrap of natural history, if I have one. But mostly, I’m just absolutely gobsmacked by the crazy species diversity I’m finding every time I go out, and I can’t help but throw the best photos wherever I can share them. Can you believe this one? And this one? Holy cow! Who knew?!
The insect life changes week to week, microhabitat to microhabitat. I can barely keep up with the rest of life, and I’m not even close to keeping up with the insects as they whirl away from me too fast for a photo. But when they pause, light on a flower for a heartbeat, spread their wings to gather the sun, I do too.
from the top: Common Buckeye Butterfly; a pair of American Copper Butterflies; Lesser Grapevine Looper Moth; Halloween Pennant Dragonfly; Giant Leopard Moth; a pair of mating meadowhawk dragonflies