War of the Whales Read Online Free Page B
Author: Joshua Horwitz
loan on his house, which doubled as the research headquarters back in Smugglers Cove, Washington. Otherwise he was proudly, stubbornly self-sufficient, and over the years, he’ d managed to scrape together what he needed to continue his research.
But now he needed help, and he knew it. The elation he’ d first felt on seeing and touching a live Cuvier’s had given way to dismay at the multiple strandings, then to anxiety that something catastrophic had befallen the whales they’ d been studying for the past decade. What could have happened out there to send them streaming out of the canyon and into the dangerous shallows? He tried to clear his head of exhaustion and confusion, so he could sort it out. Something extraordinary had happened in the canyon that morning. Of that much he was certain.
He’ d heard that Disney Cruise Line had been dynamiting offshore of Castaway Cay as part of a new pier construction. But that was 15 miles from Sandy Point. An undersea earthquake, or some other seismic event, could produce intense pressure waves that could drive whales ashore. But that would have also created unusually high surf, and he hadn’t seen the kind of driftwood or debris that would have washed ashore after a tidal storm.
His thoughts kept circling back to the US Navy, which maintained an underwater testing range 100 miles to the southeast, off Andros Island. If the Navy had something going on anywhere near Abaco, Bob Gisiner would know about it. Or he could call someone who would know. In the meantime, Gisiner had the resources to jump-start an investigation here on the ground. There was no way Balcomb and his team could manage forensics on a multispecies mass stranding. He didn’t have the manpower or the labs. And he sure didn’t have the money.
Gisiner had been Balcomb’s graduate school classmate at the University of California, Santa Cruz, back in the early 1970s. In those days, UC Santa Cruz was the leading—really, the only—university offering a marine mammal program. Marine mammalogy had barely been named, much less codified, and the prior generation of pioneering researchers had emerged from disciplines as disparate as neurology, marine biology veterinary medicine, zoology and ichthyology. The graduate program was tiny, and the students who collaborated on field research along the California coast worked at such close quarters that no one had any secrets. By the end of the semester, they knew one another the way a submariner knows his bunkmate: by smell. That first generation of university-trained marine mammal scientists remained a tight-knit, mostly male fraternity for decades afterward, even if they were conducting research on opposite ends of the globe and only crossed paths at annual conferences.
Balcomb and Gisiner hadn’t been close friends at Santa Cruz. Gisiner studied seals and sea lions—the “pinniped” branch of the marine mammal family tree—while Balcomb was focused exclusively on whales. With his droopy mustache and wizened eyes, Gisiner had eventually come to resemble his research subjects, in much the way some dog owners seem to morph into their pet’s particular breed. Gisiner was smart, like everyone else in the PhD program. But he’ d also been ambitious and shrewd in a way that made him stand out among the laid-back California students of the day.
After grad school, Balcomb’s and Gisiner’s careers went in opposite directions. Balcomb left Santa Cruz for Japan, where he studied the local Baird’s beaked whales. Then he moved to the San Juan Islands in the Pacific Northwest to begin a photo census of the resident killer-whale population that he continued every summer for decades. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s he subsisted on donations from local donors and grants from small foundations, plus the trickle of money he netted from hosting the Earthwatch program. Balcomb didn’t publish very often in the peer-reviewed journals, and when he did, he was always
But now he needed help, and he knew it. The elation he’ d first felt on seeing and touching a live Cuvier’s had given way to dismay at the multiple strandings, then to anxiety that something catastrophic had befallen the whales they’ d been studying for the past decade. What could have happened out there to send them streaming out of the canyon and into the dangerous shallows? He tried to clear his head of exhaustion and confusion, so he could sort it out. Something extraordinary had happened in the canyon that morning. Of that much he was certain.
He’ d heard that Disney Cruise Line had been dynamiting offshore of Castaway Cay as part of a new pier construction. But that was 15 miles from Sandy Point. An undersea earthquake, or some other seismic event, could produce intense pressure waves that could drive whales ashore. But that would have also created unusually high surf, and he hadn’t seen the kind of driftwood or debris that would have washed ashore after a tidal storm.
His thoughts kept circling back to the US Navy, which maintained an underwater testing range 100 miles to the southeast, off Andros Island. If the Navy had something going on anywhere near Abaco, Bob Gisiner would know about it. Or he could call someone who would know. In the meantime, Gisiner had the resources to jump-start an investigation here on the ground. There was no way Balcomb and his team could manage forensics on a multispecies mass stranding. He didn’t have the manpower or the labs. And he sure didn’t have the money.
Gisiner had been Balcomb’s graduate school classmate at the University of California, Santa Cruz, back in the early 1970s. In those days, UC Santa Cruz was the leading—really, the only—university offering a marine mammal program. Marine mammalogy had barely been named, much less codified, and the prior generation of pioneering researchers had emerged from disciplines as disparate as neurology, marine biology veterinary medicine, zoology and ichthyology. The graduate program was tiny, and the students who collaborated on field research along the California coast worked at such close quarters that no one had any secrets. By the end of the semester, they knew one another the way a submariner knows his bunkmate: by smell. That first generation of university-trained marine mammal scientists remained a tight-knit, mostly male fraternity for decades afterward, even if they were conducting research on opposite ends of the globe and only crossed paths at annual conferences.
Balcomb and Gisiner hadn’t been close friends at Santa Cruz. Gisiner studied seals and sea lions—the “pinniped” branch of the marine mammal family tree—while Balcomb was focused exclusively on whales. With his droopy mustache and wizened eyes, Gisiner had eventually come to resemble his research subjects, in much the way some dog owners seem to morph into their pet’s particular breed. Gisiner was smart, like everyone else in the PhD program. But he’ d also been ambitious and shrewd in a way that made him stand out among the laid-back California students of the day.
After grad school, Balcomb’s and Gisiner’s careers went in opposite directions. Balcomb left Santa Cruz for Japan, where he studied the local Baird’s beaked whales. Then he moved to the San Juan Islands in the Pacific Northwest to begin a photo census of the resident killer-whale population that he continued every summer for decades. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s he subsisted on donations from local donors and grants from small foundations, plus the trickle of money he netted from hosting the Earthwatch program. Balcomb didn’t publish very often in the peer-reviewed journals, and when he did, he was always
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