Whale Watching

An adult gray whale surfaces near the beach in Malibu. All photos © 2020 Suzanne Guldimanm

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.

—Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark


Every winter, California gray whales take part in an epic migration from the Arctic to the warm waters of the Sea of Cortez in Baja, and back again. The first southbound whales are usually spotted passing Malibu in December; the first northbound whales usually begin to appear in February.

One of the first northbound whales we've seen during the current 2020 season. It helps when someone else spots it first and is helpfully pointing!

On the way south the whales are traveling fast and rarely linger; on the journey north, females with new calves stay close to shore. They often travel in small groups made up of adults, calves and young whales, and are often joined by dolphins.

March is usually the peak time to look for northbound gray whales off the coast of Malibu, but numbers of northbound whales have already been spotted, and the migration usually runs through the end of April.

Even though these animals are giants it can still be hard to see them, not unlike Lewis Carroll's long-sought but perpetually elusive snark. How do you see whales? The first rule: take time out to go to the beach and look for them, and don't give up if you don't see any the first time, or the second, or the third.

Here's a closer look at the same whale. That telltale spout is the easiest way to spot a whale, but there are other clues: ripples on the surface of the water, a Loch Ness monster-like glimpse of a tail fluke, flipper, or dorsal ridge, or the presence of other animals like dolphins or gulls, in the area. We'll take a closer look at all of these indicators in this post. 

There are plenty of good options for whale watch cruises out of Ventura, Marina Del Rey and San Pedro, but I like to watch for whales from the shore. Corral, Zuma, Leo Carrillo and the small pocket beaches along PCH between Malibu and Point Mugu beaches are all good spots for whale watching, but the best spot is usually Westward, where the whales come close to shore to feed and rest.

It's worth paying to park in the Westward Beach lot at this time of year. Bring a chair and an umbrella and picnic and make a day of it; or walk up to the top of the Point Dume Nature Preserve and watch for whales from one of the viewing platforms—there are two new platforms this year, although some trails in the nature preserve have been closed for trail work and the new beach staircase that is going in later this spring.

There are no guarantees in whale watching, whether on a boat or on the beach, You may see a dozen or none at all, but an hour  or two spent watching for whales is never time wasted. In its own way, it's a form of meditation.

The first thing I look for is any kind of disturbance on the water: a gathering a birds, ripples on the surface of the water, all of these can be signs that whales and other marine mammals like dolphins and sea lions are present.

The sudden presence of a large number of gulls means a good chance there are marine mammals around. In this case it was dolphins, attracted to the same bait fish the gulls were catching.

Gulls following a dolphin, hoping for a share of lunch.

This lone dolphin caught my eye at Westward Beach. 

There was too much wake out there for just one dolphin. Something much larger was in water.

A massive gray whale surfaced a second later, one of the biggest I've ever seen.

Here's her calf, popping up to spout. 

Most gray whale sightings are of a distant spout or puff of breath far out to sea or a Loch Ness Monster-like hump. My attention was drawn by the narrow line of darker water before I saw the whales spouting.  And the bigger band of dark water in the distance?

That dark line was the wake from a mega-pod of more than 100 common dolphins swimming past, almost out of range for my telephoto lens. 

Often all you see is the puff of breath with no whale in sight. They can hold their breath for a long time and its easy to lose track of them before they surface to breathe again.

During the northbound migration in the spring the whales come closer to shore and linger in one place longer, mothers rest and nurse their calves, but even whales that don't have young may take a break and rest near the shore, offering whale watchers a closer look at the heart-shaped spout that is the classic sign of a gray whale. 

If the whale is close enough to shore, you can sometimes you can hear it before you see it.

A ring like this is produced when the whale exhales and dives. Gray whales feed on the sea floor, scooping up mud that they filter through their baleen for the amphipods, krill, worms, and other invertebrates that are their main food source.  Gray whales are more adaptable than some of their relatives, and have been known to snack on small fish and squid—prey that also attracts dolphins, sea lions and seabirds.

There were two whales here a second ago. The ring of bubbles is obvious, but the smooth oval "footprint" next to it is also evidence of a whale. 

This is what is happening under the water during a spout. By the time someone shouts, "Oh look, a whale!"  The whale has exhaled, inhaled, and vanished with a flick of its powerful tail. 

Here are the "footprints" left behind on the surface of the water.

This is a beach-level view of a whale footprint. 

A second later, all you might see are some telltale bubbles. 

A whale footprint is often really a tail-print.

The gray whale's flukes are huge—easily 12 feet across. It's no wonder the tail leaves a distinctive disturbance in the water.

The tip of one of the two fluke lobes is often all of the whale one actually sees, and it can be mistaken for a dolphin fin at first glance.

The gray whale's enormous flippers are sometimes visible when the whale is rolling over under the water.

The whale's dorsal ridge suggests the back of the classical sea monster.

This species doesn't have dorsal fins, but some gray whales have pronounced dorsal "knuckles" near the tail. 

Sometimes you get a glimpse of a whale's head, or rostrum, out of the water.

You can just see the eye of this young whale as it surfaces to breathe.

Here's the barnacle-covered back of a gray whale's head, with the twin blowholes clearly visible. 

This whale is "spyhopping," poking its head out of the water and looking around.

Here's a view from above, showing how little of the whale is actually visible when it spyhops. A mature gray whale can grow to be 45 feet long, but only a small part of the animal is ever visible to the human observer standing on the beach.

Very rarely you might see a gray whale breeching. I took this photo in 2014 from the side of the road at Corral Beach. Those white lines are the five-foot-long neck groves on the underside of the whale. That's a good 60,000 pounds of marine mammal flying through the air—an impressive sight!

Even when you know you've spotted whales it can be hard to figure out what one is looking at. There are at least three whales here: one head, two tails, and the footprint left by the tail of the first whale as it popped its head out of the water.

There are whales in water in this image—the same three in the pervious photo, but you would never know it at first glance. Whales are elusive: patience and luck are key to seeing them. Gray whales may be giants but they are also fragile. 

The Pacific population of gray whales has recovered after being hunted to edge of extinction in the 20th century, but they are still vulnerable to ship strikes, trash, fishing gear, ocean warming, and even over-enthusiastic whale watchers who sometimes get too close or harass them with boats and drones.

2019 was a dire year for gray whales. There were so many deaths that an Unusual Mortality Event (UME) was declared.  It's important to give these amazing beings space. NOAA recommends observing whales from at least 100 yards away, and never swimming or paddling out to get a closer look. As much as we love to see them, we need to give them the room and peace they need to travel  safely and undisturbed. 

It is also important to continue to fight for protections for marine mammals. The gray whale has had a reprieve, but its future is far from certain, and its fate depends on us. 

Suzanne Guldimann

23 February 2020

Three guesses where the whales are. The sight of whales inspires wonder and joy in people of all ages and backgrounds. That we have the opportunity to witness this extraordinary migration is thanks to the people who fought and continue to fight to save the whales, and the coast they swim past.  Whether one sees a whale or not, an hour or two spent on the beach in February or March watching for these ancient and amazing pilgrims is one of the blessings of the year on the California coast. 

Flying Whales

The 2016 gray whale migration is winding down, but it seems to be going out with a splash this year. This group of five northbound whales appeared to be engaged in a sort of cetacean ballet, punctuated with spectacular leaps and tail lobbing. I have no idea if the performance had to do with vigilance and safety or joie de vivre, but I've never seen anything quite like it, not in a lifetime of watching the horizon for marvels. All photos © 2016 S. Guldimann

Have you ever seen a whale fly, dear reader? I have. For nearly twenty minutes this evening I watched gray whales leap through the air, splashing back into the sea with an explosion of spray.

That heart-shaped spout is the most conspicuous sign that gray whales are in the water. Although, sometimes the best way to spot whales is to look for humans pulled over by the side of the road pointing out to sea with expressions of wonder.

The adventure began with the telltale sight of whale spouts off Corral Beach. Stopping on Pacific Coast Highway can be a dangerous endeavor, but there wasn't much traffic. I pulled over in the company of four other carloads of spectators and stood sharing the feeling of awe and wonder with a group of strangers I had never seen before and would probably never see again. "Oh, look!" we said to one another. "How beautiful!" "Did you see that?" "Can you believe that?"

A whale rockets out of water...

Launching itself into the air...

Then, splash!

On many occasions I've watched whales steam decorously and determinedly across the bay with just the occasional spout or glimpse of back visible. This group danced and rolled and flapped their tails and flew through the air.

This whale is spyhopping—poking its head out of the water presumable for a look around.

How can something that vast be so incredibly graceful?

One last breath, and the travelers are on their way again.

My companions and I watched the whales until they vanished out of sight, headed toward Point Dume and on the next phase of their epic journey to the arctic seas that are their summer home. 

The last heart-shaped spouts caught the light of the setting sun, and then the whales were gone. One by one, their earthbound watchers awoke from the spell, got back into their cars, and drove away, each of us aware that we had witnessed something amazing; whales, flying through the air like birds, or like angels. 

A Glimpse of Something

A gray whale calf relaxes in calm water in a deepwater cove just north of Thornhill Broome State Beach. A record number of migrating gray whales have been spotted this year, but it doesn't diminish the thrill one feels at moments like this. All photos © 2014 S. Guldimann

Are you ever surprised by Joy? It is quite likely that you are, if you ever experience it at all. Like its source, Joy isn’t the sort of thing that can be summoned or commanded. The glimpse of Something captures us for fleeting moments, its elusiveness maddening our mortal frames. What was that, just beyond, that we would pursue at whatever expense if only we knew how? 

—C.S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy

My mom always says the stretch of Pacific Coast Highway from Malibu to the 101 is so spectacular  that the drive makes her feel like she's on vacation.  Before the "Great Wall of Malibu" was built (that's the local nickname for the wall of houses and landscaping that entirely block the view of the ocean in many areas and especially in eastern Malibu), the whole trip through Malibu on PCH must have looked like this. Once you are west of Point Dume, however,  it's nothing but sea and sky and mountains most of the way up to the 101.

The sign says "27 miles of scenic beauty," but it's more like 12 miles of scenic beauty and 15 miles of garage doors and privacy hedges. It's ironic that this sign is located here, instead of up by County Line at the Malibu City Limits, since by the time you arrive here, you've already passed much of the scenic beauty that's visible from the road.

She and I were on our way home from Ventura when we saw dolphins close to shore, leaping and dancing in the water. We pulled over to watch. It was my mom who spotted the whales: a cow and her calf, close to shore, swimming with the dolphins.

A gray whale and common dolphin in the water off Point Mugu State Park.

We were soon joined by other observers. Cars stopped. People pointed and exclaimed. Strangers who had never met before and were unlikely to ever meet again were united in a moment of shared joy. This is joy in the C.S. Lewis sense of something almost divine in its wonder.

We watched for almost half an hour as the whales and the dolphins surfaced and submerged, spouted and rolled—flukes, barnacled gray backs and a small—for a whale—head poking out to look around for a moment and then disappear, leaving a whale "footprint" behind.

It's hard to capture the moment with a camera. The whales are too elusive, they are only above water for seconds before disappearing back into the ocean. I feel like a Flatlander. These are true three-dimentional beings, flying through the water as if it was air, leaping into the air in the way we might into water, while we humans are trapped on the shore, our feet on the earth.

Mama whale, baby whale and a dolphin. There was a pod of around six common bottlenose dolphins in the cove with the whales. They appeared to be extremely excited by the presence of their much larger cousins.

The inquisitive baby gray whale pokes her nose out for a look around. It was a quick peek, not  like the prolonged "spyhopping" of adult gray whales. Compared to the size of the nearby dolphins, the whale calf appeared to be around 15 feet long. The cow—a hopelessly prosaic name for something so awe-inspiring—was probably close to 50 feet. 

Here's a close-up of the adult's blowhole. Gray whales have a double opening. This whale has a distinctive patch of barnacles on her back.

Mama whale roles over, showing one of her powerful flippers and an expanse of the blotchy gray and white coloring that gives this species its common name.

 We had a good view of the distinctive dorsal ridges that are characteristic of the gray whale.

One last spout—it's easy to see how whales could be mistaken for sea monsters.

...And then the whales were gone, leaving only footprints behind.

When the whales and the dolphins were gone it was like waking up from a dream. Most people wandered back to their cars. A few stayed, scanning the horizon for more marvels. Mom and I headed for home. But we did see one more marvel along the way...

In the sky over the ocean there was a sunbow that with only a little bit of extra imagination resembled a great celestial whale. 

We had the chance to have this remarkable experience because that stretch of coast is undeveloped, letting all of us who stopped that day see something extraordinary that would otherwise pass unseen. It's another reminder of why it's important to keep fighting for preservation and conservation.

Suzanne Guldimann
3 May 2014