Winter Paddling: A Moment of Mystery

October-November 2000

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.

by Klaus Kommoss

Klaus and his wife Parvin (shown here) spend their winters in Baja Photo, Klaus Kommoss

I was paddling from Mulegé to Loreto along the spectacular coast of the Sea of Cortez. The wind had died down the day before and a thin hazy overcast screened away the brutal force of the sun. Another 35-mile day in calm seas. I was paddling long distance and the enjoyment of covering miles was on my mind. I was far out, the land hardly visible anymore.

As the sky reflected almost perfectly on the mirror-like sea, it didn't make much difference if I looked into the sky or onto its reflection on the water surface. And because of the thin overcast in the distance, a horizon was hardly discernible. So the sky was everywhere, without separation: above, underneath, around-I paddled in the sky, I moved through the clouds.

In fact it was difficult not to slip into this mind-blowing illusion of being suspended in boundless sky, not only because this reflection was nearly flawless but because image and reflection flowed into each other without separation. The horizon, the universal reference for the mind, was missing. And there seemed to be no other optical clue to raise doubts that this sensation of hovering in the sky could possibly be an illusion. My little wake spreading out behind me gave the only faint sensation of motion; I clearly drifted through open space.

The coast was miles away-wild, beautiful and lonely as this planet in its original state. I had paddled with a bunch of dolphins for hours and they seemed to have accepted me in their group. Moving on in silence, I couldn't imagine any place I would rather be.

Now the water was quiet again and I heard whales far away- this awesome sound of explosive hissing exhale and roaring inhale that touched a primeval nerve in me.

I couldn't see them at first but I heard them draw nearer. Without being really aware of it, I stopped paddling and waited. Everything around was absolutely silent and calm, and something was in the air that made me hold my breath.

Then, not more than 6 metres away, without a sound, without any splash or wave, without even a riffle, the water-plane heaved up and a mountain of glass rose from the surface. A huge, dark body emerged from this glassy mountain, and water slid away from it without the slightest turbulence. I have never seen water move that way. The water surface just deformed, changed into this body; matter changed its appearance, although somehow mysteriously no physical process of transition seemed to take place. The nostril opening appeared, and with a magical primordial roar, a gush of mist shot up high into the air and I got wet all over.

Only then did I realize that it was real and not just a fantastic dream. A dorsal fin came up, somehow small in relation to the massive body; and suddenly I sensed the gigantic size of the animal, felt its life with overwhelming intensity, and saw its wonderful motion so gentle and yet incredibly powerful.

When the whale disappeared again as noiselessly and softly as it had come up, it left the surface without any trace, no swirls or flow patterns, just glassy sea reflecting the sky. It was almost impossible to believe what I had seen. I sat there in my kayak and felt as if an angel had touched me. It dawned on me that the whale could have easily tipped me over, but then I knew that it must have been aware of me and that it had been a moment of mysterious significance that the whale chose to emerge so close and somehow bless me with its spray.

Klaus Kommoss is a retired German engineer. ©

For information on the risks posed to marine mammals by a new US Navy sonar system, see this issue's News