In the blue wild

by Laura Adde (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Tonga

A broken message crackled over the VHF radio, and the half-dozen of us in the wooden boat looked at our skipper expectantly. ‘No tofua’a,’ he shook his head, and with a collective sigh, we turned back to gazing at the empty ocean, searching the surface for a sign. Any sign. I was beginning to wonder if it had all been worth it. The turbulent twin-prop flight from Fiji, booked on a whim having read a throwaway paragraph in a battered guide book. The beachfront bungalow, which was basic to say the least, but still beyond my backpacker budget. Admittedly, watching the locals climb palm trees to chop down fresh coconuts for breakfast had been quite something, but it wasn’t the reason I was here - nor the reason any of us were here, on this little wooden boat in the middle of the South Pacific. The rusty outboard engine rumbled and sputtered as the boat rocked its way further offshore, the Tongan sun beating down on our backs and intensifying the fumes from the marine diesel. Our skipper steered, chartless, with one hand, the other loosely holding the VHF radio that was our only link to shore. I idly wondered whether the Kingdom of Tonga had a coastguard: as a sailor myself, I was almost too aware how un-seaworthy our vessel was. And yet, all of us knew that the risks would be worth it - if we actually found what we were looking for. After all, the day had worn on without success, and now, when each buzz on the radio brought new disappointment, the sense of optimism on our little boat had started to fade. My polarised shades were smeared with salt spray; every wavelet had begun to look like a dorsal fin against the dazzling sun. I rubbed them on my half-tied wetsuit and shielded my eyes as I squinted into the water, searching. I’d never seen the ocean so blue. Then - without warning - the skipper choked the engine. I turned around: he pointed urgently to starboard, and in broken English, told us to get in the water and swim. This was it. We scrambled to our feet, pulling on masks and fins and zipping up wetsuits as the little boat pitched from side to side. I threw aside my sunglasses and half-jumped, half-fell into the water. It was unexpectedly cold: my breath caught in my chest as I plunged below the surface. I blew the seawater out of my snorkel and looked down. The boundless blue of the ocean faded to infinite darkness far beneath my fins. I shuddered - despite growing up on the coast, I have never liked not being able to see the bottom. I shook my head hard, and looked around me. Amid the splashing I realised others had started to swim; I kicked my fins and followed. I didn’t know what direction we were going in, but the others seemed to have seen something. I strained to see through my mask, but saw nothing but ocean. I was beginning to feel desperate. I kicked harder - and almost swam straight into a pair of fins. One of our crew had stopped, and was signalling us to back away. The others were suddenly still and silent: treading water, I searched the shadows. Then, from out of the depths, I finally found what we’d been looking for. Tofua’a. A humpback whale. No - two humpback whales. It was an unforgettable moment. The mother swam towards the surface, her two-tonne calf somersaulting lazily at her side. Their size was staggering. I held my breath, overwhelmingly aware of my own smallness, and we watched, wonderstruck, as they passed just metres away from us. I wondered how anyone could think these whales ugly: there was beauty in every groove and barnacle on their mottled blue-grey skin, and a profound peace in the slowness of their movements, as if they were taking their time to enjoy the warm waters before their long migration south. I watched until the very last moment, when the flukes of their tails finally faded into the blue…and a single, clear, plastic bottle floated past in their wake.