We walked in circles for hours. Our muscles ached from holding up the one- and-a-half-ton, twelve-foot-long female. When the veterinarian came with his stethoscope to check on our beautiful creature, he broke our hearts.
“Ladies, I thank you for all you’ve done, but she’s gone,” the veterinarian told us.
“Do you mean she’s dead?” I couldn’t stop crying.
“Yes. I’m sorry. If you can come back later today, we’re taking shifts. We’ve been bringing in more pilot whales as we find them. We need all the help we can get.”
We left without saying a word to one another. Like in those zombie movies where they walk together dragging their feet into the town, looking ahead but not making a sound.
We checked in to a new hotel, showered, and changed for dinner, and only after we had eaten did anyone speak.
“Why did she have to die?” I asked Ms. Costa.
“What we witnessed today is very common for pilot whales. Sometimes, it’s discovered that these whales are sick with a type of pneumonia or some other upper respiratory disease. This always troubled me. That’s why I studied about it. The reasons aren’t always clear.”
“How long would she have lived?” Mom asked.
“The females usually live for about sixty years,” answered Ms. Costa. “But the males usually only live for about forty-five years.”
“That’s such a long time,” Jasmine commented.
“That might sound like a long time, but the female orca, or killer whale, has a life span of eighty years,” Ms. Costa continued.
“Do you think maybe there wasn’t enough for them to eat? Or maybe something tried to eat them?” I asked.
“Pilot whales eat squid, octopus, and fish but there’s no evidence to suggest they starved. Killer whales and large sharks eat them, but there aren’t any bite marks on them,” Ms. Costa answered.
“It’s not like they can call for help or anything,” Jasmine said.
“They communicate with one another by whistles, shrills, cries, and tonal calls,” Ms. Costa answered. “If they were calling for help, humans wouldn’t understand their language anyway.”
“It’s like a visitor to a foreign land trying to be understood.”
“Excellent point, Holly. Sometimes we need to pay attention to non-verbal communication when verbal communication doesn’t get the point across.”
Early the next morning, we went back to Marine Rescue Haven. Another pilot whale was brought into one of the sea pens. He was carried on a sling by eight men—four on each side. The veterinarian took his vital signs and a blood sample. A wet sheet was placed on his back to prevent sunburn.
The veterinarian told us he was ready for us to take over. Two men were assigned to help us because we couldn’t manage the extra weight and length by ourselves.
We tried to talk to the men, but there was a language problem. We understood they were on vacation from Brazil. None of us speaks Portuguese, and they didn’t know much English. We shook hands and smiled at one another.
“I think we’ve got some nonverbal communication going on here,” I whispered to Ms. Costa. “I guess this happens with people as well as animals. Everyone understands a handshake and a smile.”
“You’re a fast learner,” Ms. Costa said.
The male was about 18 feet long and weighed about three tons. His breathing was labored, but to our surprise, he seemed to calm down as we petted him and kept him moving around in the water. Maybe he understood we were there to help. I looked for signs, but he couldn’t make any facial expression. He was too weak even to make any sounds.
I got out of the sea pen to get a bucket. I poured water on our pilot whale’s back. I wanted to make sure he felt cool.
Jasmine asked, “Ms. Costa, do pilot whales play in the water the way dolphins do?”
“Yes, they breach by leaping in and out of the water to play and give signals, but they also have some other tricks of their own that whales also do. Pilot whales like to spyhop and lobtail.”
“What does that mean?” Jasmine asked.
“Spyhop is when they hang vertically in the water with their heads and parts of their flippers above the water. Lobtail is when they hit the surface with their tails,” Ms. Costa responded.
It was so hot, the sheet on our pilot whale’s back kept drying up.
Jasmine got out of the sea pen this time. She found an extra bucket and we took turns pouring water on his back. We didn’t want to let go of him for too long. His weight was a lot for six people to manage, let alone four people when we left to fill up the buckets.
“We’ve got another short-finned one here,” a man called out as another pilot whale was carried on a sling to the next sea pen.
“What’s a short-finned one?” Jasmine asked.
Ms. Costa answered, “It’s not easy to tell the difference, but there are long-finned and short-finned pilot whales. The short-finned ones are found in the warmer waters around Florida, while the long-finned ones are found in the colder waters.”
There was a lot of commotion when two men carried in a baby pilot whale on a sling. The veterinarian followed the same procedure as with the adults, then left him in the care of another group of volunteers.
Ms. Costa called out to the vet, “Do you think you’ll be able to save it?”
“I hope so.” The veterinarian walked over to us. “Since he’s still nursing, that’s another problem we’ll need to solve. This one’s real young. We can’t release him into the ocean without his mother to protect him from predators. We might have to keep him in captivity somewhere for his own safety.”
“He looks like he weighs a lot for a baby,” I noticed.
The vet answered, “After riding around in their mother’s bellies for twelve to fifteen months, these pilot whale babies are born at about 225 pounds.”
My mom asked, “What happens to the ones you can’t save?”
“Sorry to say, sometimes they need to be euthanized by injection. It’s the most humane thing to do.”
“Like a dog or a cat?” I asked.
“Yes, like someone’s much-loved pet.”
The vet looked sad and exhausted, but he never stopped. As each new pilot whale was brought in, he followed the same procedure: examined, noted, and handed his patient over to a group of volunteers.
I looked around at the other sea pens. People of all different sizes, shapes, colors, and ages. Serious faces. All of us working together. Thinking of only one thing.
It was time to go, but we left on a high note. The veterinarian told us our patient showed signs of improvement and was expected to make a full recovery. “We’ll probably keep him for about two months to make sure he’s strong.”
We don’t want to leave, but we have to get back to Miami for a late night flight,” Ms. Costa said. “What else can we do to help?”
“Please spread the word that we can always use donations. During a rescue like this, we need money to buy fish for the sea mammals, food for the volunteers, medical supplies, tents for shelter from the sun, and refrigerator trucks to transport the sea creatures to Orlando for rehab.”
“Now I see how important our presentation will be in making people aware of what’s going on here,” I said. “We’ll need our photos to show everyone, so they can see how serious this is.”
“I’m going to spend a lot of time writing the script to make sure I get all the facts straight,” Jasmine added.
“We can spread the word,” Ms. Costa said. “I’ll be sure to include everything we learned in my lessons.”
“I’ll do everything I can to help,” my mom said. “I have some ideas for images right now.”
We were exhausted when we returned to our hotel. The next day, we would make the long drive back to Miami to catch our flight to New York City’s LaGuardia Airport. Our mood was very different from the night before, when we experienced death instead of life and sorrow instead of happiness.
I thought about how much I had learned. Not just about the people I’m with, who amazed me in so many ways, but I have a deeper understanding of how the world is interconnected, and the power we have to make a difference.