There are two reasons why scratching an itch on the nose of a thirty foot whale is a bad idea. One reason is that the beast might not like it. The other reason is that the whale might, instead, like it very much. Reason number one a most minor exercise in common sense. When confronted with a wild animal, especially one large enough to squash you like a grape, it seems instinctive to avoid doing anything that might piss it off.

"A friendly gray whale" ©Howard Hall

   Instinct can be misleading, however. It may be that, when confronted with a thirty-foot leviathan, your instinct tells you that reaching out and scratching its nose would be appreciated. You may actually be overwhelmed with certainty that the animal will not meet your touch with fear and anger, and that it will not react by squashing you like a grape. So, you think, why not?

   Consider this analogy: You are walking down the street and you come to a dog sitting on the front lawn of a residence. If the dog growls and bares its teeth at you, instinctively you know that giving it a pat on the head would be a bad idea. If, on the other hand, the dog wags its tail, rolls over on its back and wiggles submissively, the instinct to reach out and give it a pat is almost irresistible. But even in this instance there may be unwanted consequences to a show of affection. You may be repentant as the dog playfully jumps up on you, soiling your clothes with its dirty paws and licking your face with a tongue that has been recently exploring unmentionable canine anatomy. Then the dog follows you home and you can't get rid of it. Returned friendliness is not always a good idea with a stray dog. It is also not such a great idea with a whale. Following is a specific example of why I know this.

   Bob Cranston and I were diving rebreathers at Anacapa Island just offshore from Santa Barbara, California. We'd been down just over an hour searching for a fish called a sarcastic fringehead. These fish are quite common everywhere at Anacapa except, of course, in the location Bob and I were searching. We had just searched fruitlessly north of our dive boat, the M/V Truth, and were beginning to invest another hour searching South, when a voice near my left ear said, "I don't know if this is important or not, but there's a small gray whale in the kelp near Cat Rock and it's been there for about a half hour. I don't know, but I think maybe you could film it." The voice belonged to Mark Conlin and was emanating from a tiny "receive only" Buddy Phone speaker attached to the shoulder of my Scubapro Stab Jacket.

   Filming whales underwater is problematic especially in the relatively murky waters of Southern California. Any success usually depends upon active participation by the whale. Unless the whale is curious and approaches the cameraman intentionally, the cameraman has little chance of getting more than a distant murky shot of a whale dashing by. A prerequisite for a whale becoming interested in a human is that the animal must first be absolutely bored to tears. A whale slowly bobbing around in the kelp sounded like a bored animal to me and therefore worth presenting myself to as an object of curiosity.

   I immediately closed the valve on the mouthpiece of my rebreather and spit it out. Then I reached down and raised a Buddy Phone mouth-mask to my face, cleared it and pressed the "push to talk" button. "Load camera with 7293. Put on 5.9mm lens and URP filter. We are coming back".

   "Roger, loading 7293, 5.9mm, and URP," Mark confirmed. By the time Bob and I got back to the Truth, the camera would be ready and waiting.

    "It's still there," Michele Hall said pointing to a spot a hundred yards astern of the Truth. Bob and I dropped our rebreathers on the deck and quickly assembled our scuba gear. One of the great expectations regarding rebreathers is how useful they may be for filming whales. My experience has been that rebreathers are cumbersome and slow compared to standard scuba. And in a situation where you are relying on the animal's curiosity, stealth doesn't necessarily work in your favor.

   With our tanks strapped on, Bob and I stepped into the Truth's Zodiac and Danny, the Truth's skipper, motored us toward the whale. When we reached the spot where we had last seen the animal, Bob and I pulled on our fins and masks and got ready to jump in.

   "I don't see him now," Danny said.

    "It doesn't matter," I replied. "He's got to be close and for this to work, it has to be his idea anyway."

   Visibility was about fifty feet as Bob and I settled on the sandy bottom sixty feet below the zodiac. After five minutes I was just beginning to feel foolish when the whale made its first pass. I turned the camera on just in time to get a worthless shot of the tail as the animal passed by. But before the whale disappeared, I could see that it was circling back for another look.

   The next time the whale passed, it did so on its side with the left side of its head pressed against the bottom. Then it opened its mouth and sucked up great clouds of sand and water. Gray whales are mud suckers.

"Gray whale on the bottom" ©Howard Hall

   Of course, it wasn't easy. The whale seemed to instinctively know which move would catch me most off guard, producing the most awkward shot. For the next half-hour, Bob and I swam at one hundred percent effort trying to get the best position on the whale as it passed. Soon I was out of film. When I surfaced, I found we had drifted back in the direction of the Truth, so I dropped back down deciding to swim for the boat rather than waiting for the Zodiac. The whale followed me back to the boat.

   When Bob and I got back on board, Michele handed me a still camera. She had her DUI suit and weight belt on. I noticed that Mark had his suit on too as did divers, Ken Bondy and Tim Harrison. The whale surfaced right next to the boat. They all looked at the whale then looked at me. "Every man for himself," I said. A moment later the deck was empty.

   Shooting stills was no easier than shooting film. The whale continued to return, making close passes. But like all whales it instinctively knew just when to turn away from the camera or kick up a cloud of sand. I found myself swimming like a madman trying to get positioned for an approaching shot. I wanted the animal coming into the frame head-on, not going away. I rationed the frames in my camera, struggling to get the best angle as the whale circled and made pass after pass.

   With only a few frames left in the camera, I looked around and noticed that I was alone. Everyone else had run out of film or air. I was nearly exhausted, but used my last bit of energy to click off the remaining frames in my old Nikonos III. Finally, the winder froze telling me I was out of film. I was almost grateful. And that's when it happened; the bit about scratching the nose of a whale.

   I immediately stopped swimming. It was no longer necessary to fight for that head-on position as the whale swam by. I was done shooting. I could feel dampness against my skin inside my DUI suit. I knew the suit wasn't leaking, it was perspiration. I settled down on the bottom and relaxed waiting for my breathing to come under control and my heart rate to normalize.

   The whale also realized that the game was over. Now it no longer felt obliged to foil my efforts by presenting awkward posses and tail-on photo opportunities. It turned and swam toward me slowly, head-on. Then, only four feet away, it stopped and settled on the sand. I couldn't believe it! I had busted my ass to get this kind of position and now, out of film, I watched as the whale not only makes a perfect approach, but stops and lays in the sand five feet away! Motionless!

   Moving slowly, I crawled over to look into the tennis ball-sized eye. It was looking back. Then the head turned and moved a little closer. The whale raised its nose toward me. I could see barnacles on the nose, their feathery legs reaching out to strain the water. The nose was an arm's reach away and at shoulder level. I looked into that great eye once more and a long moment passed. The gray whale didn't wag its tail, roll over and wiggle, but the message was clear. If I scratched its nose I was certain the whale wouldn't be pissed off. I strongly suspected it might like it. Slowly, I reached out and touched the rubbery hide. Then gently, I scratched.

   Nothing much happened. Perhaps, the whale leaned slightly in my direction to increase pressure on my hand. But I was certain the whale liked it. I continued to scratch for about thirty seconds mesmerized by the proximity of this magnificent creature. And then I decided I'd had enough and stopped.

   Have you ever scratched the nose of a dog and then, after stopping, had the dog put its nose back under your hand and nudge it looking for more? Well, that's what the whale did. Problem was that the whale weighed fifteen tons and when it bumped me with its nose I went flying.

   I rolled across the sand like a peanut being pushed by the nose of a giant toddler in some kind of preschool game, then looked up just in time for the whale to whack me with its nose again. I went ass over teakettle. I was rolling across the bottom like a grape rolling downhill. My mask filled with water and I managed to get it about half clear when I went spinning a third time. It had ceased to be fun. I was in danger of losing my camera if not my mouthpiece. When I got my mask clear a second time, I found myself several feet off the bottom with the whale moving in for another affectionate blow. The trajectory was such that the next impact would probably have me singing in the soprano section for life. I slammed my knees together and twisted away just in time and found myself rolling down the whale's flank.

   Then it was over. The whale decided not to return for another smack at the peanut it was rolling across the bottom with its nose. Instead it slowly drifted away vanishing from sight. I didn't pause to bid the whale a fond farewell. Instead, I beat feet back to the boat and climbed thankfully aboard. A few minutes later we saw the whale breach a few hundred yards away.

The Truth pulled anchor and we followed the whale as it rounded the eastern tip of Anacapa Island and moved into the rough water of the Santa Barbara Channel. Then it breached a half dozen times more as it moved out into the open ocean.