In the sixth of a series of articles charting the experiences of a Wanstead-based travel writer, Carole Edrich recalls how cold Canada’s Hudson Bay was whilst swimming with Beluga whales
I sway slightly with the current, hanging from the furthest extent of the towrope. Buoyed by the cloudy waters, there is little sense of movement and no real feeling of the world above the waves. I’m staying still and quiet. Legs and arms splayed for balance, an oversized floating lure.
My efforts to stay motionless are rewarded when I hear strange underwater voices resonating through the rather too turgid sea. We’ve been told that Beluga whales are attracted by the rhythmic vibrations of the Zodiac’s engine, but I’m sure my colleagues’ sudden moves have been scaring them off.
Although it’s summer, the Hudson Bay is even colder than you’d expect of a vast expanse of water fed by glaciers and melted snow. It was cold on the boat, and since wetsuits only work properly when you’re moving, we get steadily colder too.
I’m in the sea and I am freezing. We were told that the best way to warm up fast in the wetsuit is to urinate inside it. Advice I had decided to ignore, because, well… eww.
It’s not as if I was warm to begin with, but moving might kill my chances of seeing these wonderful white Beluga. Staying still and cold pays off, as with growing excitement I realise the cacophony around me is resolving into distinct, recognisable sounds. I momentarily forget I’m still slowly freezing. I forget the rain and the grey lowering sky. I listen to live whale song in the waters around me, both alien and intensely familiar. Some sounds make me think of life in the dry (and very much warmer) world above. The slow squeaky tuning of an old-style radio, the plaintive sound of a distant violinist, rusty nails scratching on glass, and a chirping and tweeting like the noise made by birds. I get increasingly colder and realise the sounds are repeating, a never-ending, low-frequency symphony, with shriller refrains that take quite an effort to hear.
I wonder if I might give myself frostbite and discover that – now I need it – my bladder’s too cold to obey.
Then five white shapes slowly emerge from the murk. A pod of Beluga – two full-grown, three smaller – swim close enough that even in this turbulent water their details can be seen. They know I’m here. They don’t seem much bothered. They turn and look, slowing their cruising to sight-see me.
I want to stay with them but my hands have stopped working. I give the signal to be pulled in. Cold, tired and – not by choice – smelling only of seawater, I peel off my gear with my fellow explorers. I’m blissed-out on nature and don’t care who sees.
To read more of Carole’s work or to listen to her podcast, visit wnstd.com/edrich
