Exploration

Whale tales

On her Greenland expedition on assignment for Oceanographic, our 2024 Storyteller in Residence, coral reef biologist, conservation photographer-filmmaker and expedition leader Mads St Clair, observes humpback whales bubble-net feeding.

Words and photographs by Mads St Clair

“Sharks are so much more predictable,” I think to myself for the hundredth time as we watch yet another iceberg roll, crumble and splash with a resounding boom. We’re suited and booted on the boat, sweating in our suits in the same way that bergs are sweating in the sun. You see, the thing about iceberg diving is that you can’t think about what you’re actually doing too much, or it can start to really freak you out. Because yes, if I think in detail about the fact that I’m photographing – and occasionally touching – a very volatile (and very large) piece of ice, one that can move and roll, can melt, crack and crumble, floating in an ice fjord, surrounded by thousands of other bergs, doing exactly the same thing, in waters a hundred meters deep. It’s definitely a humbling, and rather frightening thought.

Today the sunshine is back in full force. Arctic summer is truly here. These are the conditions I’ve been hoping for after a couple of days of moody grey light underwater. I have the shot in my mind for the ecosystems story, a split shot of an iceberg, rearing out of the water, sharply into the sky.

The flat sea, shimmering bergs, low morning sun – I’m so ready for the dive when disaster strikes. I’m kitted up, doing my pre-dive safety check when something sounds wrong. I squeeze my suit inflator and immediately hear that something is off. The inflator has a small whistle. A noise that it has not produced before. The suit seems to be inflating fine, but the noise is new. “Listen to this,” I say to Sven. He listens as I inflate my suit and frowns. He reaches from the inflator and twists a few times to check it is secure. It seems like it is. We agree that it seems ok.

And as I turn around to take a seat on the rib, the entire inflator, hose – everything – comically falls off the front of the suit. Sven takes a look and within moments we know that diving is game over for me. “Guys, you go ahead,” I signal to the boys, and they roll back with a splash. Once they’ve been handed their cameras and have kicked off underwater, Sven and I take a closer look at the suit. The actual plastic inside the inflator has sheared off. It’s sadly, unfixable. Which means, I won’t be able to dive anymore on this expedition. Thankfully, this has happened on the very last day of diving. It’s one of those moments where you have to grit your teeth, pivot and smile. So that’s what I do.

And this is how I find myself, only a few minutes later, hanging off the side of the boat, my camera tethered to the rib and my face in the water. Sven is expertly manoeuvring us around the icebergs so I can shoot the perfect split shot. It feels like one of those moments where things happen for a reason, because obviously the suit breaking is catastrophic and annoying, but it turns out, taking split shots is ironically much easier from the boat.

Back on land and with diving off the agenda, I have a plan for the rest of the day. Hanging on the surface the boat this morning, we saw some whales going absolutely nuts bubble-net feeding around us. And now with blistering sunshine and clear skies, I most certainly want to shoot this. It’s funny, how being in the field stories evolve. You can put yourself in places where you’ll have the best chance of seeing something, research every element of a story that you can for when you’re on the ground – and yet, nature is nature. And you’ll never know what you’re going to get.

And so before I know it, I have a humpback whale story unfolding before my eyes. I shower quickly – another glacial shower – and pack my bag to head to the peak next to the huts. From here, I’ll have a birds-eye vantage point of the entire ice fjord and will be able to spot the bubble nets before the whales surface. I scramble to the top in just a couple of minutes and settle in, assembling my tripod and long-lens, unpacking my drone, binoculars and of course, my flask of mocha.

The next few hours pass in a daze of whale feeding, icebergs rolling, cracking and crumbling in the sun. I cry, laugh and shoot until my memory cards are full. Nature feels joyous today. I stay as long as I can, foiled only by the mosquitos, which increase in number by mid-afternoon, to the point where I have to fly the drone at a stationary position just over my head to create a small amount of wind to keep them off me.

Our last evening rolls around, and at 10.30pm we head to watch the sun set from the boat. We cruise around the icebergs, cascades of water falling and dripping from ice that has spent a day in the sun. I bring my camera, but don’t intend to use it. After a week of shooting I’m ready to just put the camera down and look around. I put my headphones on, blast some music and enjoy the feeling of being on the ocean. The light is low and warm and the air is cold. And suddenly I can’t resist. I pull up my camera and start to click away.

After 30 minutes, I put the camera down and smile. In the distance, there are puffs of humpbacks between the icebergs, clouds of white that hang against a pink sky. They’re too far away to shoot, but the moment is beautiful.

 

For more Despatches, images and more, follow our 2024 Storyteller in Residence’s journey here or over on Instagram

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