I once saw a blue whale on the St. Lawrence river, while riding in a zodiac with my companion and a very nice guide, near Tadoussac. The plume of its spout must have risen 2o feet or so, demonstrating the size of the great gentle beast. I'd never seen a whale spout so high. Naturally, because it is wondrous, mankind had made it a special project to destroy the animal for dog food or explosives and other high priority commodities. In any case, this is nice news–although I tend  mistrust nice news.

Unlike many  other Bay Staters, I love snow. The more the better.

Stay tuned…..

So it appears the Bush administration appointee to the International Whaling Commission is trying to legitimize the least legitimate commercial harvesting enterprise in the world. According to the Sidney Herald, the commission's chairman William Hogarth was recently trying “to craft a pact that would permit a new type of ‘coastal whaling’ in exchange for a commitment by Japan to scale back its ‘scientific’ whale hunts.” Given Hogarth is a Bush holdover, there are no surprises there. But with Obama in, we should view it as a new game completely. The world needs to ban whaling and most commercial fishing. And that’s what the discussion should be about.

I met a number of the Williams descendants, which was a great honor for me.  The town itself is gently charming, with a main street that is quintessential New England, with a fine tavern and inn, and federalist and Georgian houses dotting either side of the road. Further down the leafy street is an intersection with a highway that is lined with malls, parking lots, and bars and is as ugly as any other part of America. A few miles down, and you're in Hartford, and decide you want to go back.

It was odd, to me at least, that a man who spent most of his life on the open ocean had grown up in a landlocked town. Perhaps that was what drew home to the whaling life. I saw the church Eliza Griswold became Eliza Williams; the swimming hole on the Connecticut River where I believe Thomas learned to swim, and other small landmarks. In any case, it was sobering to look at the grave of Thomas W. Williams. In his day an accomplished mariner, whaler, trader, father, and husband. His thousands of miles traveled ended in this one solitary place. It seemed odd for me–I had spent so much time studying his adventures, and then seeing his grave.  I had caught up with him after his travels have finished, and he is stationary forever, or close to forever.

Also, death has a conspiratorial quality to me–it's as if those that have passed and left have someone betrayed life and us and we can no longer reach them. I wasn't sure everything about this experience was adding up to me.  It was haunting: to see where someone has come from, in a sense, gives you an intimation of that person, of the surroundings that created him. It gives you a glimpse of destiny, that same series of seen and unseen causes and effects that is living through you, as well. But somewhere between the documents, the photos, and the landmarks, I was hoping to find a person, an essence. I'm not sure I did.

It was as if someone had laid out a suit that perfectly outlined the shape of the person who was to wear it, but lacked that person's presence. It was very empty. In any case, for a moment, I knew I had at least become close to that ever-receding past that we all become part of, eventually.

Nevertheless, this had required a commitment of time and money and there were other people depending on us, so sure enough we got the kayak inflated. As the sun rose, with pleasure boats one after the other being dropped off and launched at the dock, we managed to get in the floated kayak and start paddling.

There is nothing quite like being on the ocean early in the morning at sunrise. It is like entering a new life. As we came out of Green Harbor, one of the chase boat party noted we looked like the Union warship Monitor. A kayak puts you right on or under the surface of the water. The two of us in were in skirts making us appear to be attached permanently to the kayak, and evoking the ironclad's low waterline and turrets.

Navigation was simple. We just kept paddling directly into the blinding sun, which left a shimmering reflective bar of white light for us as a guide. The outgoing tide and lack of an easterly wind worked strongly in our favor. A few times we were picked up in two foot waves, but that just served to help us along.

A two man kayak is a Siamese twin. We divide the functions: Ed, the Portuguese navigator, can see what's ahead and perform checks with the compass. I stay in the back and check for landmarks, assess the wind and waves and monitor progress. You must have complete harmony with the partner or there are going to be problems fast.

We flew along at first, doing perhaps five to seven  knots with the tide. I presume we also had a favorable current. Once we sighted the thin needle of the Pilgrim monument on the horizon, I knew the destination would be ours. I won't say it didn't hurt, because it did. We were tired, sore, and cramped, but the taste of the finish was in our mouths. Regrettably, we saw no whales, as we had hoped. The chase boat also saw no fish, either.

By 2:30 p.m., we pulled up on the beach south of Race Point and got out to celebrate our trip. It was time to head into town for the victory round.

Incidentally, we had passed a few boats out in the deep 200 feet water in the middle of Massachusetts Bay. I've heard the lobstermen, from Marshfield, had seen an orange kayak passing them and were a bit incredulous. The fishermen didn't have a high opinion of our intelligence, but that's okay. Nobody trusts a visionary until they are proved right.

Special kudos to Captain Leo, who kept his crew ship shape and made it from Marina Bay, Quincy, to Green Harbor, in the dark. The voyage completely ended when we were in the blue lights on the windows of the ritzy apartments on Marina Bay.

Now it's time to plan to sail from Cape Anne to Provincetown.

With luck, I'll see a whale or two-which is the best way to see them. I know that from experience.

It turns out the ubiquitous vice president has successfully delayed a ruling that would make ships slow down slightly to avoid killing or maiming these animals. Again, there are “questions” about the scientific findings supporting a ban, just as there are “doubts” about climate change.

Political hacks dictating scientific rules instead of the other way around is nothing new. There was a time not long ago when Joseph Stalin insisted on imposing a bizarre and discredited genetic theory called Lysenkoism on his country. Dissenters, who happened to be right, faced Siberia. In America, the martyrs of scientific truth simply get fired from their jobs or ignored.

Not content in destroying the salmon population, a tentacle of Cheney or one his proxies now moves to intervene on the behalf of God knows what special interest that has some sort of bizarre justification to kill off another species. There is nothing much to say about this—it speaks for itself.

One shouldn’t be surprised. This “administration” has spent seven years effectively and joyously conducting an active war on the environment and successfully been killing off as many natural resources as it could get its hands on. (Well, all right, it did designate sections of Hawaii as a marine sanctuary—which, if we take the abuse of Stellwagen bank as an example, is fairly meaningless.) Then again, one asks, could it at least once do something, even by accident, that is decent for the treasures given to us by God as his custodians?