One of my biggest thrills, as a Wisconsin boy moving to Oregon for graduate school, was the chance to see the ocean. I mean, I'd seen Lake Superior, visited Split Rock Lighthouse, but that paled in comparison to the real thing.
I took a circuitous route, driving out from La Crosse, with side trips to Glacier National Park (past, actually. They'd had two feet of snow Labor Day weekend, so I bid a hasty retreat), Tuscarora Pottery School, and the south San Francisco Bay area, visiting an old friend from college.
It was while visiting Barb that I saw my first sea otter; saw rows of sea lions basking on the lower levels at fisherman's wharf in Monterey; watched in amazement as waves rolled in from across the Pacific.
But I didn't see my first whale until Oregon.
I'd been in grad school for a couple of quarters, staying pretty close to Eugene, but when someone said "Whale watching," I was hooked.
I drove down to Newport, stopping at every overlook along the coast highway, but without binoculars, or, really, a clue what I was looking for, all I saw was waves. So I bought a ticket on a whale-watching tour.
I don't remember much about the boat, except it was mostly white, and didn't pitch or rock much more than a hay wagon, so I kept my footing and my lunch. The sea was all glassy and rolling, and then suddenly, a humped back rolled up out of the waves, and back under again. We followed for a good half hour, watching the back, occasionally catching a glimpse of the flukes. Never had the classic tail-up experience, but I still have, somewhere in my desk, an envelope of 35 mm prints of glossy grey back in grey-green waters.
I don't know that I'd do it again--these days, whale-watching feels more like wildlife harassment than eco-tourism--but it was an unforgettable experience, one I've finally brought into my pottery. I've been doing humpback whales on dinner and dessert plates, pies and bakers, and some big cookie jars. Even a few teapots.
Because of the spout, of course.