Waves of Compassion

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Halfway around the world, Spong was in London for the International Whaling Commission meetings, working with Friends of the Earth to pressure the Commission for a ban on pelagic whaling. Our plan was to confront the whalers during the meetings and thereby shine an international spotlight on the whale hunt. But by June 25, two days before the end of the meetings, Spong was frantic because he had not heard from us in days.

Out in the Pacific our radio had mysteriously died. We could hear, but could not transmit. We could not reach Marining in Vancouver nor Spong in London. No one knew where we were or what we were doing. Unless we actually confronted the whalers as we had vowed, we had little hope of making the London newspapers and influencing the IWC vote. The whole campaign was looking like a failure. We were frustrated, tired, and low on food and water. Hewitt had wired a speaker into the galley where we sat for hours, monitoring the radio. On the evening of June 26 we distinctly heard Russian voices. Korotva thought he could hear the word 'Vostok,' the name of one of the Soviet ships on Spong's list. Hewitt fixed the direction, and we headed southeast after them.

Cormack slept about 4 hours each night. His usual routine was to go to bed at midnight and rise at 4:00am. At midnight, Cormack turned the wheel over to Mel Gregory with instructions to keep our heading at SSE. When Gregory took the wheel the moon was dead ahead and the moon's reflection was a yellow trail before him. Disregarding the compass, Gregory simply headed into the moonbeam. The moon, of course, moves across the sky, so when Cormack rose to check on him, we were heading 90-degrees west of our intended course. An enraged Cormack threw Gregory out of the wheelhouse, calling him a 'hippie farmer.'

Russian transmissions continued throughout the morning until, at about 10:00, they went silent. Cormack ordered a steady course toward the last RDF reading. An unrepentant Gregory awoke around noon as a brilliant rainbow appeared off the starboard bow. Figuring this was another sign, Mel made his way to the wheelhouse, calmly relieved Fred Easton of the wheel, and made for the rainbow. Whether it was magic, good karma, or just good luck, thirty minutes later Soviet whaling boats dotted the horizon. To add to the miracle, our radio suddenly began to work and Bob was able to call Marining in Vancouver, who called Spong in London on the final day of the IWC meeting. The chase was on.

Moore and cameraman Easton sped off in one Zodiac, while Watson and I jumped in the second. As we approached the colossal factory ship Vostok, we gagged at the stench. Harpoon boats trailed behind off-loading sperm whale carcasses. High on the main deck of the 700-foot behemoth, huge cranes ripped massive strips of blubber from the whales. Just above the water line, a red torrent of blood pour from a six-inch pipe. Sharks cut through the red water that trailed behind the factory ship. We were horrified.

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