campbell mccormack
Beside me was my father, both of us strangling the railing of the boat with white-knuckled grips, shifting in our seats to catch a clearer glimpse of the water. Cradled in the shallow belly of the vessel was a mother and her son, strangers to me, kneeling with their heads propped on folded hands, heads tilted identically to the right. Clasped hands, prostrate postures, reverent gazes — what was this, if not prayer?
The first mate, Elijah, explained to us what exactly was occurring in the ocean beside our small ship. There was one whale — an adult humpback, unfathomably large — spraying from her blowhole great arcs of water that caught the sunlight and then shattered it. Beneath her was a shadowy shape that we pilgrims couldn’t quite make out. This, Elijah said, was her calf, born in the winter and not yet weaned. The mother whale was releasing her breastmilk into the water and her baby was jubilant below, lapping it up out of the sea that held them, unaware of so many celebrant eyes.
I remember knowing, as I lived in this moment, that it was destined to be poetry. I couldn’t quite grasp all the ideas that were flying about my head, but one picture was clear as day: three pairs of parents and children, united under the same midday sky. Life giving life giving life, all of it warmed by one fiery sun.
The world is a scary fucking place right now. As a trans kid hurtling toward that inevitable fate of moving out of my parents’ house and carving a life of my own, I feel particularly afraid. I tried everything to reassure myself: reading all the news and being as informed as possible; reading no news and focusing on my own little life; seeking out opinion editorials; seeking out inarguable statistics; spending more time with friends; spending more time with family; getting angry; getting sad; getting scared and shutting down. I was clinging bodily to someone else’s false hope.
Until the whale.
It can be easy to forget that the planet extends beyond our small human society. But it does. We are not alone on the Earth. And, in fact, the Earth flourished without us for eons and has rebounded from five (or more, depending on who you ask!) mass extinction events. Like a messy celebrity sitting down with Oprah after rehab, the Earth has proven time and time again that it can pull itself back together. Humanity, in all our narcissism, is not powerful enough to change that.
The whale reminded me that the world is so much bigger than it often feels. I am not stranded with my fears. I am surrounded by everything else that lives and breathes and photosynthesizes. I am going to be okay. There is always a way toward the sun because the planet spins without us asking it to and so there must always be a light, somewhere. Even when we cannot see it ourselves. Even when we don’t believe it’s there.
Springtime has reinforced this revelation. My backyard looks infinitely green and I’m starting to feel okay again. I’m starting to believe that I’m going to survive this, and maybe even emerge stronger on the other side. Whoever you are, reading this essay, I know you will survive this too. You just have to force yourself to believe it. I love you. Don’t stop looking for your whale.