My stomach lurched as the little boat swayed and dipped into Ensanada’s choppy harbor. The turbulence of the sea was one thing, but the smell of salt water mixing with the city’s hurricane of curious scents—which I’d nearly forgotten during our four hours spent chasing invisible whales along the coastline—washed over and capsized my gut.
The captain, a short, perpetually grinning Mexicano, had assured us that this was the perfect season for spotting gray whales, but all we’d seen were diving pelicans as the crew sputtered us around the two small islands just outside of All Saints Bay. Regardless, the crew and my fellow tourists enjoyed themselves, drinking beers brought aboard in big coolers and laughing every time the front of the boat crashed down over a big wave. I sat mostly in silence, scanning the horizon for the great mammals I never got to see, acutely aware that I was turning forty next week and nobody on the boat gave a shit. Or anyone else in the world, for that matter.