I have seen many extraordinary things in my 30 years of nautical experience. I've been through 3 wars, 9 shipwrecks and countless times oceanic catastrophe. However, there is none so intriguing and fascinating than the one I had encountered just 5 years ago, in 1964 when I was sailing the Bascora. I was an employee of a Russian shipping company, commandeering a ship carrying tobaccos and lime fruits from Havana, heading to Murmansk via the north seas. She was an old girl, the Bascora, having spent well over 25 years on the sea. There were just 13 crews on board, including myself and co-captain Kristoph Rovochenko. We were sailing on day 81, nearing the Arctic circle one night. It was a very cold night, almost 12 celcius under zero degree. Bascora's radar detected something at 0120. It was moving so fast we panicked for a few minutes that it might be a torpedo. But we didn't detect any ship or submarine nearby, the nearest was almost 90 nautical miles away. It was impossible to have a torpedo shot from that distance. As it was nearing us, I immediately ordered the safe boats ready and all crews to the dock.
At 0126, it hit us. But not like a torpedo do, which usually blows the ship to bits. No. this thing gave a huge nudge to Bascora and she toppled sideways. I was at the captain's room warning nearby ship when I was thrown to the side of the room. My shoulder hit the door and I groaned, puzzled. Bascora was on her port, sinking slowly. I had discovered later that water came through the lower cabin's windows. There wasn't any leak or damage. But I did not know this when I was in the captain's room. I was worried of course, of death of the cold water below. But Kristoph was younger and quicker than I. He had all the crews on four boats in their life jackets. He was waiting for me down below. As I ran to the dock to look for Kristoph overboard, I saw him standing on a raft made of planks, the life boats of crew floating 20 metres from him. I saw his face, his mouth was gaping wide. He was shocked, bewildered. His eyes were of both joy and surprised and confused and disbelief all at once. I didn't see what he sees at first, until I look his way. Then, I saw it. I was confident my face was exactly like Kristoph's.
There, by the side of Bascora, looking sorrier than a mule was an enormous and black as the night, a blue whale. I could see its eye, watery and sad. It knocked our ship, tilting to her side. Well, how about that? What was a big blue whale doing alone hitting random things floating in the water? The whale seem to have rush to go somewhere, and now it was moaning a long whiny whale call. And I could feel that it is apologizing. The crews on the life boats, Kristoph and I were speechless for several minutes, trying to comprehend the situation. I for one, was glad it was not a torpedo and that our lives were spared. But what should we do now? Is the ship still alright?
To our astonishment, the whale sank back underwater , pulling the ocean with it and swaying our boats violently. I saw Bascora titling to and fro, at first slowly then faster and faster. The whale was trying to tilt it back on course. What remarkable sight it was! Many a times when I looked back to decide which was my most favourite moment as a shipman for the whole 30 years, I decided that this was my favourite moment. I could see the puzzlement in Kristoph's face as I laughed my heart out, the way I haven't laughed since I saw my grandchild Amilia trying to dance a ballet for the first time. The whale pushed Bascora to her starboard, then port again, trying to make her stand upright. Water was swishing back and forth, splashing us all with icy ocean water. One of the crew couldn't take much swishing that he got seasick.
Unfortunately, Bascora was already too filled with seawater to float back. When it was tilted, water came inside the windows of the lower cabins, filling her up from below. Now, she was doomed to sink. The ocean has finally claimed her as its own. The whale's effort was moot, and I could feel that it was sad. It was moaning all the time, pushing Bascora to stand again, as if talking to her. For two hours, we watched as the whale tried to rescue Bascora from Poseidon's grip, as she sank slowly, to her port and to her starboard. The silly whale did not even realised it was helping the sinking.
Kristoph had ordered one of the crew to send an SOS through the telegram. Before they left the ship, another trader's vessel 30 nautical miles away answered us and agreed to help. As of 0300, Bascora had completely disappeared, submitting to the ocean forever. The whale emerged again, moaning. I wanted to tell it that it was alright. We forgave him for we knew it was an accident. I stared into his eye. I could almost see myself. Yes, we were that close. It felt surreal to me, even thinking it back. As I stared into it, and it me, I had decided to name the whale Bosco, the clumsy whale, after the ship that he accidently murdered.
Bosco stayed with us until 0540, until Anna Carla came to with life boats to our rescue. It was not pleasant, I tell you. It was biting cold. But somehow I felt Bosco's companion helpful. Oddly, I felt safe with him being by our side, the thing that caused this mayhem was our source of hope. I could feel the apologetic tone in his whale calls. He was careful not to swish us off our boats again, but stayed idly very near to us. Kristoph even pet him, at first nervously touched the whale's massive side, then seeing it wasn't annoyed or spooked, stroked it gently, an idiotic smile on his face, as a child's first time stroking a wild animal in the petting zoo. Other crews huddled together for warmth, their breaths steamed out of their mouth. But Bosco stayed, we made eye contact and stare at each other for a long time. I could myself in him, literally. I see a shivering old man, a little angry at the disaster befallen him. But also a little amused. I smiled at him, and he blinked. It was truly a magical moment for me. The pinnacle of my life's experience is this, and it is communicating to a blue whale that knocked down our ship.
When Anna Carla came to sight, the crews were very delighted that they stood on their boats and waved. Kristoph lit up a flare and the ship bellowed. I wanted to thank Bosco for his brief and a little useless help but I saw that he was already leaving, submerging underwater with a puff of his blowhole. I found myself saying 'Goodbye' out of my mouth, but not loud enough that Kristoph can hear. He was too rejoiced to notice Bosco gone. When he saw the whale wasn't there, I thought he almost cried. He gave a little sniff and said "What a pity. I don't even get the chance to say goodbye" to which I replied "Neither do I".
We told the crew and the captain of the Anna Carla of what happened and they almost thought we were lying. The news did not spread long and wide for many regarded it as myths or exaggeration. There's even a research paper published by a marine biologist on whale's behavior and their ability to feel guilt, which proves null. Whales cannot feel guilt to other species. Or at least, there is no evidence of it.
But for 13 crews on board the Bascora, Kristoph and I, we knew exactly what happened and we understood the confusion of the world to us. We did not blame them. I cannot report it to any media whatsoever for fear it will ruin the company's reputation, hiring a lunatic as a captain. But I can record it in this memoir, for it is solely mine and my story only. I sailed 15 more ships after the incident before retiring here in Austria. My good friend Kristoph is still on the seven seas, now captain himself. The other crews, some perished some alive, all the same. The incident with the whale, I'm sure, is still fresh in their memory as of mine.
Excerpt from 'Memoirs of Captain Josef Panda'. Chapter XIII. Watson & Young. London. 1970.
