Coda in Gray

“No, the whales are all gone now,” said the desk clerk of our favorite lodge in Gualala, California.

Late November, through January, the gray whales, heavy with child, make their way from the Bering Sea down the Pacific coast to Baja California, to deliver their offspring. In the warm Pacific waters, they feed and fatten up their calves for the return trip; late January through March, according to the guide books.
For three days, frozen fingers gripping binoculars, I scanned the churning ocean – looking for a spout, a breach, a miracle.

Monday morning came, too soon, and we packed in silence. While he took suitcases to the car, I stood on the deck, searching – willing, a miracle.
“What’s that?” An out-of-place gray shadow moved under the surface, just yards from the surf-splashed beach.

“A whale,” he breathed behind me. For 40 minutes we watched, lump-throated, eyes widened against tears, cheeks tracked with them, as the babies, their mothers, and nursemaids, all danced and leaped and dove in the shallow surf, as our hearts played a final coda to our trip.

Did we visit Gualala to see the whales, or did they stop by just to visit us?

Only God can ken the reason for miracles.