**Warning: this post is similar to my dolphin autopsy story, which may be disturbing to some readers. Please see my gopher tortoise article here for something a bit lighter. **
It's Friday afternoon and I'm relaxing with a post-work pint at my desk. I've fallen deep into a rabbit hole that started with a routine email check and somehow lead to a not-creepy-at-all-or-even-slightly-obsessive scavenger hunt for the resumes of Science Magazine interns. Always on and tuned perpetually in to the island communication channel, the radio parked at the corner of my dresser begins to crackle, redirecting my attention to the disembodied voice issuing from its speaker. One of the island's visitors - who I assume came across with the spring bird count group earlier that day - sounds panicked. As I listen intently, the voice describes, in short cryptic clips, a horror scene on North Beach.
"Some sort of cetacean...forty or fifty feet from shore...struggling..." and then, "about ten feet now...sprays of blood..."
That's all I need to hear before I swing into action. I sling my camera over my shoulder, jerk the radio out of its charger, and slide into what I would later regret as a bad footwear option. A minute later, I'm in my work truck, bouncing over the dirt road to the entrance at North Beach. Having been mired on the beach one time too many, I slam the truck into park before I hit sand. After ripping the key out of the ignition, I start sprinting toward the radio voice's last indicated location. I'm not the only one who's interested in this distress call. Before long, a gator carrying two unfamiliar men slows as it catches up with me. They don't have to ask twice before I accept a ride, jumping into the shallow cargo bed and wedging my ample bottom between carbon black tripods and telescoping lenses. Another gator, carrying my boss (one of them, anyway) approaches from the other direction and both vehicles come to a halt. He's already shaking his head before we can ask what's going on. It seems that whatever the animal is, it's beyond saving. In the morning, Georgia DNR would be in to do a necropsy. Despite this grim pronouncement, the two men and I continue toward the small crowd forming around a dark lump in the tide.
Crimson water jostles the otherwise motionless mammal lying on the beach. I've never seen one of these animals before, but I later learn that what I'm looking at is a pygmy sperm whale (not to be confused with a dwarf sperm whale, because that's not the slightest bit confusing). The first thing I notice is its small mouth and sharp teeth. I don't register how much blood is in the water until I'm knee-deep in it, hands against the whale's body, trying to heave it over. Not only is it heavy - even with five of us lined up against its dorsal side - but it's slippery too. My hands lose purchase and I scrape it accidentally, getting skin under my fingernails. When we finally manage to flip the unfortunate animal over, there's a collective gasp. Cuts and scrapes score its flesh from nose to tail. When it's apparent we can't move it any further up the beach, I stand back and try not to let anyone see the tears streaming out of my eyes.
It's one thing to come across a corpse that's days old and another to know that moments ago, the creature was alive, struggling to survive. My immediate conclusion is that "we" were somehow responsible; that the whale had run into a net or a propeller. But the next day, when the Georgia DNR guy comes out to investigate, he fails to see an obvious cause of death. The gouges in its skin probably came from the razor sharp oyster beds that line the shores of St. Catherines. Pygmy sperm whales feed on deep water fish and squids about fifty miles offshore. If one came close enough to get sliced on our oysters, it was probably in serious trouble anyway. After washing the sand off of our whale and taking a few basic measurements (length, number of teeth, etc.), DNR guy prepares his equipment for the dissection procedure. I pull on a pair of medical gloves and grab ahold of a clipboard and pen.
On the clipboard is an extensive checklist of samples that must be taken for analysis. The steps we take to examine the whale are very similar to what was done with our dolphin a few weeks before. Whales and dolphins are both cetaceans; a classification of carnivorous marine mammals. They have much the same anatomy as other mammals, albeit with a few differences. Unlike the dolphin, this pygmy sperm whale and his kin have asymmetrical blowholes and lack upper sets of teeth. The two animals eat similar foods and when we dissect this one's stomach, we find all kinds of jagged fish teeth and squid beaks. The pygmy sperm whales can do something pretty cool with the squid they eat; they can sequester the squid's ink and use it later as a defense mechanism themselves, by releasing it with their bowels. Also unlike dolphins, sperm whales have a "melon" of fat between their nose and blowhole. There's some speculation as to what the melon is used for, but it may be used to amplify sound reception. This one looks like its fat reserves are low, which can often be a health indicator.
As sad as the fate of our whale is, his body can help us learn about these cetaceans. Since they don't often travel in groups and are rarely seen at the surface, most of what scientists know about them has been learned from instances like this one. When I reacted to that radio call, my first hope was that I might be able to affect some sort of heroic rescue, or at least administer first aid. But even though I got there too late and he was already gone (and I've no clue how to administer first aid to sea life), I came away from the experience knowing much more than I did before. For one thing, now I know there are pygmy sperm whales. I might not ever find out what caused his death. There weren't any telltale plastics in his intestines, fishing lines wrapped around his fins, or debris blocking his airways. Toxicology reports and sample analysis will have to be done and even then the chances that DNR will pass this information along to me are pretty slim (although I'll be pestering). However, I got to be there, to touch a whale, and to pass on what I experienced. For that, I am grateful.