The Secret Olympic Ambitions of Every Whale

I love the ocean. This is not a nuanced, delicate position held by a poet sipping sherry; I simply adore the vast, damp expanse.

Take dolphins, for instance. It emerged recently—and I use “recently” in the sense that I have known this for a considerable while, yet it never stops being utterly delightful—that dolphins take careful, exquisitely measured nibbles from pufferfish. Just enough neurotoxin to get wildly intoxicated, yet strategically stopping short of a permanent move to the great coral reef in the sky. They are, quite plainly, the unwashed, flower-wearing hippies of the deep.

Whales, however, are a different matter entirely. If dolphins are the aquatic ravers, whales are either the stage performers or the world’s most tragically ill-equipped Olympic hopefuls.

A whale breach—that staggering moment when several hundred tons of aquatic lard decides to simply vacate the water, rotate with all the elegance of a falling wardrobe, and come crashing back down in a wall of foam and unearned self-satisfaction—is one of the more inexplicable spectacles Mother Nature ever blundered into creating.

Since marine science remains baffled as to why they bother, I suspect it comes down to one of two things: either they are performing purely for shits and giggles, or they are doomed athletes possessed by all the ambition, nonexistent technique, and absolute commitment of a poorly equipped Olympic dream.

Either way, it is a staggering amount of physical effort for what can only be described as a bizarre lifestyle choice.

Once you begin to view these giant beasts mid-twist as underprepared gymnasts missing their landing mat, it becomes entirely impossible to unsee—and hopefully, next time you spot one, you’ll be looking closely for the optional re-entry.