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MIXED FEELINGS: WE HAD A BALL BUT DIDN’T RECORD A SINGLE SIGHTING
In a world so unpredictable, we reassure ourselves with the knowledge that there will always remain a few enduring certainties: The Earth revolves around the sun. Toothpaste, once unfurled, can never return to its tube. The better a restaurant’s view, the more mediocre its food. The only things Drake loves are his bed and his mama.
And if you visit Hermanus between the months of July and November, you will see whales. Countless whales. A bountiful bevy of behemoths, shimmying and gyrating for your entertainment, easily glimpsed from any cliff top along the shore. Or so I thought. Every year, during South Africa’s winter and spring months, hundreds of southern right whales make their way to its coast, congregating in the waters of Walker Bay to calve and mate.
The result has the tiny coastal hamlet of Hermanus proudly proclaiming itself the whale-watching capital of the world, complete with a town “whale crier” who patrols the boardwalk, blowing into a vuvuzela every time a sighting is confirmed. Given the density of whales off Hermanus’ shores at that time of year, it is not usually a job with much downtime.
And so I hit the road from Cape Town with my father on a mild October morning, on a mission to watch some whales.
Our first stop was the surfing town of Muizenberg on False Bay, known for its rows of seaside changing huts in a riot of primary colours. You are more likely to spy sharks than whales in these waters, but I saw neither: just hordes of surfers and families heralding the first proper summery day in months. We grabbed croissants and cappuccinos from a cafe and strolled along the promenade.
“Flag’s up!” squealed a little boy, running out of the water and toward his parents. Suddenly, swimmers receded from the sea en masse. Shark spotters dot the hills around Muizenberg, on the lookout for any possible signs of nefarious marine activity.
Different flags are raised to signify various scenarios – good visibility, bad visibility, suspected sighting, confirmed sighting. The flag being hoisted right then, featuring a menacing black shark against a white background, meant there had been a confirmed sighting.
Judging by the number of people still in the water, many deemed it worth the risk to swim on. Lifeguards on Jet Skis zipped through the waves, shooing stragglers back to shore. The last confirmed sighting was two months ago, so I was witnessing the first bit of shark excitement in awhile.
I took this flurry of action in the water as a good omen, and we got back into the car. Slopes clad in electric-green fynbos with bursts of vivid violet and yellow flowers rippled toward the ocean, and the mountains rising up in the distance looked more like painted backdrops to a play than anything found in nature.
Suddenly, a garish digital sign interrupted the scenic splendor, flashing “High-crime area – don’t stop”, reminding drivers that danger often looms beyond the bucolic peaks.
Just past Gordon’s Bay begins a stretch of Route 44 known as Clarence Drive, arguably one of the most scenic roads in the world. Sheer granite slopes to the left tumble dramatically toward the teeming gray-blue Atlantic to the right. Streaks of white clouds striped the sky above, some descending closer to Earth to ring distant mountains like halos.
“What ragged peaks!” my father exclaimed, over and over, impressed into redundancy by the drama unfolding around us.
The scenery was so beguiling that it even compelled him to look up from his constant study of a map and ruminate on the unreal colour of the water.
In a country spoiled for spectacular road trips, this stretch is one of the most breathtaking: Whales or no whales, it is definitely worth the drive.
There are plenty of lookout points helpfully scattered along the way, many marked with a whale illustration, indicating the best vantage points. We pulled out over a cliff above Dappat se Gat beach, a scenic cove framed by mountains, next to a shark-spotting hut where a black flag – low visibility, poor spotting conditions – was rippling in the breeze.
Surfers still dotted the waters below. These lookouts are famed for some of the best land-based whale watching on the planet, but despite it being a sunny day, the horizon was hazy and the visibility was not favourable.
Plenty of others had also taken this pullout, peering out from the edge of the cliffs with binoculars; I began to wish that I had a pair but immediately dismissed the thought. I was promised whales by the dozens, plain as day, seen from land. No binoculars necessary.
We carried on with a few more pauses, turning a two-hour drive into a leisurely five-hour journey, passing towns and enclaves with charmingly unwieldy Afrikaans names – Suikerbossie, Blausteen, Rooi Els – before a sign simply proclaiming “Penguins” prompted us to take another exit. More signs directed us through the town of Betty’s Bay, leading to one with just a silhouette of the beachbound bird in question.
Simon’s Town on the Cape Peninsula to the west is home to a much more famous colony of African penguins; while the avian residents of Betty’s Bay may not have attained the same A-list status as their cousins at Boulders Beach in Simon’s Town’s, they are still mighty cute, and the area is much less crowded.
The birds are not shy, waddling right up to inspect visitors by the jetty. “Do not cross the yellow line,” reads a sign, but it applies only to humans; curious penguins amiably sauntered across to pose for pictures with my dad.
Just as we walked back toward the car, my friend Eric called me with bad news from Hermanus: no whales out today. “But maybe you’ll see some tonight?” he added hopefully. I was disquieted but not prepared to give up, so onward to Hermanus we went.
Originally known as Hermanuspietersfontein but thankfully abbreviated to its current form courtesy of a pragmatic postmaster, Hermanus was founded as a fishing village in the early 19th century. Whales are its primary calling card for half the year, but the nearby valleys make up the popular Hemel-en-Aarde – “heaven on earth” – wine region.
We made our way to the then-newly opened One Marine Drive. I had chosen the cheerful five-room boutique hotel for its location: water views meant we could keep a watchful eye for whales from the living room, and the front door is just steps from the beginning of the path that takes you along the cliffs. We dropped our bags and immediately set out down the meandering route densely enveloped by fragrant fynbos; just breathing deeply seemed to have curative properties.
For dinner I had booked a table on the patio of Bientang’s Cave at sunset, eager to catch whales emerging just as the sun went down. This would have been a sublime perch from which to observe them: uninterrupted water views, late afternoon sun casting a rosy hue over the mountains in the distance, atmospheric mist rolling in.
But this was not my day. I returned dejectedly to the hotel, worried that the whale pillow on my bed might be the only one I saw that weekend.
Walking to the car to begin the drive back to Cape Town, we passed a woman on the phone trying to score a whale fix: “Do you have any whales out there at the moment?” I heard her ask. I felt her desperation. But I did not wait for the answer.