In Brazil, the name assigned to collectives of three or more whales seen traveling together at high speeds and/or exhibiting aggressive behavior in the form of forceful physical contact is known as a grupo competitive (competitive group). It’s understood that they are made up of multiple males sparring with each other over the one adult female present, with whom the whale who emerges as dominant will mate. Running up on one of these groups is considered one of the highlights of whale watching; it’s thrilling to witness the streamlined focus, the levels of sheer might, and the palpable adrenaline moving through these posses as they race and joust. The word that comes to mind to describe the vibe of these scenes is atomic. It literally feels like they could collectively decide to blow something up right then and there, and woe to anybody caught in the path of their wrath. Many whales have the scars and wounds to show for these battles, though my sense of them is less of violence than of purpose. And maybe sport. I’m aware, though, that I have to be mindful of projecting too much benevolence onto humpback whales as a whole just because they’re my people and they display such sweetness in other contexts. Sometimes calves accompanying mothering whales who are in estrus are killed in this process, and that’s a bit hard for me to wrap my mind around. Surely there’s some kind of natural selection involved in it all. It’s intense.

Still, I can’t help but imagine that in the depths, away from the nosiness of humans, there’s all types of other action going on in contrast to these displays at the surface--some one-on-one, some prismatic (queer), some gentle, some kinky—just like there is with their dolphin cousins. It doesn’t make sense to me to think that these animals who express sensitivity and intelligence that from my perspective far surpass humanity’s wouldn’t have an even greater range of sexual expression than we do. But these are my mind’s meanderings…(This seems like a fine time to mention Alexis Pauline Gumbs’s book Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals. I’m guilty of assuming that folks who have made it to this space must have passed through that portal already, but I’ll stop that right this minute and advise you to get it into your life asap if you haven’t already. It is so concise, yet so densely spectacular). Having witnessed dozens of competitive groups at this point, what I know without needing to imagine is that they showcase the freedom, the wildness, and the powerthepowerthepower of these majestic mer-magicians through exhilarating displays of raw masculine energy. That’s what you get at and near the surface.

But when I sing to them, the roughhousing pauses.

Over and over, I’ve watched super-agitated pods make a shift that’s somehow simultaneously abrupt and seamless when the music reaches into them, like even mating is not so pressing that a break can’t be taken to appreciate a good song, to honor the offering being made, to acknowledge that the healing, loving intentions behind it are being received. I do feel that it’s personal on a certain level. While it’s unlikely that every whale in every group I’ve ever encountered has interacted with me directly before, I have a gut-knowing that the word is out about this work; they know what I’m doing and have a pact to give a collective nod of approval whenever they come across it. Also, they are moved by it, so profoundly that they switch from hardcore warrior mode to water ballet mode on a dime, synchronized swimming and tail salutes everywhere. It’s emotion all around whenever this happens; the sacredness of the exchange is never lost on the humans on board, and these moments in particular have given me access to a realm of feeling that I experience as an elevation of my sensibility. They take me to a place beyond tears, where the effect is so stratospheric that the water doesn’t move out of my body through my eyes, but rather shifts its movement within my body in synchronization to the movement of the whales: I co-feel with them. My capacity is expanded and all I can do is shake my head to that internal-external rhythm; teardrops are too little water to do justice to the heights of sentiment involved.

That’s the space I’m in at the start of this video, delirious with wonder as the whales approach, then instinctively compelled to get as close to them as possible by moving to the prow--or rather responding to their call to meet them at the prow. Gingerly working my way toward the front of the boat, I use the rail for support in the face of the epic agitation caused by their dozen or so (not all visible) bodies zooming toward the Terra Mater (Motherland or Earth Mother, one of the expedition vessels owned and operated by my beloveds at @ScubaTurismo, based in Caravelas in the deep south of Bahia), then motion for Jaco, who is filming behind me, to come closer to get the shot. Giovanna, who is filming from the upper deck, peppers the scene with her inspired commentary, exclaiming at the number of whales, their proximity, and questioning where Jaco was when he didn’t approach after I waved him toward me the first time. In his defense, I had asked him and the other men on board to stay back from me when the whales first came near, because I had gotten the clear impression in the prior two days we had spent at sea between Caravelas and Abrolhos that the vibration of Yemonja’s àṣẹ that I carry needed to be more forward, less diluted during initial contact. Za, Terra Mater’s owner and captain, appears in the frame when I motion Jaco forward as well, just as the whales are moving into formation right in front of the prow, dipping and rising in perfect coordination with each other, fanning out in front of me, saluting, leading.

I felt the absence of my documentary team of director and producers acutely right then, because all I wanted to do was focus on the whales, but it was such an extraordinary meeting that I had to be sure it was being captured, and I’m so thankful for Giovanna’s intuitive impulse to grab her phone and head to the upper deck. It’s unusual for me to divide my attention between the whales and anything else during these encounters, but I knew this crew had turned out in response to the very specific call I had radioed into the waters from below sea level (in the boat’s hold) the night before. Liquiding between sleep and trance, I had spent it projecting the request that they show up in numbers (even though it was quite late in the season and extremely rare to see a group this size) precisely so that this type of visual (which I was beaming to them telepathically as well) could be recorded. The humans need drama, I explained to them, in order to pay attention in large numbers, and part of my assignment is to get their messages to as many humans as possible. I’m quite clear that countless humans think that the notion of communicating with whales in this way is pure malarky, and that the idea that they’re aware of what’s happening in regional conflicts at ground level is utterly nonsensical. But when I say that I hear extreme amounts of alarm and lament in their songs of these past two seasons, it’s because they are singing the blues about Homo sapiens’ destructiveness toward each other and Terra Mater herself. They feel the earth and the waters being rattled by and riddled with bombs, and they sense the reverberations of so many children screaming in agony, whole communities wailing and weeping en masse in Palestine, Lebanon, Israel, Congo, Sudan, Haiti, Ukraine, and elsewhere, not to mention the stress of all the other species of flora and fauna affected. Their numbers in this region have increased tenfold in the past few decades, and, back from the brink of extinction, they have a vested interest in the continued viability of this planet as a habitable place for the offspring they’re sparring to create in this video. Emerging triumphant and fortified after generations of decimation and trauma from being brutally hunted, they can also offer inspiration/visions of embodied resilience in this moment when (surreally) genocide is once again front and center on the world stage via the horrors playing out in Palestine and Sudan. And, they have an unshakeable reverence for the living being who hosts us all; they are her record keepers, their songs are the songs of Earth. They know.

So the whales who answered the casting call for this video shoot did it for the sake of cocreating a visible, verifiable demonstration of the idea that one human’s voice can influence a whole group of beings who are exponentially larger and stronger than she is, can move a raucous gang of musting males to pause for peace, to stop in the name of Love and represent for what harmonious redirection can look like. They want us to see that this can happen in an instant, and by positioning themselves ahead of the boat, they’re offering their guidance, directing us to the power of singing as a tool of radical transformation. I often repeat myself and the themes of the project on this blog with the understanding that many or most people won’t read every post, and something I want everyone to take from this space is that the whales are doing so much more with their songs beneath the water’s surface than science has come anywhere close to acknowledging. These graceful goliaths hold a balance, mitigate harmful effects of human activity through vibration, just as they play a central role in the storage of carbon, but as the havoc being wreaked from above amplifies, they are calling on more humans to do as they do: come together in singing songs of repair for local and global ecosystems and communities. If one voice can do this, what could thousands, millions, billions of voices joined together do? Shift this whole reality in the span of a song, that’s what. A key point here, though, is that it doesn’t take billions. As I write this, there are a few relatively small (compared to the number of humans on Earth) groups of men making choices that are not only threatening the future of whole populations of people, but also recklessly contaminating and toying with the notion of unleashing mass destruction on the entire planet. They do not represent a majority, yet so much of the world is under their spell, convinced of their power, subject to their whims of tyranny, insecurity, and ego. Here is a different spell, woven by whales and humans, offering proof that a song sung into water with a pure heart and complete surrender to its vibration and intentions can bring about ceasefires and so much more. That’s what this video is showing: a ceasefire. The whales went right back to banging each other up after a few minutes of dancing to the music, and derailing their mating ritual was the farthest thing from my intention. Without denying that there are steps involved to getting there, the whales are pointing us toward using our voices to courageously specify and empower the visions we are weaving. This is not to suggest that folks should stop taking other actions at all; it is to say that those who feel compelled to participate in singing new worlds into being must show up with total conviction in and affirmation of the possibility—the fact—of Love’s victory, aiming beyond mere breaks in the bombardment, for all their usefulness. It is to say that in their most impactful and effective expression, these songs must move through the bodies of people who are committedly engaged in the establishment and sustenance of peace and healing in their own lives and relationships.

The idea of singing as fundamental to shifting reality is news to no indigenous people anywhere. My African ancestors who made the Middle Passage journey whispered to me of their musical and energetic exchanges with the ancestors of these whales from the slaving vessels that dredged them westward, shaping the core of this project. They planted and watered in me the memory of surviving by singing through the most terrifying terror and drawing courage and confirmation from the voices that answered them from the deep, dunking me into the zone where the miraculousness that saw them through it alive dwells, pulsing in the eternal now, accessible to us now, through water (among other channels). The song I’m singing to the whales in this video is the same song I’m singing in most of the videos from the past few years in which they are responding with undeniable engagement, appreciation, affection. It’s called “Canção Para Um Bebê Baleia (Song for A Baby Whale),” and it is a hit that gets them grooving every time. It came through during one of those time travel sessions when I found myself shackled to a line of other women on deck, bound to unknown hells but finding freedom through my voice when a mother and baby whale surface next to the ship and this melody, in a moment of pure inspiration at the sight (and recollection) of such tenderness, surges through me. I sing it each time I greet the whales, expressing welcome and Love for the newborns and the generations to come, pouring out a blessing that the waters in which they will grow will be healthy and safe for them and all the other species that depend on them, including humans. I carry this song to the hold with me and sing it in the wretched, wreaking confines of night there, a lullaby for myself and the other captives as the whales circle-dance and sing their way around the boat, responding through the blackness. I know I did this then, and I can do this now, and we can do this now, because one of our most recent ancestors, Dr. Bernice Johnson Reagon--mentor, song medicine carrier, scholar, memory holder, activist—hummed this truth into me repeatedly during our personal time together and expansively and incessantly through the vast body of her work on African American musical traditions: We have always sung ourselves free.

This grupo competitivo hung with us for 20-30 minutes, and their presence was too intoxicating for me to do much beyond what I’m doing in this video: singing and communing with the whales from a place of the most profound awe. Fortunately, there were other moments when I was able to fulfill one of the other missions of this sojourn, which was to gather more underwater recordings of and with the whales; they’ll be available here: https://www.michaelaharrison.org/conversations-with-the-whales and elsewhere soon. I’ve been told countless times by the biologists and tour guides who have worked with this population for decades that it’s pointless to try to get any recordings of these groups because they’re too focused on the fight to be trilling tunes through the waves. I did manage to ask Robert, the other Terra Mater crew member (who doesn’t appear on camera), to drop a hydrophone into the water at one point when they were splashing around near the boat as I sang over them. Not trying to capture anything, just to check the truth of what my vibrating bones were telling me. As soon as he dipped the line in and turned on the speaker, we heard it loud and clear: numerous whale voices rolling over each other through the ruckus. As far as I could tell,

they were all singing.

**If you appreciated this post and are touched by this work, please consider supporting it with a contribution via the donation tabs throughout this site, and/or by purchasing a download of any or all of my recordings with the whales, linked above. Thank you for reading!