By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
By Brian Rinker
By Rachel Swan
Everyone was keyed up, ready for the strike.
"We sat and did a prayer, and then, just like that, we said "OK, let's go get this,'" he says.
The whalers were alone in the ocean. With wooden paddles and harpoon. Just as their forefathers had been for centuries. The weather was calm.
There were no protesters. No media boats. No helicopters hovering.
It was a primal scene.
The barefoot Makah whaler came to mind.
But there could be no hunt.
Not until the federal biologists arrived to observe the hunt and not before Wayne Johnson and the support boat showed up with the rifleman. Johnson arrived around 6:45 a.m. Within minutes, a media boat was on the scene with television helicopters hovering above.
Incredibly, after months of stalking the whaling canoe's every move, mounting blockades of the road into Neah Bay, broadcasting anti-whaling messages from ships docked in the harbor, offering large sums of money to the tribe if only it would give up the hunt, vowing to sink the canoe and do harm to the whalers, the protesters were nowhere to be seen.
The hunt was on.
Several gray whales were in the area. The whaling canoe began tracking a 30-foot whale that appeared to be feeding. The weeks of practice paid off, and the team powered the canoe quickly into position.
Parker rose from the bow, his right hand clutching the harpoon, as the gray whale surfaced.
The action was being broadcast live on morning news shows.
"They have a target," a newscaster reported from a helicopter.
"There's the harpoon," the broadcaster said in the same tone a sportscaster would use during a field goal attempt -- "The kick is on its way ...."
The whale cut in front of the canoe. Only feet away, Parker thrust the harpoon deep into the back of the gray whale.
He was so close to the whale that he was able to lean into the harpoon with all his weight, all his strength, and ram the harpoon tip through the vertebra, piercing the whale's spinal cord.
The whale was stunned.
"It hurt the whale so bad that it buckled," Wayne Johnson says.
Which was a good thing for the crew because the bow of the Hummingbird was directly over top of the whale -- the last place the whalers wanted to be in case the whale flipped its flukes in a furious response to the sudden attack.
Instead, the whale gently rolled to one side. (The Makah say the whale's passive reaction showed it was willing to give its life. Protesters say the whale was shocked from the unprovoked attack and didn't know what was happening.)
The crew quickly paddled backward, seconds before the whale finally reacted and thrashed its fluke against the ocean surface before diving beneath the waves.
The harpoon tip lodged in the whale was attached to a rope, which ran to the canoe. The line connected to the whale went taut, and the wounded whale began towing the Hummingbird across the ocean. In historic times, the whale might have lived for several days and towed a whaling canoe far out to sea.
But this hunt was going to last only several more minutes.
"We are going to show you what is unfolding live," the broadcaster told a breakfast audience. "This may be a disturbing scene to some of you. You may choose to turn away from your television right now. The harpoon has stuck. The support boat with the gunner is moving into position near the whale."
The first two shots from the rifleman missed. A second harpoon was thrust into the whale, this time from a crew member aboard the support boat.
The third shot hit the whale in the spine, slowing it to a crawl.
"Between the two harpoons and the gunfire that has been shot at the whale, it appears the whale is mortally hurt at this time," a television reporter said from the scene.
The support boat again moved into position.
The rifleman aimed and fired. The bullet blasted a 3-inch-wide hole into the skull of the whale, killing it instantly.
Elapsed time from first harpoon thrust to fatal shot -- eight minutes. Time of death: 7:03 a.m., May 17, 1999.
Moments later, the weather kicked up and a cold, heavy rain began to fall.
The protesters finally showed up. All Capt. Paul Watson and the crew of Sirenian could do was mournfully blare the boat's horn.
Sea Shepherd spokesman Christie declined to comment on the Makah's assertion that the protesters were late because they were partying. He says the Makah surprised the protesters by paddling "against the tide very early in the morning, contrary to common practice."
Christie says the Sirenian was "virtually the only" protest boat left after the Coast Guard had "methodically seized" nearly all of the other protest boats. The Sirenian was refueling and gathering more jet skis in Sekiu when its crew got word the hunt was under way.
"We arrived on the scene 15 minutes after the kill," he says.
By that time, the whaling crew had already given prayers of thanks, before thrusting their paddles into the air and cheering.