I picture Neptune inside, probably stretched out near the window, watching the world from his favorite spot. The thought steadies me.
How lucky I am! How strange and perfect this life feels sometimes. I wish my mom could see this.
Seagulls wheel overhead, calling out as we pass, their cries sharp against the engine noise. The coastline is rugged and green, the rocks dark with spray, nature unfolding in every direction without apology.
It doesn’t take long for us to find her.
Someone points off the port side. “There!”
The humpback surfaces slowly, unevenly, her massive body breaking the water in a way that immediately tells us something’s wrong. She rolls as she exhales, a deep, hollow sound carrying across the waves. Lines trail along her side,wrapped tight near the pectoral fin, tugging every time she moves.
Entanglement.
We slow our approach, cutting the engine down and letting the boat settle. No sudden movements. No sharp turns. The goal is to be calm, predictable, and above all, respectful.
I watch her patterns. The way she surfaces. The rhythm of her breathing. She’s exhausted, but responsive. Alert. Still moving under her own power.
That’s good.
I relay what I’m seeing, voice steady. “She’s surfacing regularly. No immediate sign of severe injury. The line looks external—no deep embedding from what I can tell.”
George nods, watching the whale surface again, eyes narrowed. “She doesn’t look familiar,” he says. “Cassie, get as many photos as you can. We’ll check the flukes once we’re clear.”
“You got it.”
The Coast Guard crew shifts into motion, already preparing. This is the part where everyone knows their role.
We edge closer, careful not to crowd her. She rolls again, the fin breaking the surface just enough for us to confirm it.
Fishing gear. Rope and line tangled together, dragging against her with every movement.
“She’s strong enough,” I say after another pass. “We can attempt disentanglement.”
Without hesitation, they move.
The crew works methodically, long poles and cutting tools extended, timing everything with her movements. No panic, or rush, even though every second matters. The ocean surges around us, the boat rising and falling, but they stay focused, precise.
I watch the line give way piece by piece. One section loosens. Then another.
Minutes stretch. The swell rocks us hard, water splashing over the deck, but no one breaks concentration.
Finally, the last of the rope slides free.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the whale surges forward, stronger this time, her body cutting cleanly through the water. She surfaces once more, deeper, fuller, her breath louder now. Healthier.
Relief crashes through me.
We monitor her, documenting and assessing, making sure there’s no remaining gear and no visible injury that requires further intervention. She lingers just long enough for us to confirm she’s clear, then dives, disappearing into the dark water below.
The ocean settles.
We stay quiet, letting the moment land, but then the water breaks and she breaches in a slow, powerful arc, her body lifting clean out of the ocean before crashing back down in a thunderous splash. Spray erupts around her, sunlight catching in it, and for half a second, everything feels suspended, until the boat explodes with noise.
Cheers. Laughter. High Fives. I don’t even realize I’m smiling until my face starts to ache.
Cassie grabs me without warning, arms tight around my shoulders, and I laugh as I hug her back, the release hitting all at once. The tension drains out of my body in a rush so strong it leaves me a little unsteady. Relief. Joy. Awe. Something bigger than all of it.
