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The pilot whales moved in a tightly knit group, swimming side by side and crisscrossing each other's tracks. Sleek backs and broad-based dorsal fins appeared, disappeared and reappeared, each creature in constant motion though the group itself stayed within a small area of sea. Through the moving group various individuals rose vertically, slowly, like dancers in an experimental contemporary ballet. Their rise was both controlled and apparently effortless. The great blunt-headed creatures reached the high point of the lift, hung poised, and then with a gentle vertical descent allowed themselves to slip beneath the water again.
There was no untidy splashing and no sound save the constant soft, explosive exhalations from the whales – and our own entranced gasps at what we were witnessing. Even the intermittent showers couldn't detract from the feeling of relief that the pod had moved to deeper water.
Soon we began to recognise individuals: some by a distinctive dorsal fin, others by the shape of the grey patch below the chin revealed when the whales rose vertically or "spy-hopped", and one large creature who swam almost exclusively at the edge of the group. The smaller shapes of the calves wove continually between the adults. We were unable to bring ourselves to leave despite the worsening weather. And our vigil was rewarded when we heard the pod begin to vocalise, communicating with each other in a series of far-carrying chirrups and clicks.
The sense of the social bond between members of the group was strong – a bond leading pilot whales to remain close to sick or injured members of their group; later a young female was found dead (the cause was an infection). The pod, as if its reason for remaining no longer existed, disappeared from Loch Carnan.
