This summer, my wife and I ended up doing a few things I never would’ve predicted. It started with an unusual vacation. Folks who know me also know that many of my getaways have involved some kind of adventure sport. I’m not quite as ambitious as I used to be, but cut me some slack, I’m not 30 anymore. In fact, you could just about cut me in half and get a matching pair of 30s. I still hear the “Call of the Wild”, but these days I sometimes let it roll over to voicemail.
I’d never been on a cruise ship. Honestly, I never pictured myself wanting to be on one. But when my wife floated the idea, I figured it was worth trying at least once. We flew into Vancouver, spent a couple of days wandering around, and then boarded a ship with about 2,800 fellow travelers, headed up and back down Alaska’s Inside Passage.
One of the highlights was the narrow‑gauge rail into the Yukon, tracing the route of the 1890s Gold Rush — a strange and truly tragic slice of history. We also hiked in the Tongass National Forest to the edge of the Mendenhall Glacier. The naturalist leading the hike was excellent, and we learned a lot that morning. But the afternoon ended up stealing the show.
We went on a whale‑watching tour out from the bay in Juneau. My expectations were… modest. I figured we’d be out on a boat for a couple of hours, see a tail splash somewhere way off in the distance, and head back to the ship in time for dinner. What we got was something I didn’t even know to hope for.
The captain and naturalist pointed out what to watch for. If we saw a cluster of seabirds circling, call it out — it meant small fish were being driven upward, trying to escape whales (only to get picked off by gulls instead.) Sucks being a small fish sometimes. But I digress.
What actually unfolded was a full‑on whale feeding frenzy. Some humpbacks fish cooperatively in groups of eight or ten, with each whale playing a specific role. A couple dive deep and stir up a storm of noise and bubbles to trap a school of fish. Others circle the area, forming a living fence that keeps the fish from escaping. Then, as the bubbles rise — carrying the fish with them — the whales surge straight up through the center, mouths wide. Suddenly you’ve got a whole lineup of whale faces breaking the surface at the same time.
It’s called bubble‑net feeding. It’s rare, and it’s complicated — a choreographed dance that takes coordination, communication, and trust. And we didn’t just see it once. We saw it over and over.
There were at least three (maybe more) active groups feeding in the same area. Four boats were watching, and the usual practice is to observe for about half an hour and then move along so the whales aren’t disturbed. But in this case, the activity was so intense that leaving would’ve caused more disruption than staying. We ended up there for close to an hour, watching bubble‑nets erupt on different sides of the boat, sometimes within a minute or two of each other.
The naturalist was recording video like her life depended on it. Later, the captain told us that guides often call something “rare” or “special,” but when they’re too busy taking their own photos to say it, that’s when you know you’ve seen something extraordinary.
We saw plenty of other wildlife — orcas, bald eagles, harbor seals. My wife even spotted a grizzly bear; she was looking the right direction and I wasn’t.
Here’s what it looks like with PROFESSIONAL recording equipment!
https://youtu.be/1spWswTq0JY?si=5po_ptuGDo6g2x9L
My takeaway: Don’t dismiss an opportunity before you know what it really is. I doubt I’ll turn into a cruise‑ship kind of guy, but I also won’t be so quick to rule something out.
You never know what you might miss.
—Toph