Meeting minke whales

It’s a freezing Sydney morning when I fly out to Cairns for my chance to swim with minke whales, also migrating north but for reasons still unknown to humans. My reason is that I have a list and this is just one item on my list. I’ve ticked off other experiences recently, such as skydiving and getting my PADI Open Water certificate but there are so many more things waiting to be ticked, like playing with lion cubs, diving the Sardine Run and seeing the Aurora Australis or Borealis. Eventually.

I am a keen SCUBA diver so this trip appealed to me as I’ll get to dive the glorious Barrier Reef again. After learning to dive on Magnetic Island during summer and being spoilt by 28 degree water and abundant tropical aquatic life, Sydney’s waters were a bitterly cold disappointment.

A grey-haired woman is in my seat. “28F?” I politely question. I insist that I don’t mind sitting on the aisle, but the woman and her adult daughter hurriedly move and I guiltily squeeze in to the window seat, apologising for boarding last. The woman’s name is Sheila. Her husband died of leukaemia two weeks ago and this trip is care of her daughter and son-in-law. She asks me my name and when I respond her eyes light up: “My daughter’s name is Petra”, pronounced Pee-tra. I smile at the similarity.

Sheila is a born-again Christian; a fact that, by her own account, perplexes her irreverent children. I confess that I’m not a Christian but that I’m in search of ‘something’; Sheila asks if she can pray for me. It’s my first experience of Being Prayed For (that I know of). After the prayer we talk about life, the universe and everything for the entire flight: three hours solid interrupted by only one synchronised loo break. I feel somehow fulfilled already, even though my journey has just begun and not a whale in sight.

When the plane touches down we are both shocked and Sheila writes down her name and number in Melbourne if I ever want to call and we wish each other well with a warm hug.

After the Sydney overnight temperature of five degrees, I stride into Cairns wearing my almost knee high black biker boots with my scarf, sweater and hat hidden in my backpack. A girl outside a restaurant attempting to win customers comments on my boots; I must look ridiculous in this humid clime surrounded by Birkenstocks, Havaianas and bare feet. I console myself by thinking it could be worse: at least I’m wearing short pants.

I guess I must look like your typical latte-sipper because I order a flat white at a café and am delivered the tell-tale glass of coffee, not a cup or mug. This is not the first time this has happened to me. I decide it must be the boots and possibly the mammoth 1474 page copy of Vikram Seth’s ‘A Suitable Boy’ and writing material I’ve placed on the table. Not very latte-esque, I mean, it’s not Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy or Nietzsche and I’m not wearing a black turtle neck or smoking a long cigarette. I notice is that everyone seems VERY friendly in Cairns: a guy stops to help when he sees me struggling with a map and a man at the pharmacy cash register where I buy my motion sickness pills shakes my hand and wishes me well on my holiday.

The day before my trip I emailed friends a photo of Ioan Gruffud and proclaimed I was to meet his twin on the boat and bring him back to Sydney to have my way with him. My friend Alison was confused as to whether I was searching for Whales or Males and I decide I will need to tell her all about both (with supplementary photographs as a visual story-telling aide) when I get back from my trip.