Most people are lucky to simply get a glimpse of some fragment of a whale. A subtle puff of mist over the horizon, the curve of a dark smooth back sliding beneath the surface, or for the fortunate, the flash of a tail or the explosive splash of 40 tons of flesh pounding the surface of the water when they breach. The immense satisfaction experienced during these brief appearances is a testimony to the whales’ elusiveness, and the immense difficulty of studying them.
For scientists, the challenge is even greater: whales spend most of their lives far offshore, hidden beneath the waves, or even well within the ice pack in some of the most remote and inhospitable oceans on Earth.
This difficulty has driven researchers to creative extremes – like using crossbows to gather skin samples, flying helicopters to count them, and sticking cameras with suction cups on their backs. I faced the challenge myself during my doctoral research at the University of Pretoria, which set out to unravel how southern right whales are responding to the combined pressures of climate change and shifting ocean ecosystems.
