Where the Wind Sleeps

A very small and a very wise little girl told me once that the ocean is where the wind sleeps.

Her name is Nicole. She’s 10 now and we went out looking for the wind Saturday on a boat called the Vanguard that sailed to the sea off Ventura.

Well, we weren’t actually looking for the wind, I guess, we were looking for whales and we found them pounding through the waves heading toward the Arctic Ocean.

But the wind was out there too, blowing in our face and stinging our skin under a sky as gray as the eyes of a troll, teasing us with a faint remembrance of winter’s last shudder.

Whale-watching is something you do this time of the year, because the big mammals follow instincts as old as life, mating and feeding where the lure takes them, responding to rhythms deep in their biological composition.

They’ve been doing this for more than a million years, migrating back and forth along the coast from the warm lagoons of Baja California to the chilly Arctic seas, and we pay to watch them doing what they’d do for nothing.

There were about 35 human mammals aboard the Vanguard, most of them children, and they loved every plunge of the boat through modest swells toward the open sea.

Nicole and I stood at the bow because, as everybody knows, if you’re going to find the wind that’s where you have to be. We were joined by a whole herd of little girls whose laughter trailed like satin ribbons behind us toward the disappearing coastline. Then suddenly someone shouted, “We’re there!”

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“How do you know you’re there if you don’t know where you’re going?” Winnie the Pooh once asked Christopher Robin, which is a very good question.

I guess the skipper of the Vanguard knew where we were going because pretty soon the big gray whales appeared, cruising along at about 5 miles an hour through the deep green Pacific, 40 tons each of easy determination.

I don’t usually go out of my way or pay to watch animals. Mostly I watch the fish in a 30-gallon tank in my writing room, especially the kissing fish.

I don’t know what its real name is, but it goes around puckered up looking for something to kiss, like those people in show biz at the Oscars presentation, except that the fish is probably a little more sincere.

The big gray whales didn’t kiss or perform much, they just pulsed northward at an even pace, blowing air and spray into the iron gray sky occasionally, diving sometimes to flash their tails to the crowd.

I guess that was performance enough because a lot of the human mammals went crazy with delight, and many of the dedicated animal activists were even elevated to the alpha state by the experience. Some salivated.

Nicole didn’t say much, but you could tell she was absorbing the experience and someday it will emerge in a story or a picture because that’s what she does. It won’t be about just any old whale, however. It will be a magical whale with diamond eyes in a lemonade sea. I know this girl.

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Pretty soon the whales went their way and we went ours, and everybody moved to the stern of the boat. Some bought popcorn or hamburgers in the galley, others just sat there trying to stay warm and thinking about the whales.

Nicole and I remained alone at the bow, where the spray floated over us like a bride’s veil, and watched the indolent gulls circling overhead, riding the secret currents with effortless curiosity.

This was the best time of the ride for me. The ocean has a way of involving a person, drawing one into its immensity, demanding the complete attention of all human senses. The sea wafts salty perfume on the breeze, pounds the ribs of the boat and dares us to contemplate its horizons.

It’s no wonder the wind sleeps here, because only the ocean can provide room enough for its vastness. Sometimes, when the night is still and the dogs aren’t barking at the back door, you can hear the soft sigh of the slumbering gale whispering through your dreams.

I explained all of this to Nicole, who nodded in response and kept her face forward, perhaps hearing something no adult could hear, stories told by the wind to children.

The Vanguard slipped into its berth with a dancer’s grace, and we all filed off. I saw Nicole look back once and say something, and the air was suddenly still. Perhaps she was telling it good night. I wonder.

Al Martinez can be reached online at al.martinez@latimes.com