The Island Packers team has been faithfully carrying out its mission since 1968, running voyages between Ventura Harbor and Channel Islands National Park. Over the decades, they've supported leisure, education, and scientific research alike. At the harbor's check-in area, you’ll find a whiteboard documenting the marine life spotted during the day’s journey—a charming tradition. Before boarding, we couldn’t help but glance at it: dolphins and humpback whales had made appearances over the past two days. That alone was enough to build up everyone’s anticipation.
The early morning sea was calm and deep blue, disturbed only by the gentle breeze brushing its surface. In the distance, the islands floated in a veil of mist—mysterious, otherworldly, like something from a dream. The weather today was, well, quite good. And by "quite good," I don’t mean spotless skies. In fact, the scattered white clouds were a welcome relief from the monotonous, cloudless blue we coastal Californians often wake up to. Too much perfection, as it turns out, wears thin over time. Aesthetic fatigue is real. We humans are hard to please.
Brown pelicans, the tireless commuters of the coast, flew back and forth between land and sea. With their large bodies, flying isn’t exactly effortless—especially over the 30 to 40-mile stretch they cover. That’s why they fly in disciplined, single-file lines just above the sea, riding their invisible aerial highway. Occasionally, a few latecomers join from a “fork in the road,” falling into rhythm with the flock. Some peel away toward other destinations. This kind of organic cooperation keeps their formation tight and functional.
The voyage out to the island was uneventful, and the initial energy on deck gradually faded. Conversations slowed. The narrator—you know, me—also fell silent, chilled by the crisp autumn air. The excited crowd that once buzzed at the bow slowly thinned out, until just a handful of us remained, quietly braving the breeze.
Hope lingered in everyone’s eyes, in sharp contrast to the still, reflective ocean.
But miracles kept their distance. The sea remained calm, right up until we reached the dock at the island. With our hopes now transferred to the return trip, we stepped off the boat and launched into our island adventure with renewed enthusiasm. Later, when we descended back into the canyon flatlands, the sun was beginning its slow drop toward the western horizon. Long shadows of tall trees carried a comforting breeze that made everything feel just right.
Along the narrow beach, we found colorful pebbles scattered like candy—smooth, vibrant, and varied. Boats glided across the gentle sea, while rowers moved in harmony with the golden hour light. The scene felt painted.
We were a group of six—two each from Canada, Germany, and China. Quite the international ensemble. The Canadian pair were visiting Santa Cruz Island for the first time. One of our German colleagues had been here twice before but never caught sight of any marine life. The other? Even more dramatic—he once booked a dedicated whale-watching trip and only glimpsed a few dolphin backs in the distance. This time, everyone had high hopes and joked that maybe I’d be the one to finally “turn the tide” for them.
The journey back began just as calmly. But this time, there was a subtle impatience in the air. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were due for something special, so I kept scanning the horizon in silence. Then, around nine miles from shore, a stir broke the pattern.
The crew began to buzz. The guide made an announcement: dolphins ahead. The deck came alive in an instant.
The sea and the boat burst into synchronized energy. Dolphins—those brilliant, playful creatures—seemed to revel in the excitement. They weren’t shy about approaching us, leaping through the waves beside the boat as if they were part of the ride. It was rare and electric—to catch that perfect moment of a dolphin breaching.
They began a full performance. The collective voices from the deck seemed to egg them on. At that moment, words no longer mattered. Cameras were raised. Eyes widened. We all tried to freeze every splash in memory—or at least in pixels.
Eventually, the boat began to move again, and the dolphins responded like mischievous escorts. They zipped to the front of the ship, dancing just under the bow. Their control was uncanny—sometimes speeding up, sometimes falling back—always right in sync. I managed to capture one blowing a perfect stream of bubbles.
That breath, or rather the forceful exhale of air, happened in a blink. A split second, and you see everything—the power, the grace, the control.
The white spray beside the boat froze in midair—just for a moment.
Then came the star of the show.
The humpback whale.
Its sudden appearance lifted the entire deck into a cheer. Gone was the cold. Gone was the stillness. Humpback whales are baleen whales, typically 15 to 20 meters long and weighing over 30,000 kilograms. Females are often even larger than males. Their signature "hump" is the first thing to break the surface—a calling card.
This one surfaced close—so close, maybe 10 meters away. A tower of mist shot into the sky, sparkling in the afternoon sun. Near the whale’s head, you could see small nodules, like bumps. These are remnants of hair follicles—a unique feature among whales, and part of what sets humpbacks apart.
The mist, caught in the low golden light, shimmered with rainbow hues.
It was a perfect performance. Everyone was elated. And no one wanted to leave. But the sunset had other plans, reminding the crew it was time to go.
We turned back for Ventura.
As we entered the harbor, the sunset bathed the palm trees in warm amber. The boats floated in a golden haze.
Back on land, the trip quietly came to an end. People drifted off, heading home. Just then, I noticed a couple standing by the water, framed by the setting sun. An older gentleman sat nearby. When I lifted my camera, they turned to look at me.
They probably had no idea just how beautiful the scene behind them was. But I did.
