I have a photo of my mother in a gray hoodie on a boat—a whale watching trip. We see a few tails at a distance. Regardless, for the five-hour duration, she holds her camera to her eye, with the exception of this moment, when I take her picture.
In another version, the boat rocks wildly in the wake of all the breaching; squeals from excited tourists create a din. I have to shout to my mother. She turns toward me, my photo a brief interruption to her agenda: she clicks and clicks at the splashing.
Let’s say this time the water is glass. Far off on the horizon, what might be a small spray from a blowhole, maybe a second. A pod moving off. My mother is nonetheless enthralled, wind buffeting us. She anchors herself, turns and smiles, and that’s when I snap the picture.
What I left out before is that the boat zooms to a likely spot before the captain cuts the motor. Soon, a female humpback sidles up next to us and goes to sleep. The crew calls it “extraordinary” over the PA system. The boat lists to one side while every passenger aboard leans out over open ocean to try to get a photo. Eventually, mom and I give up our spots to let others see. We shake our heads in awe. She poses on the opposite rail, empty of people, and I shoot off a bunch of pictures. The one I like best I frame and station in the living room. After several years and two moves, I forget the details of the trip. At some point, I slide the picture out of its smart black metal and replace it with one of the kids posing in Halloween costumes.
The truth is, it’s off season. There are no other tourists on the deck. The few who came are inside eating Doritos; the wind is cold and mom and I alone brave it. Even though right out of the docks we had dolphins following the boat’s wake, now all is quiet minus an occasional cormorant overhead. It isn’t until we’re almost back at the harbor, the crew apologetic, naturalist going on and on about breeding habits, that I think to aim my camera at mom, who smiles obligingly, tells me she doesn’t mind about the whales, it was still a thrill just to be on the water.
There is no boat. Mom and I stand on sand and squint in the direction the German man pointed. We can only make out white crests on a choppy sea. Mom pulls her hood on and focuses her lens on hermit crabs in the tidepool. I’ve forgotten my camera in the car. Tomorrow she will fly home across the country and I will see her again once more before the day I arrive at the hospital and kiss her cheek. She’ll leave me a letter that says, It was enough.
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Kathryn Petruccelli holds an M.A. in teaching English language learners. Some recent places her work has appeared include The Massachusetts Review, About Place Journal, Anacapa Review, Plant-Human Quarterly, and West Trestle. She teaches poetry workshops online through SOBI: Small Observances, Big Ideas. Kathryn has recently relocated with her family to the west of Ireland.