It was a glorious, noisy (and nearly bloodless!) battle.
I was in my kayak, sitting quietly behind a flat rock in Puget Sound. About 50 feet in front of me, two male harbor seals were going at it, tooth and flipper. Between open-mouthed lunges, they’d roll and thrash as the water around them boiled.
Finally, one of the combatants emerged with a bloody wound on his forehead, where his adversary’s teeth had found their mark. The injured seal, using discretion no doubt borne of experience, barked one last time and swam away. The victor snuffled as if thinking, “Well, another rival taken care of. Now where was I….”
All this violence is not the norm when observing harbor seals. Normally we see them on breakwaters, fur-covered flour sacks snoozing in the sun, paying little attention to passing human traffic. (Harbor seals are the species most adapted to urban life!) Or, they’re gliding through the water, dolphin-diving now and then in search of lunch.
Harbor seals are the smallest of the pinnepeds, the name referring to flippers. Of the two types of pinnepeds, our harbor seals are “phocids”, seals having no ear flaps, but simply small ear openings. (The other group is the “otariids”, which have noticeable ear flaps; sea lions belong in this category.)
Male harbor seals, like the participants in the sparring match, reach 5 to 6 feet in length, and weigh up to 200 lbs. The species’ spotted fur gives them the name leopard seal. They’re at home in warm and cold water alike, having a broad range from Baja California to the Arctic; they feed mostly on fish.
One of my memorable scuba diving experiences involved harbor seals. I was hanging in a kelp forest, the harbor seals were all around me, pirouetting like obese ballerinas through the tall stands of this prolific seaweed. One female took a particular interest in me and approached closely. Soon we were eye to eye, her whiskers practically brushing the glass of my diver’s mask. Her stare was hypnotic as it focused on my face with what poet Hart Crane called “the seal’s wide spindrift gaze.”
Perfectly weighted for this depth, I hung motionless in a sitting position. Then, I felt a slight pressure and looked down; the seal had placed one flipper against my knee. I was mesmerized. It was a magic moment. Since then I’ve wondered if she was merely stabilizing herself in the current, or perhaps trying to make sure I was real. I’d like to think she was trying to establish a moment of rare communication between creatures from two different worlds, but then, I’m a dreamer.
In a few seconds, the seal backed away and joined her friends. The group moved off through the kelp fronds like twisting torpedoes, perfectly formed masters of the sea, becoming gray apparitions in the limited visibility.
Nancy Sefton is a Trustee of the Marine Science Society of the Pacific Northwest, operators of the Poulsbo Marine Science Center. New members and volunteers are welcome; phone 360-779-5549. Visit the web site at www.poulsbomsc.org.
