Whale season in Hermanus, day by day
Day one: the wind was wrong
We arrived on a Saturday in the second week of October, which is, in theory, the statistical peak of the Hermanus southern right whale season. The whales enter Walker Bay from July onward, calving and nursing in the protected waters of the bay, and most of them depart for their feeding grounds off Antarctica sometime in November or December. The ten-day window around mid-October is when the population in the bay is typically largest and when behavioural activity — spy-hopping, lobtailing, breaching — is most frequent.
On day one, the wind was from the southeast at about 25 knots, which is a common October condition on this part of the Western Cape coast and which makes boat-based whale watching inadvisable. Operators cancel trips when swell exceeds two metres or when wind produces unacceptable spray and roll. Both boat operators we had provisionally booked called by 8am.
We walked the cliff path instead. The cliff path at Hermanus — a ten-kilometre walking track along the dolerite headlands above Walker Bay — is one of the better land-based whale-watching positions on the planet. Southern rights, which are large animals: adults reach twelve to sixteen metres and females with calves are typically longer. They come close to shore in Walker Bay and have a particular behaviour of floating with their chins down and their tail flukes raised — called “sailing” in the cetacean literature — that is visible from the cliffs without binoculars.
We counted eleven individuals from the cliff path between the New Harbour and Kraal Rock. Six were adults, three appeared to be calves closely shadowing mothers, and two were juveniles travelling together. The wind was too strong for any of them to breach consistently, but there was sustained spy-hopping from two large animals near Kraal Rock and the sound of exhalation — a wet, low-pressure hiss that carries surprisingly far — was constant for about ninety minutes.
Day two: boat trip
Sunday brought a 15-knot northwesterly and flat water. Both operators launched. We chose the noon trip on a rigid inflatable with a maximum of twelve passengers. The boat is required by South African Marine Protected Areas regulations to stay at least 50 metres from any southern right — 100 metres if there is a calf present — and to switch off engines and drift if whales approach closer than 300 metres.
The regulations matter and the operators observe them. What this means in practice is that the whale experience on the boat is largely about waiting and positioning rather than pursuit. The skipper tracks whale positions from the previous cliff-path observations and positions the boat at distance. The whales approach or they do not. When they approach, which they did twice on our trip, you are sitting at idle while a twelve-metre animal glides under the hull at perhaps five metres depth, visible as a pale shadow that gradually resolves into the specific shape of a large cetacean, and then surfaces perhaps twenty metres away.
The breach, when it came, came from behind the boat. A large adult, probably female — the body shape was wide — lifted entirely clear of the water, perhaps 400 metres off the port bow, and landed on its side with a sound like a cannon shot that reached us a fraction after the splash. Nobody said anything. The skipper turned the boat at idle. The whale did not breach again.
The boat trip out of Hermanus New Harbour is worthwhile specifically because it puts you in the water at the whale’s level. The cliffs give you overview and scale. The boat gives you proximity and the specific vertigo of a large animal close to a small vessel.
Day three: rain and a lone calf
Tuesday brought cloud and intermittent rain, which clears the cliff path of casual walkers and, somewhat counterintuitively, produces good viewing conditions because the low-contrast light reduces glare on the water surface.
We found a calf alone for twenty minutes near the rocks below the Old Harbour. This is not uncommon — calves venture short distances from their mothers to explore and rest — but it was unexpected and the calf was inquisitive, repeatedly bringing its head out of the water facing toward the cliff. Whether this constitutes curiosity or is simply a reflex from vibration in the rock we were standing on is an empirical question we were not equipped to answer.
Day four: Gansbaai for context
On our fourth day we drove the forty minutes west to Gansbaai and Dyer Island, which is the shark cage diving capital of the Cape coast and also, less predictably, an excellent place to observe the broader marine big five context that includes whales, dolphins, seals, penguins, and great white sharks within a few kilometres of each other.
The seal colony at Dyer Island is enormous — 60,000 to 70,000 Cape fur seals at peak season — and the associated shark activity in Shark Alley, the channel between Dyer Island and Geyser Rock, is the reason for the cage diving industry. We did not cage dive but took a boat across to observe the island from distance. The smell arrives before the seals are visible.
What the cliff path delivers that boat trips do not
The twenty-four-hour exposure to the bay from the cliffs is something no boat trip can replicate. Whales are visible at all hours from the cliff path — dawn and dusk produce the most activity, midday the least — and the opportunity to track individuals over multiple days, to watch the relationship between mothers and calves, and to be present for the rare spectacular breach without having booked it or paid for it is the specific thing that makes Hermanus worth spending multiple days rather than driving down from Cape Town for a single morning.
The Hermanus Whale Crier, a town institution since 1992, walks the main street with a kelp horn and announces whale positions via a specific code: one blast for New Harbour, two for Walker Bay, three for the Old Harbour end. This sounds like a tourist gimmick. It is, in fact, practically useful.