This summer, our family’s annual month-long stay in Southport was marked by some lively talk-of-the-town.

A whale.

There was - people-in-the-know told us, eyes wide - a humpback (at least one) just off the coast. Spotted by kids in the SYC sailing program, by others’ from the rocky shore, and during boat rides to local restaurants. Not just a glimpse: full tail slaps and breaching, like it wanted us to take note; to be wowed by its presence. I was immediately obsessed. 

I always tell people (when asked, that is, and it's usually by children) that whales are my favorite animal. And it’s true. I’m enchanted by the sheer breadth of them, their playfulness, their family-centric, friendly existence in the dizzying expanse of endless, daunting ocean. 

I’ve seen them on whale-watching trips, but not randomly in the wild. On our first night in town this year, however, we spotted what looked like spray from a blowhole off the coast of my mom’s house, and my son, grabbing binoculars, claimed he saw a tail. We weren’t indoctrinated into the collective Southport fervor at that point - the knowledge that there was, indeed, confirmed whale activity - and I - greedily - wanted more. I wanted to see it for sure. 

It’s not that unusual, I suppose, to see a whale in Maine, especially in August, which, I was informed, is “whale season.” And yet, everyone we talked to had embraced a sense of collective wonder. 

I could say something trite yet, perhaps, true about this. That perhaps we needed that sense of wonder in these turbulent times.

But I don’t know about that. I think the promise of a whale may always invoke a sense of awe. Sometimes we are fascinated because things are, simply put, fascinating. 

We gleefully passed on the news to summer guests. “There have been recent whale sightings - right off the coast” we informed them, along with tips from neighbors about the best vantage points to try and see it for ourselves. Eager, earnest, serious, like we were semi-experts who knew something about whales (we did not). 

And they, hailing from our home state of Connecticut, and farther afield in Virginia and New Jersey (states - importantly - where no whales that we knew of were “hanging out”) joined right in the fun. They'd come for the normal trappings of a summer visit to Maine: blueberry pie (descended upon and soon demolished) on the kitchen counter, paddle-boarding at Hendrick’s Head beach, and walks through town browsing books at Sherman’s and picking up some salt water taffy to take home. 

But this summer held promise of something even more magical. A whale, we repeated. One friend visiting demanded that if we were lucky enough to see it, we must declare, “Thar she blows!” Of course, of course, we laughed. We’d do it.

But the guests, like the muggy August days, came and went, and no whale. Not for lack of trying, although our attempts were brief and fleeting. There’s only so much staring at the sea you can do before someone suggests you hit the pool or go get some lunch, enticing prospects in their own right. 

Very early in the morning on the day our family was set to drive home to Connecticut - unable to sleep any longer, anticipating the last-minute packing, the inevitable traffic, the return to reality - I went downstairs to make coffee. I let the dog outside and then stood on my mom’s patio to face the ocean, at that hour a perfect gray, glassy reflection of the sky, undisturbed except for a lone cormorant in frenzied flight just above the water. One pink swirl of clouds our backdrop as the sun rose. 

This, I thought to myself, would be the perfect time for the whale to appear. A majestic breach or - fine - just the graceful arc of a curved back in the distance. One last highly anticipated show before I hit the road. I stood there, my bare feet rooted to the flagstone, staring at the mysterious world beyond.

This is the thing about looking for a whale: the quiet patience required. A level of observation rare in our busy lives, even our supposedly less busy summer ones. 

No whale. Yet I couldn’t help but recognize the obvious beauty of this early-morning sendoff. This glorious expanse we are lucky to call a second home for these weeks each summer is worth hours of quiet observation as it is, all on its own. 

A whale would have made our summer truly notable. And yet, as always, it was truly notable anyway.

Cara McDonough has written for a variety of local – see "During an annual Maine getaway, time stands still," and national outlets including regular posts on her blog: www.caramcduna.com