“Kayaker Swallowed By Humpback Whale.”
The headline came from Punta Arenas, Chile, last week, a modern-day Jonah and the Whale story, documented on video, nonetheless.
It could have been life-ending for the kayaker, but the whale decided “human with a side of kayak” wasn’t on the menu that day and immediately spit both guy and boat. And while the video (shot by the kayaker’s dad) was only 45 seconds, it appeared the guy just continued kayaking after it was over, like this happens every day.
When I heard this story, I had a couple of thoughts about it and other things related to it.
First, it confirmed why I don’t kayak (or swim or really do anything) in the ocean if I can’t safely wade back to the beach in under 10 seconds.
Second, I wonder how this dude told the story when he got home.
Significant other: “Oh good, you’re back. I’m thinking we should go out for dinner tonight. Maybe Thai. How was your day? Did you have fun kayaking? Any interesting stories?”
Kayaker: “Wellllll ….”
Third, if I’m this guy, I’m thinking my storytelling days are numbered. I mean, when you have a story that big, it’s ALL you have. From now on, this guy will be “the guy who got swallowed by the whale.” He won’t be able to tell any other stories … ever. Because people won’t allow him to. And if they do, any tale he tells will be followed up with, “So, do you have any long-term issues after the whole whale thing?” or “How long has it been since you got gobbled up by that whale?” or “Hey, how’s the kayaking going? See any whales lately?”
And then, after telling (or being forced to tell) the whale story again and again, people will get bored with him telling it, and that’s that.
It ranks up there with stories that start, “As we approached the summit of Everest …” or “You know, there’s just nothing like taking that first step on the Moon …” Once you have a story like that, it becomes what identifies you.
It’s like Don McLean writing American Pie. No one wants to hear about all the other cool songs he wrote (and he wrote a lot of them). Nor do they want to hear about life on the road as a musician, his family, his latest trip to the Poconos, or how he has really thrown himself in crocheting.
They just want to hear about American Pie, why he wrote it and what it means. (Frankly, he has better songs, but that’s a story for another day.)
That’s the cool––and brutal––thing about stories and storytelling. We like to think it’s the big stuff that makes the best stories: the moon walks, the summit bids, the massive discoveries, the great songs, the Bible-esque experiences.
And it’s true, those stories often make the best movies and books. But when you boil them down to what you and I do (tell stories at dinner parties, over coffee and while playing pickleball or cribbage with friends), it’s the little things that usually make the best stories.
I can’t identify with a dude who’s been spit out by a whale, someone who swung a golf club on the Moon, climbed a mountain or written an iconic song. But I can identify with someone who had trouble in the self-checkout at the grocery store. Or who realized his room key didn’t work because he was at the right room but the wrong hotel. (I did that.) Or feeling a certain kinship with someone looking down into the sewer wondering how they're going to fish out their car keys.
To me, those things––the minor mishaps, the funny situations, the near misses and the “oh shit” moments––make the best stories. Because we all have them, we can all identify with them, empathize with the storyteller, and we can hopefully all have a good laugh at our own expense.
It’s a great, wild, unbelievable story when someone gets gulped up by a whale and then deposited back into the water, left to finish his paddling in peace. And I can’t imagine what that experience was like (nor do I want to). That’s part of the reason I let that story go about 30 seconds after I heard it. It was told. It’s amazing. And it’s done.
However, when I hear a story about two guys trying to jam a big screen TV into the back seat of a compact car, and then when it doesn’t fit and they have nothing to strap it down, they have to put it on the roof with each of them holding one side as they slowly drive home, I’m all ears.
Great movies and books come from big stories. Great storytelling can––and often does––come from the everyday, the mundane … and the minutiae we experience in the moment: at home, in the car, at work, in the store.
I’m glad the guy is OK (and the whale too), and frankly, I think it’s cool that his dad was able to get it on video. I just hope he’s not looking for a story that can top this one or even come close … because he’ll never find it.
© 2025 David R. Haznaw
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