Seven-year-old Emma places her hand on the edge of the boat as she stares at the horizon, her eyes squinting from the wind as our boat heads out from the bay. Her mother Gurli is sitting next to her, her arm around her daughter’s shoulders, while her father Vilhelm steers among the 50-odd fishing vessels making their way towards the open ocean. Our aim is to the help herd whales towards a beach, where a grindadráp, the Faroese word literally translated as ‘whale slaughter’, will take place.
Less than ten minutes pass and the boats form a semicircle behind a school of pilot whales – the boat in the centre flies the white, blue and red Faroese flag. On the whaling foreman’s signal, stones attached to lines are thrown into the ocean. Men and boys lean forward over the bows, slapping the hulls of the boats, throwing stones and shouting in the direction of the whales. The stones create a wall of bubbles which the whales perceive as a solid barrier that they must avoid. These combined noises disturb the whales, making them turn away from the boats, and help tempt the grind (pronounced grinned, with a short i), the Faroese word for whale, towards the beach in Sandavágur, one of twenty-two government-designated whaling beaches. Once the whales reach the beach, they have nowhere else to turn – the boats behind them, the beach in front.
On the beach, dozens more men and boys, and the occasional woman, form a line – their eyes filled with eagerness and concentration, their stances like racehorses behind their gates, waiting to be released. It is Thursday during working hours, yet people have stopped working and gathered from all over the country to either participate or witness. Children have been given time off school to join on-lookers.
The feeling in the air is one of hopeful anticipation and tense impatience. The grind is stranded as it approaches the shallow water, not able to turn or dive away, and the captain of the flag boat shouts the order. The tension is broken. The hunters sprint into the ocean amongst the thrashing and panicking whales, armed with hooks and whaling knives.
A man wearing a traditional Faroese brown jumper is waist-high in ocean water as he inserts a blunt-tipped hook attached to a long rope into a whale’s blowhole. Men on the beach, in groups of ten or more, hold the rope and pull the whale, which weighs approximately one tonne, to the shoreline, where men use their whaling knives to slice through the thick skin, blubber, and muscle to expose and break the whales’ spinal cord. The time it takes to actually kill the whale is measured in seconds. Within minutes, the ocean is scarlet with warm blood.
The noises are that of water splashing, gulls squeaking above, and the loud, resolved voices of men giving orders to each other; not to mention the hums of engines as boats swerve back and forth, trying to herd the last of the whales, who now seem distressed and disorientated, towards the beach. Among the hunters, there seems to be a sense of order amongst the chaos – not surprisingly, perhaps, given the amount of experience gained through centuries of whale hunting. From the person who first spots the pod of whales and calls the sýslumaður (the district sheriff who informs the public), to the person at the end of the rope, everyone knows his or her role down to a tee. In ancient times, news of whale spottings would be conveyed from village to village by either runners or bonfires on mountaintops. A bonfire would signal a grindadráp about to happen, and men and boys would rush to neighbouring villages to take part.
As our boat swerves back and forth, herding the last of the whales onto the beach, I notice Emma is not the only child allowed on a boat. “My daughter wanted to come along, so of course I let her,” says Vilhelm. “This tradition lies deep within us Faroe Islanders, and it’s not something she will get nightmares from. For us, this is not violent as it maybe is for those who are not used to killing animals themselves.”
Approximately half an hour has passed since the first whales were herded onto the beach and the grindadráp is now over. 107 pilot whales lie dead on the beach. There is no cheering, no chanting, no high-fives, yet there’s a palpable sense of accomplishment, relief, and happiness.
The Faroe Islands, a small archipelago of 18 islands in the North Atlantic Ocean under Danish sovereignty, have practised this tradition for more than ten centuries. The earliest recorded grindadráp took place in 1584, and – with the exception of a few years in the 1600s – written records have existed since. From 1584 to present day, on average 700 whales have been killed annually. Whale hunts usually range between 50 to 250 whales each time, but these numbers vary greatly; the largest recorded slaughter is 1200 pilot whales in Sandur in 1940. Not surprisingly, this tradition is deeply rooted in Faroese national identity.
Emma’s uncle, twenty-five-year-old Jóhannus, is one of the hunters on the beach, and has participated in whale slaughters since he was a teenager. “I completely support the killing of these whales,” he says, as he wipes blood off his whaling knife. “I do so because the hunt is sustainable, we use everything we can from the whales, we don’t take any more than we need, and everyone gets an equal proportion of the meat and blubber, no matter what their role. The grind is good and tastes great, and it’s free. All in all, a brilliant food system.”
Vilhelm agrees, saying: “I’ve grown up accustomed to using the food resources that are in our environment, so killing these whales is completely normal for me. It’s no different to killing sheep, cows, or any other animal for food.”
A couple of hours have now passed. The ocean remains scarlet but the whales have been removed from the beach and taken to a nearby dock where they are measured. Hundreds of people are gathered and have signed up for their portion of the whale meat and blubber; anyone is allowed to write their name on the list, with the catch distributed free of charge to hunt participants and, in some cases, all adult residents in the district. Those who are too ill or unwell to participate also receive a portion.
Using an old measuring technique and specified rules, the catch is divided into shares; the size depends on the amount of whales and people signed up. In most cases, each portion accounts for dozens of meals for each family. The task of cutting the whales and precise distribution of the meat and blubber is left to the men and women allotted each whale. There are no quotas, but certain beaches or entire whaling districts can be closed if harvests are considered sufficient. Elected whaling foremen, under the supervision of the sýslumaður, oversee the hunt. The sýslumaður also supervises the valuation and distribution of the catch, and is responsible for keeping records of the harvest.
Although this tradition has been practised for centuries, it has met fierce opposition from environmental and marine wildlife conservation groups in recent decades. The organisation that has made most noise is undoubtedly Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, an international non-profit, marine wildlife conservation organization who, according to their Captain, Paul Watson, “intervene against the exploitation, and especially the illegal exploitation, of marine wildlife”, claiming the hunt is unsustainable, animal cruelty and not in accordance with international whaling regulations.
It’s not only outside forces that have contributed to the debate around the grindadráp. In 2008, Dr Pál Weihe, chief physician at the Department of Occupational and Public Health in the Faroese Hospital System, and Dr Høgni Debes Joensen, chief medical officer at the same institution, concluded through extensive research dating back to 1984 that pilot whale meat and blubber is not fit for human consumption, citing numerous adverse health effects on foetuses, children and adults because of the high levels of mercury and other detrimental pollutants in the whale meat and blubber.
Although Dr Weihe and Joensen’s research is well respected, there are those who disagree with the actual recommendation. Kate Sanderson, former director of the Department of Oceans and Environment of the Faroese Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and current Head of the Mission of the Faroes to the EU, says there is not enough scientific proof that the risks of eating the grind outweigh the benefits. “Of course we should listen to advice on health issues, and, for the most part, we have,” says Mrs Sanderson. “But it’s important to look at the bigger picture. This is an extremely valuable tradition, both socially and economically, and we need more scientific evidence that does not just point to the likelihood of negative effects, but that points to the direct effects of eating grind. Before we completely disregard the grind, we need hard scientific evidence that the risks do, indeed, outweigh the benefits, which we know are many.”
Six hours have passed since the grindadráp on the beach in Sandavágur. The remains of the whales have been discarded, and people have gone home, their boxes and wheelbarrows full of meat and blubber. While Emma is fast asleep in her bed, Vilhelm and Jóhannus work late into the night, storing some of the whale meat and blubber in salted kegs; these will be revisited often throughout the approaching autumn and winter. Other portions of the meat are hung up to dry, while some meat is left fresh to be used for dinner the next day.
The beach is now empty and quiet, and the excitement has subsided. With every new wave, the ocean slowly returns to its blue state.
Pictures: Tróndur Dalsgarð