MAGDALEN ISLANDS, QUEBEC, March 23—We awake to a brilliant sunny day in the Magdalen Islands. Over the past 24 hours, The HSUS Seal Hunt Watch team has arrived safely on Canada's east coast, well in advance of the start date of the commercial seal hunt.
Looking out my hotel room window, I notice the colorful boats that are lined up at the marina. It takes a few minutes for it to sink in that I am, in fact, looking at sealing boats—an ominous reminder of the slaughter scheduled to begin just days from now.
But not today. Today we are setting aside our knowledge of what is to come, as we head to the ice floes to document the magnificent spectacle of the harp and hooded seal nursery.
Our helicopters lift off and fly over the startlingly beautiful cliffs of the islands, which slope gently down to the dazzling ocean below. This island, which is often portrayed as a harsh and inhospitable landscape, is in reality a stunning wilderness full of dramatic shorelines and green pastures.
As our helicopters move out to sea, we see small pans of ice that occasionally dot the ocean surface. But soon the small pans appear closer and closer together, until they have formed a solid surface of ice across the horizon. This ice is a unique and unspoiled habitat—home to thousands of harp and hooded seals and their pups each year.
Finally, we spot some seal pups from the air, just tiny dots across the ice floes. We decide to land here, setting down at a safe distance.
It is hard to keep from grinning. It has been a year since I have been to this place that has become a second home to me, and it has felt like far longer. This is the best place I know, and I am impatient for the helicopter blades to stop turning so that I can be with the seals.
As I get out of the helicopter, I am immediately struck by the radiant light of the sun sparkling across the pristine ice and open water. Vivid purple and blue shadows are created all across the ice floes, setting off golden ice formations.
The pups are lying at the edges of this giant ice pan, close to open areas of water. As I move towards them, the only sounds I hear are the soft trills of the seals. It is a wonderful sound, this communication between mothers and pups.
Slowly I approach some baby seals who are lying happily on their backs, sunning themselves. But even as I crawl carefully towards them, I realize they are not bothered by my presence. It is as though they know we do not pose a threat.
Most of them are still covered in their fluffy white coats, their dark eyes staring appealingly up at us. One seal pup, just a few days old, lazily looks up at me and begins to feed herself some snow with the aid of her flipper. She blinks a few times, then falls back to sleep.
For a few minutes, it is all I can do to stay awake myself. I lay flat on the ice, put my head on my arms, and watch the seals from this vantage point. After a few minutes, I look around, noting with a smile that more seal pups have moved closer to us, each of them near sleep.
It is hard to describe the feeling of utter peace that comes over you as you become a part of the seal landscape. Harder still to explain the contrast that exists between this idyllic state and the brutal reality of the pending hunt.
For though it is impossible to believe, in just six days, the hunters will come. Their clubs and hakapiks will slam into the delicate skulls of these seals, bullets piercing their bodies. And everything that is perfect here will be destroyed in an annual ritual of violence that will leave these pristine ice floes running red with the blood of defenseless baby seals.
—Rebecca Aldworth
