Stop Your Blubbering

Really want to watch a whale? Abandon your cruise ship and go trawling off Baja with Sergio.

I was a man searching for a whale. I was also a man waiting for the e-mails that would tell me where to look.

Call me You've-got-mail.

Don't worry, this isn't a Melvillian story of whales, the sea and the nature of man's obsession. It's a story of whales, the sea and some really excellent umbrella drinks. (And it's way shorter than that other one.)

Though I wasn't obsessed with whales, I really did want to see some. When I e-mailed for advice from some wildlife-savvy friends, word came back that the place to be at this time of year if you're a whale -- or a whale watcher -- is Mexico's Baja Peninsula. Baja is the winter end of one of nature's great migrations, the annual loop of gray whales from Alaska to the warmer currents of Mexico and Southern California. They come down between late December and early April, frolic in the balmy 50-degree waters, do the important of work of birthing their babies, then head north for another Arctic summer.

There are small-ship specialty cruises devoted to the winter whales of Baja, complete with Zodiac outings and wildlife hikes (see box, Page P8). But those were more time- and money-consuming than my whale enthusiasm would support. (Ahab would have scoffed.) A friend suggested something quicker and cheaper: Book onto any winter cruise heading south out of Los Angeles, and I'd be all but guaranteed to find myself among the leviathans. And he wasn't talking about the line at the midnight buffet.

That's how I ended up on board Royal Caribbean's Monarch of the Seas on a January Friday as it pulled slowly out of the Port of Los Angeles. We were bound for Ensenada, Mexico, on a three-day, three-night itinerary that would include one full day at sea in whale-rich waters. There were longer trips that included stops at Catalina Island and San Diego. But at $775 for an outside stateroom, a weekend quickie with a bunch of partying Angelenos sounded just about right.

Truth be told, I was just as interested in watching people as whales. This trip would let me compare the short-cruise scene of Southern California with its popular counterpart in south Florida. Substitute Miami, Fort Lauderdale and Nassau with L.A., San Diego and Ensenada and you've got short cruising, Pacific style. You remember "The Love Boat," right?

Starting with the ports, I was quickly impressed with Left Coast cruising. In Miami, casting off is such a straightforward affair: Pull away from the dock and off you go. Getting underway from the sprawling waterfront labyrinth of L.A.'s San Pedro port is more like backing up in a Costco parking lot, starting with the dicey three-point turn between an Italian freighter and the end of the pier. We squeaked by and glided out through the spooky industrial glow of the nighttime port. Ships crept silently over the inky water, waiting to submit to the towering "War of the Worlds" cranes that disemboweled them one container at a time. Slowly we gained open water, heading along the green neon rope that a distant buoy was tossing to us across the black Pacific.

On board, there was something distinctive about the crowd that was line dancing around the pool bar or otherwise honoring our departure. They were more fixed up, by and large, than East Coast cruisers. Sunglasses were common long after sunset, and great hair was everywhere. Even the guy in the Holt Electric Service windbreaker had anchorman locks and a surfer tan. The elapsed time from castoff until I overheard my first plastic surgery conversation was under 30 minutes. ("Just go see him, there's no obligation," said a 40-something blonde in a black leather jacket to a 40-something blonde in a red leather jacket. "Make it a retirement present to yourself.")

Inside, the routine would be familiar to any cruise veteran. A restless program of bingo, shopping primers for the next day's stop in Ensenada, frozen drink specials at countless bars, art auctions, first-night dining room confusion and a line 20 people long to make spa appointments.

I wondered if the shipboard entertainment would be a cut above on a ship based in the showbiz capital of the word. But then I learned that all of Royal Caribbean's shows are produced out of south Florida (Hollywood, in fact), and the Monarch's was very familiar. And very good. The stage show was a crowd-pleaser of high-energy medleys and constant costume changes. Comedian Steve Smith was deft at the tough chore of making funny for a crowd that ranged from hip-hop to hip replacement.

One thing the ship didn't seem to include in its expansive program was anything to do with the whale migration going on all around us. There was a two-page catalogue of excursions, from Mexican folklore to wine tours, but no whale-watching trips. (They are available on the San Diego stops, the agent told me, and the company hoped to add them in Mexico soon.) There was no naturalist on board, not even a whale book in the scant, Danielle Steele-heavy library. I buttonholed one crew member after another, but most said they did little between shifts but sleep, and they had no advice on whale spotting. One engineering assistant, who I assumed spent long hours draped over the rail gazing toward his Philippine homeland, suggested I look in the sushi bar.