My name is Gail, surname Gray-Whale; appointed by the Confederation of Whale Pods to educate you humans about why we are upset. My real family name is Eschrichtius Robustus, but like many of your ancestors, our name was changed to seem more American, hence, Gray-Whale. Our complaint concerns whale watcher boats disturbing our migration up and down the western coast.

I remember when I was a young calf, I resisted the first time I felt the urge to swim north. I didn't want to leave the warm waters of the Mexican coast. However, an irritating voice screeched, "recalculating" every time I veered from a northerly direction. We youngsters learned that summers are spent off the coast of Vancouver, British Columbia. At first, I didn't like it there. The waters were cooler than Baja, and it rained often. But, I got used to it.

Gray whales grow to about 45 feet in length and weigh approximately around 45,000 pounds. Unfortunately, the obesity problem for whales is on the upswing. There are some blubber guys and gals who go up to 81,000 pounds. Gertrude, my friend, tips the scale at 77,003 pounds. She has tried to lose blubber, even gone to the TOBS Program, that's Take Off Blubber Sensibly, however, nothing seemed to work. She gave me a saucy wink and said, "You know some of the boys are 'chubby chasers'.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I too have physical problems. You see, I have a skin condition that humans might call sea acne. Our slate-gray skin becomes splattered with white splotches, and to make matters worse we get mottled and encrusted with barnacles.

Barnacles are lazy, little crustaceans that glue themselves to whales and wait for food to wash by. Many of us also have infestations of sea lice. They are different shades of yellow and orange, some are really somewhat pretty. A few of the snooty cows actually cultivate them. They glide around showing them off, claiming they are jewels given to them by Father Neptune.

We suffer from prejudice spread by other whales. It's not our fault; it is the way Father Neptune made us. We find our nourishment on or under the sea floor. We eat worms, crustaceans, and other organisms, which we stir up with our snouts. Many accuse us of polluting the environment because we leave billowing plumes of mud in our wakes.

My favorite meal is amphipod, found under the ocean floor. No, they don't taste like chicken, more like shrimp.

Now to our complaint: Humans may think we are flattered to be the center of your attention. We are not! Your whaleboats are a problem. I am a young lady whale trying to preserve my strength so I can swim 2,000 miles either to Baja or Vancouver, but those fool whaleboat captains keep chasing me over the waves and under the sea. Every time I see a boat, I get jittery and lose control of my blowholes. My nervous spouts can be sighted a long way off. If a whale watcher captain sees them, he heads in my direction and the chase is on.

I hate those boats with their noisy, smelly engines, they sound like banging kettledrums. I have nightmares of engines pounding, foghorns sounding and Captains' shouting, "There she blows!"

To get rid of these intruders I put on a show. I rev up, shoot to the surface breaking the water with a leap high into the air. I shake my body -- barnacles and all, and flip-flap my tail. Guess what! Those gawkers don't realize that this is the whale way of "flipping them off."

These trespassers stress me. An older, sympathetic cow suggested that I take up Yoga. She found me a wonderful instructor from the Indian Ocean. "Now Gail," he said, "instead of spouting off when you get nervous take deep breaths and bubble blast (that's when whales exhale underwater). This will relax you and you won't have to worry about your bubbles being seen by boat captains." I have tried this technique and it does relieve some of anxiety, but then, I start to worry about the next time a whale watcher boat appears on the horizon.

The whale watchers, however, are not only my concern. I discovered after my first trip back to the warm waters that they seem to kindle an amorous spark in the boys. Here I was after the long journey trying to relax and catch a few rays when all around me these guy whales start showing off, breaching and spy-hopping as if to say, "Look honey, I'm quite a catch." Then they begin with their clangs, pops and whistles and finish with those low-frequency moans. Believe me those moans are love-arrows straight into a whale-girl's heart.

I don't know if it is well known, but those young male whales have huge testicles and produce tons of sperm that swim like torpedoes. Almost all of us girls will find ourselves in the family way by the time we head north with, as humans used to say, "a bun in the oven". Incidentally, I love the way human females complain about nine months of pregnancy, I wonder how they would like two years!

Some final thoughts: My life isn't always a bed of plankton, but on reflection, I must admit, I am thankful that whale oil is no longer used to light America. And even though the whale watchers are pains in the tail, they're better than being chased by obsessive-compulsive guys like Captain Ahab.

I'll close now by saying, I'm thankful I was born near America and not Japan where those fellows are still hunting us. In addition, on behalf of whales everywhere I want thank your organization called Greenpeace and the thousands of children who participate in the "Save the Whales" campaigns every year.