The Octagon at lunchtime boasts a larger number of aimless amblers than usual, with old folks chatting on the benches and several little tykes upending on railings round the fountain. The Binge Culture crew, in high viz vests emblazoned with pandas, roam the area, then snap to attention as curious sounds are heard, and an even more curious group comes into sight.

It is, of course, a pod of whales, about to strand itself most recklessly right in front of the Octagon fountain, to the consternation and/or amusement of the crowd. The fifteen or twenty whales, all ages and shapes, singing mournfully, clad in wetsuits with rubber fins flapping poignantly on the ground, are a tragic sight. The crew dashes about putting a cordon around them, and assuring us there will be an announcement soon. 

No escape now. We are issued an unmistakeable challenge: “Are you here to help or just watch? We need to keep them wet and ultimately refloat them. Will you be a buddy for a whale? Some are in a critical condition. We need volunteers!”

Thank heaven for little girls and little boys when they’re still too young for self-consciousness and cynicism to kick in. In no time each whale has at least one buddy, tenderly dampening their charges, or in the case of a few little boys, gleefully employing water pistols with a tad much vigour. No need to watch the Secret Life of Toddlers documentary: these small personalities are well established.

One of the whales, the most graceful one actually, bears a suspicious resemblance to my good friend Sofie. I am anxious enough to sneak across to check. No quiver of recognition, but her buddies assure me she is bearing up well, and dump quite a lot of water on her. I think they avoided the blow-hole.  All I can do is sincerely hope she will survive, both the stranding and her eager assistants.

The carers are completely committed and engrossed by now, spreading damp sheets, patting and soothing the whales, while seagulls, real ones, strut nonchalantly around them. Although it is not precisely gripping as a spectator sport for the mere onlookers, they too seem content enough with the added bonus of surprise encounters with old friends and interesting conversations with strangers. A few bewildered tourists gawp in amazement, then raise their cameras for snaps that will take some explaining back home. 

Finally we are told the tide is right for the refloat, the cordon is raised and the whales are gently rocked till they rise slowly and are guided to ‘open sea’ by their helpers, who by now have joined hands in a human chain. It is quite a beautiful moment as water from the fountain is thrown high above the retreating whales to a surge of inspiring music, and there is a sense of euphoria among the helpers.

Some of the older ones look a little embarrassed as they return to real life, but six year old Lochlann, who had to be restrained from following the pod out to sea, rushes to his grandparents shouting, “I saved a whale!” then races round the Octagon, unable to contain his excitement and triumph. 

Whales is a community event rather than a performance per se, and similar to drama-in-education, although the display is carefully structured and the whales, a disparate group of all-comers, have clearly been educated and rehearsed.

The premise is similar to the production I reviewed in March 2015, Where the Albatross Meets the Penguin byKeep Otago Oil-Free, though this is more professional and less overtly political. I love the range of possibilities that theatre encompasses and in this instance, hopefully lessons have been learned about co-operating with other humans as well as with our natural environment. 

Crew member Mouce comes now to thank us for our help and tell us that all but one of the pod made it. Yes, one sad empty wetsuit is left lying on the ground. Luckily not the one worn by the whale who looked like Sofie. Still sad. Crew member David offers hot chocolate for comfort, and I share it with beautiful Ava and her Nepalese friend Ariana. They too are full of modest pride in what they believe they have achieved. “So good for them to learn something real, outside of the classroom,” says Ava’s grandmother happily. For certain, something real has been shared.

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It’s amazing how children have an innate ability to believe. Not just in figures of authority (mum, dad, tall people wearing high viz Binge Culture vests) but in the very reality that they have willingly participated to act out their own particular role in a constructed reality. And of course, the adults often follow suit.

At least that’s what happened at Auckland CBD tonight when multiple whale pods crooned, wailed and gurgled their way across Aotea square as they splayed their corrugated polycarbonate fins high in the evening sunshine. The music was spot-on (was it Free Willy?) and the elegant bodies of these aquatic mammals (fifteen agile and committed volunteers dressed in wetsuits) swam around the urban landscape. However, as the more adventurous ones meandered down Queen Street, one lonely whale finds himself on his own. Eventually and perhaps from the on-going attention of the growing crowd, he needs a rest and find himself ‘beached’ on the hard concrete outside the Town Hall. 

And as expected, his compatriots are quick to swim to his rescue. But then what happens is the sad and unfortunate truth; the entire pod gets stranded and when backup arrives, well, let’s just says they don’t quite come with a suitable plan B.  

But what does happen is that the crowd at Aotea Square (some who have clearly come prepared with towels, buckets and even water guns) rally around the leaders in high viz and follow instructions to look after the whales. It is quite uplifting to see strangers come together (even if for some it seems more like an opportunity to dump a bucket of water on an unsuspecting whale’s head) and collectively support and comfort the whales. If there are instructions not to tip water into the whales’ blowholes (a very real piece of advice) I might have missed hearing it but I also don’t see where exactly it is on my whale’s head either. 

After about half an hour of keeping the whales cool, the audience is invited to start rocking the whales and help them to return to the waters. What is obviously missing here is the fact that in this environment, unlike their debut in Wellington, there is no water! The grand finale, played out to the soaring bombastic finale of Free Willy’s theme song (it sounded remarkably like it anyhow) is accompanied by buckets of water being flung high into the sky making a spectacle certainly but not quite like what it would have been to see the whales back in their natural habitat. 

This is where a child’s suspension of belief is infinitely greater and far less cynical. And they really are the best audience members for this type of work. A very community orientated and participatory show, Whales might not quite have had the majesty or the magic that a marine environment would have offered but it nevertheless successfully gains the support of the local community. As far as my memory goes council would have had a great view from certain windows. I wonder what they thought of a pod of whales making themselves at home outside the Town Hall?

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