Spying on Whales: The Past, Present and Future of the World’s Largest Animals. Nick Pyenson

      Imagine floating above the great tapered tail of South America from space, seeing it stripped of clouds, ice, soil, and water so that the geologic world beneath is made visible. The familiar outline of the continent rises in stark, jagged relief. The high spine of the Andes is draped in red and gray bands to the east, toward Argentina, and ochers and sands cover Chile to the west. From this vantage, the cone of South America is locked in by a jigsaw puzzle of oceanic plates, and a surprisingly deep, dark cut mars its western boundary.

      This incision marks the border between the Nazca and South American tectonic plates, where the lip of the former inexorably and slowly rolls under the edge of the latter. This action uplifts what was once seafloor, carrying ancient organisms buried in it—extinct whales included—slowly to dry land on the western edge of South America. This tectonic motion, called subduction, eventually yields mountain chains like the Andes over geologic time. But at the scale of human lifetimes, subduction can cause megathrust earthquakes that convulse entire cities, maroon fishing boats, and kill thousands in a span of seconds.

      In 1835 a young Charles Darwin observed the outcome of this very process along the coast of Chile, near Concepción. Three years into its round-the-world voyage, the HMS Beagle had rounded the horn of Tierra del Fuego and made its way up the west coast of South America. Darwin was ashore when the earthquake started. A crescendo over the course of hours allowed most of the residents of Concepción to flee and limited the scope of fatalities to a few dozen people. Aftershocks rattled terrified locals for several days thereafter. Darwin later surveyed the devastation in Concepción firsthand, noting that most of the city was flattened, burned, or flooded by an accompanying tsunami—and that the entire shoreline of the harbor had risen several feet, stranding limpets and starfish. Darwin surmised that these catastrophic effects were connected with the volcanic eruptions he had observed during earlier forays hundreds of miles south near Chiloé. Darwin suspected that volcanic eruptions, the sudden uplift of coastlines, earthquakes, and tsunamis were linked by a common underlying mechanism. His intuitive guess was more right than he could have known; they are all consequences of subduction—the jerky slippage of great masses of tectonic plates against one another—and the central process that underpins the idea of plate tectonics.

      Plate tectonics is a very young idea about how the Earth works. Until the late twentieth century, geology textbooks did not have a clear answer for why South America’s eastern edge fit so nicely with the west coast of Africa, which is a bit like launching moon-bound rockets without knowing Newton’s physics. Eventually scientists discovered that convection currents from deep inside the Earth drive the fragmented crust of the Earth’s rocky surface into constant motion, over geologic time. Every continent, and the ocean plates between them, floats on a vast, molten, and churning globe. The idea of plate tectonics also neatly explains a variety of patterns in the fossil record, including why so many plants and extinct animals across the southern continents look so similar—namely because they were once, a hundred million years ago, living together on a larger continental mass that has since broken apart.

      Before he started thinking about evolution, Darwin was a geologist, one with a long view of history and the planet. Deep Time was a new idea when Darwin roamed the South American cone. What he saw there—the earthquake at Concepción, petrified forests in the high Andes, and fossils of extinct land mammals in Patagonia—resonated with the concept of an unfathomably old planet, one that had actually weathered many billions of years, time enough for the power of selection to yield finches, tortoises, and whales.

      Darwin spent his last days in South America on horseback in the Atacama Desert of Chile, geologizing away at any exposure of inner Earth while en route to meeting the Beagle, which was moored along the northern coast near the town of Caldera. From there he headed north and westward by sea, eventually to the Galápagos Islands. Textbooks celebrate Darwin’s few weeks on the Galápagos but tend to minimize the fact that he spent two years in the South American cone. He never returned to Chile, but his social network continued the work he had begun. Correspondences born out of a shared love for the land, and scientific questions about it, roused a generation of Europeans who decamped for its rugged, open landscapes. The result is a testament to the strength of friendships that can transcend generations: they established the first centers of learning in Chile, including a national museum, whose collections still hold fossils that Darwin collected over 180 years ago. When you open up museum drawers and handle those specimens, you realize that these physical objects connect scientists across centuries, anchoring the questions that we have about evolution on this planet.

      Sweeping offshore of the Atacama is the Humboldt Current, an enormous, ever-flowing body of water that cannot be discerned by the naked eye. Its namesake is a scientific figure of impressive breadth and accomplishment who preceded Darwin by decades—although Alexander von Humboldt never made it south of Lima, Peru. Today the Humboldt Current is renowned as one of the richest fisheries on the planet. Open any can of anchovies or sardines, and there’s a good chance that its contents came from the ocean current that stretches from Chilean Patagonia to Peru and the Galápagos.

      Understanding how the Humboldt Current works, in the simplest terms, requires a step back to look at the coastal phenomenon of upwelling. When the Earth spins on its tilted axis, hot air rolls unevenly off the continents and transforms into trade winds over open ocean. These winds push hot water away from coastlines, and in its place arise enormous spirals of nutrient-rich water from the ocean’s depths, in a process called upwelling. Westerly coastlines across the world, from California to Chile to Angola, all share the right set of geographic features for this process. Upwelling forms the foundation for rich and productive ocean food webs because of the nutrients brought up from the deep: ocean water at the surface generally has enough oxygen, but it’s upwelling that carries nitrogen and phosphorus into shallower waters and enriches them by fertilizing both light-fixing phytoplankton and their consumers, zooplankton. The oceans may be vast, but upwelling creates specific places where these tiny organisms gather. Where there’s food to eat, that’s where whales, sardines, and penguins all want to be.

      And if you’re a whale paleontologist, you want to be on the coast nearby, where upwelling and subduction combine in a perfect way. Upwelling gives us whales, and ultimately their remains—whale bones—to look for, while subduction uplifts ancient seafloors to dry land. Along with these two processes, the accident of the Atacama’s latitude makes the entire desert a gift for scientists seeking rocks: it’s devoid of grass, trees, and the blacktop of civilization. Arid and exposed badlands allow erosion to exhume the remains of ancient whales locked in rock without the interference of soil or tree roots.

      Erosion helps, but paleontologists also have to find the right kind of rocks. Of the three categories, igneous, metamorphic, and sedimentary, for fossil whales only sedimentary rocks will do. Whales don’t preserve well in volcanic lava flows, and fossils hardly ever survive the tremendous heat and pressure that creates metamorphic rocks dozens of