Some mornings, the North Atlantic dons its best suit—a mirror to the sky, sun gleaming off cold water like bits of scattered treasure. That’s when Cannon, a true wanderer by heart, made his entrance near Twillingate.

Cannon was first sighted on a crisp June day in 2017, close to the rocky shoulders of Twillingate. There, with capelin rolling in and the gulls calling out gossip, he glided through the waves like he’d claimed the bay for himself. Folks with keen eyes and cameras caught the flash of his fluke, black and white patterns sharpened by the northern light.

That appearance was brief—just enough for a lucky few to whisper rumours about the whale with a name like thunder. Since then, Cannon’s been a mystery, disappearing into the blue beyond, perhaps chasing herring shadows or dancing with the currents of Iceberg Alley. Some think he might patrol deep waters far from shore; others say he’s a seasonal visitor, content to keep his secrets tucked away between long journeys along the coast.

Cannon’s Twillingate sighting is just a sliver of his grand story. The rest is all possibilities—how many sunrises he’s seen from under stormy skies, or how often he’s skirted islands shrouded in fog. There’s a certain joy in the not-knowing; it keeps us watching, hoping for that flash of a tail just off the point.