Fog settled over Bonavista like an old knitted shawl the morning Critch was first spotted, the air crisp, gulls wheeling overhead, and the cove brimming with a quiet sort of anticipation. Some mornings simply feel grand, and that day, Critch made it all the grander—rising in a spray of sunlight and salt right off Newfoundland and Labrador’s storied rocks.

Critch, a bull with broad shoulders and a restless heart, was next seen a year later in the long arms of Trinity Bay. July was well under way, with capelin rolling and boats bustling about. His fluke surfaced twice that day, a sure sign he felt at home amid the icebergs slid by and the tickle of kelp along the shoals. Trinity Bay must have suited him, as barely two weeks later, there he was again, carving the surface, gliding under scallop-grey skies with not a worry to his name.

By the summer of 2026, Critch was weaving further along the coast, spotted early July between Ship and Great Islands. That spot’s known for tidy clusters of puffins and the sort of wild breeze that makes a fellow’s moustache twitch. Not long after, he cruised into Bay Bulls, always curious, always tracing new arcs through the emerald water. Ships’ bells clanged, and Critch slipped through the chop, his passage quiet but memorable—a bruiser of the briny deep who kept to his own path but never far from watchful eyes.