On a brisk June morning, the fog rolled off the cliffs in St. Lunaire Griwiet, hanging just above the lapping waves like a curtain waiting to lift. From the shrouded blue, Remy—never one for fanfare—slipped into sight. The seabirds wheeled overhead, shrieking their greetings as if they knew a seasoned traveller had returned to Newfoundland and Labrador’s northern tip.

Remy, a sturdy male with the air of an old salt, was first spotted on June 26. There he moved beneath the glassy water, leaving gentle swirls that broke the stillness with promise. Locals along the rocky shore might have caught a glimpse of his broad back rolling through the kelp beds, a subtle nod to those watching patiently from above.

Three weeks later, on July 18, Remy revealed himself further up the coast near St. Anthony. There’s something grand about these northern waters, with their towering icebergs and bustling seabird colonies—just the sort of place for a whale with a fondness for the untamed. Perhaps Remy travelled the bays in search of cool currents or the best capelin feast. From one sheltered cove to another, his presence tied a ribbon of wonder along the coastline.

The Atlantic holds its secrets, but every surfacing traces a path on our charts and stories. Remy’s quiet wanderings remind us how the ocean connects the farthest reaches of Newfoundland and Labrador.