NOT A HUMPBACK, wing-graced, that sonic savant, so filled with song it can’t help but serenade the rest of creation. Not a common Sperm whale, the common a misnomer, so potent in metaphors, too suited to serve the role as nature’s avatar. No. The average whale is a modest whale; not subjected to our schemes of launching their vocal tracks into deep space; not burdened by our dreams to configure them into symbols of rage and revenge and obsession. No. The average whale is a serene whale, an untroubled whale, and is thus most likely a beaked whale of some sort, or more precisely, a northern bottlenose whale. Yes.

What is statistically average, you might ask?

Well, consider size to start. The northern bottlenose is large among its ziphiid family—which includes the Blainville’s, the Sato’s, and Arnoux’s beaked whales—but miniature compared to the baseline baleens—the Fins, the Sei, and naturally, Big Blue herself. It is thus a median whale, a midpoint in cetacean stature. Think very large dolphin, like Orca. Think very small rorqual, like Minke. Think the length of a city bus, but not one of those articulated ones with the accordion middle. The northern bottlenose whale is a basic whale, uncapitalized, not fancy, not feature-rich.

The northern bottlenose whale is a basic whale, uncapitalized, not fancy, not feature-rich.

Then there is the matter of temperament. The average whale should, by definition, be a mean whale—not in the aggression sense, rather in the arithmetic sense. The northern bottlenose is not super social like the superpod-forming Pilot whales, which can come in short-finned and long-finned versions. But neither is it a complete recluse like its spade-toothed cousin, which has never been sighted by human eyes alive, or its distant Cross Seamount relation, known only from its disembodied voice haunting the Pacific. The northern bottlenose is only moderately mysterious. Its blow is a little small and bushy and hard to see. It does not care to show off its fluke while resting at the surface. Yet it can be courteous enough, courageous enough, to approach boats, to say hello. Then, having fulfilled its part of the social contract, it will happily go off and tend to its affairs, diving down a kilometer or so, remaining at depth an hour or two. Knowing this will not help you on whale trivia night, by the way. The gold medal for depth and duration belongs to the Cuvier’s beaked whale. No, the northern bottlenose is simply ordinary in diving prowess among its kin. What appear to be unfathomable feats to us land-inclined air-breathers are merely the mundane acts of a mundane whale.

And what of shape you say? Standard, no-frills, streamlined. Think tapered torpedo. Think overstuffed sausage. A perfecto cigar. Choose whichever image you like, then tack on two flippers and a tail. Beyond this cursory silhouette, the northern bottlenose sports few distinguishing features. No pleated throat grooves to gulp up water and krill. No human-height dorsal fin that might collapse from stress. No spiraling canine tooth erupting into a horn more suited to being mounted on the heads of mythical horses. The only notable attributes of the average whale lie in its eyes, which are set farther back than one might expect, and in its last name, ampullatus, “bottle” in Latin, referring to the bulbous Beluga-esque melon without the brainy Beluga-esque intelligence. Yet even its full given name is, in reality, a middle ground, a half-truth. Despite being herded into the genus Hyperoodon, meaning “upper tooth in jaw,” the northern bottlenose possesses no functional teeth of any kind, having no need for them, being a squid-slurper. Imagine sucking up dinner through a straw. Imagine living on a diet of nothing but spaghetti al nero di seppia. Imagine slipping out of all the labels placed on you by those who thought they knew you but knew you not at all. Not that the average whale would dwell on such slights. There are other priorities in life, with so many squids to slurp.

Being average in abundance may make you potentially diminishable. Being average in approachability may make you potentially desirable.

Sometimes being statistically average can get you into trouble. Being average in abundance may make you potentially diminishable. Being average in approachability may make you potentially desirable. Approximately 56,000 northern bottlenoses were caught by Norwegian whalers between 1882 and 1930. Exactly 5,053 were caught when industrial whaling resumed from 1937 to 1973. The latter number is precise because a license system with logbooks was introduced to record the taking of every individual. It is surprisingly easy to change an average population into a statistic. It is even easier to pencil down elephantine beings living far out at sea into ledgers, onto paper, as set numbers. This is likely because the probability an average person will ever make contact with an average whale is very low. Yet in statistics, very low does not necessarily mean zero. Within the pages of a canvas-bound, sea mammals edition of All the World’s Animals is a photograph of a sailor standing next to a northern bottlenose, the vintage nature of the shot accentuating the blues and reds of the background waves. In focus, the height of the man is the same height as the whale’s head. Side by side the smiles on their faces can be seen as either an easing into a sigh or a breath leaving the body. It may be true that the probability an average person will ever touch an average whale is very low. But the odds of an average whale touching an average person, say a ten-year-old owner of a canvas-bound sea mammals edition of All the World’s Animals, may be considerably higher. I do not have exact figures. This school of statistics remains an inexact science.

In 2006, a northern bottlenose was spotted in the River Thames, close to the Houses of Parliament, for the first time in a hundred years. For three days, the confused ten-year-old juvenile beached herself whenever the tides went out. Presumably she had hitherto never felt earth beneath her body before, the same hard and jagged earth that was steadily crushing the life out of her. Efforts were made to return her home. A crane and barge were employed. Thousands of bystanders gathered on nearby bridges. News channels with their helicopters provided coverage that was seen by twenty million viewers. Citizens of the former whaling nation watched in somber silence as the rescue attempt failed. Locals would name her Willy, would mourn her, would remember.

In the two decades since, a song has been penned. A documentary was filmed. The stranding was featured as a subplot in a novel. In hindsight, these reactions are quite predictable. Such is the power of a statistically average whale straying into our lives and hearts, especially when we least expect them.