Cindy Lowry is a Maine-based environmental advocate with more than two decades of experience protecting marine wildlife, including work on high-profile whale rescue efforts and national conservation campaigns.

Over the coming months, North Atlantic right whales will begin their migration north toward New England. There was a time when thousands of right whales passed our shores each year. Today their entire population is smaller than many Maine high schools, with approximately 380 remaining.

The start of a new year is a time for reflection. For me, that reflection often turns to these
whales. While Maine’s coast rests in the cold months, right whales are far to our south, giving birth in warmer waters off Georgia and Florida. Soon, mothers and newborn calves will begin their slow journey north, guided by instincts shaped over millennia.

Right whales return to New England each year not because it is easy, but because these waters are essential to their survival. The Gulf of Maine offers feeding grounds that pregnant females and growing calves need. But unlike generations before them, today’s whales face risks that follow them throughout their migration.

Around 70 breeding females remain. For a species that gives birth only every few years even under the best of conditions, this is devastating. Entanglement in fishing gear remains the leading cause of injury and death. When a whale becomes wrapped in rope, the whale can drag that gear for months, sometimes across hundreds of miles, slowly losing strength. Many die far from shore, unseen. Others survive but never reproduce again.

Ship strikes are another constant danger. Right whales spend much of their time near the surface, making them especially vulnerable in busy shipping lanes. These are not abstract
threats. They are realities written on scarred backs and missing flukes, on calves that never make it north.

I have spent much of my life working to protect whales. I have seen both what is possible when people act in time and what happens when they do not. In 1988, I helped lead the rescue of gray whales trapped in Arctic ice, a rare moment when urgency, cooperation and compassion aligned. That experience has stayed with me, especially during pivotal moments like this one.

Mainers understand these waters deeply. We know what it means to make a living from the sea and to care for it at the same time. Working waterfronts and wildlife have shared these waters for generations, and that shared history matters. The fate of right whales is about coexistence, stewardship, and whether we can find ways to ensure their migrations continue alongside modern life.

Each winter, at the start of a new year, I find myself thinking about the whales beginning their journey north. I think about how narrow the margin for survival has become. I think about how remarkable it is that they still return at all.

My New Year’s wish is a simple one. I wish for safe passage. I wish for a season where fewer ropes and ships cross their paths. I wish for a spring when mothers and calves arrive in New England waters with one less scar, one less loss.

These whales have endured centuries of change. Whether they endure this one remains
uncertain. As we begin a new year and reflect on what we value, I hope we hold space for the quiet presence of right whales in our shared waters, and for the fragile hope that they will continue to return, year after year, to the place they have always known as home. I’m sending the whales my wish for a safe journey north.