It doesn’t fear the harpoon, not physically. It’s the symbolism of it. It’s a totem, like a cross to a vampire, a reminder of power that could be brought to bear again, if needed.
The misshapen head will rise out of the swells and your heart will scream, one lurch and I am in its maw. But it will keep its distance, waves breaking against its back, waiting, listening.
If you sing, if you sing well and loud and true, it will return to the depths having had its fill, and our ships will pass in safety for another year.