“SORRY, can’t come to the meeting, I’m going to be swimming with humpback
whales in the Caribbean . . .”. I’m sure my excuse made me sound intrepid:
the outdoorsy, adventurous type. Which is about as far from the truth as
it’s possible to travel without plummeting off the edge of the world.
Four days before I left, the friend I had planned the trip with unexpectedly
dropped out. She had excellent reasons, but all the same, I panicked. What
had seemed thrilling when suggested a year ago now sounded terrifying.
For one thing, I’d never been on a boat for a week, cooped up with a bunch of
strangers. And then there are the whales. What if one of them took it into
its head to whack me with its enormous tail, or catch me in its mouth like
Jonah and plunge me to the bottom of the sea? “Mummy, don’t annoy any
sharks,” was my five-year-old’s parting shot as I tried to squeeze my
snorkelling gear, extra-thick wetsuit (previously worn once, to allow me to
bob pathetically off the coast of Cornwall), and five swimsuits into my
case.
So here I am in the Dominican Republic, having flown to Puerto Plata and been
met at the airport and driven to where the boat docks. The first reassurance
comes with the sight of the “live-aboard” boat. The sleek Turks
& Caicos Aggressor II is 120ft (36m) long and suitable for 20
passengers. It is luxurious, with a hot-tub, two computers, and neat little
cabins with DVD screens and daily fresh towels. We’ve been advised to bring
sea-sickness tablets, which I duly take; the 80-mile (129km) journey to the
whale sanctuary happens while we sleep, the first night. I wake briefly to
see mountainous black waves through my cabin window and decide it’s best to
return quickly to sleep.
We wake up to find the mother ship anchored in the Silver Banks, where the
North Atlantic humpback whales gather during February and March to give
birth and breed. We immediately pour our mostly pale and pancake-soft bodies
into our wetsuits and climb into the two bright orange chase-boats to go out
to search for whales. We were briefed the night before by our droll,
charming skipper, Piers Van Der Walt, on what to expect. He emphasises that
these are “soft water encounters” and what is sought is “passive
interaction” with the whales. Trips to the Silver Banks are strictly managed
by the Dominican Republic; we even have the co-ordinator of the whale mammal
sanctuary on board — the friendly “park ranger”, David Buglass, mingling
unobtrusively with both guests and whales.
Van Der Walt has been skippering whale trips for the past 12 years. His
experience and knowledge appear endless, but what is most impressive is his
boundless enthusiasm and calm personality. He has an almost supernatural
knack of knowing which of his guests are feeling nervous or left out and
making sure that each of them has the kind of experience with the whales
that they have hoped for. “Kick back and relax,” he tells us during his
welcome speech, but later warns that the whales do not always appear on
schedule and gives us guidelines for respectful behaviour (“slide into the
water, stay very still and gentle, no scuba gear allowed”). “This is the
wild, it’s not a petting zoo,” he says.
Given this, I’d imagined that we might have to spend a lot of boring time
seeking out the whales, but within minutes of setting out, several have been
sighted. Signs of a whale breathing — a soft snort and sigh and a fine mist
appearing above the water — are soon followed by the arrowhead shape of a
dorsal fin and the arching back of a calf coming up to breathe. Dave the
park ranger tells us that a mother and calf are travelling together, with
the calf learning its breathing cycle, surfacing every four to five minutes.
Several on my chase boat are experienced whale-swimmers, and no time is
wasted. Before I know it I have my snorkel mask on and I’m in the water.
For me, there is always something eerie about snorkelling, about peering into
deep water. Perhaps it’s the feeling of being inside a colour: that
luxuriant, indescribable blue that you haven’t seen before except in dreams.
It takes me several minutes to catch up with the others and realise that
inside the blue is something else: two toothpaste-white shapes. The enormous
pectoral fins of a 40ft female whale.
After several moments of staring, I make out the baby whale too, drifting
close to the mother. The mother hovers, calm and relaxed near the bottom,
but the baby comes to investigate us. Piers has told us not to worry if we
get batted by a fin — to consider it, in fact, an honour — but I’m nervous
and my skills with snorkelling fins limited; my view blocked by a half dozen
photographers, jostling for position. I only once have a chance to glance
into the baby whale’s eye before she disappears, swimming off with liquid
grace.
Van Der Walt has assured us that in 12 years of whale trips, he has never seen
a whale act aggressively towards a swimmer. “Gentle” is the word that divers
use in describing the whales; “sleepy” is the feeling that I have, being in
the water with the mother. To get to the Silver Banks, the whale has
completed a 2,000-mile journey, and during the six weeks spent in these
waters giving birth and nurturing her calf she doesn’t eat at all. She is,
in fact, mostly conserving her energy, ready for the three-week swim back to
the North Atlantic feeding grounds.
Each day follows the same pattern, with guests having great whale encounters
topped off with a soak in the hot tub, and tea and carrot cake still warm
from the oven. The crew is superb, whether bringing fresh towels, cooking
excellent meals, or driving the chase boats and managing the gear.
During the week, several guests are moved to tears. Plenty of sentimental tosh
is talked about the whale “looking into your soul”, but my impression is the
opposite: the whales — mainly the calves — are only mildly curious about us;
the mothers couldn’t give a toss.
My most exquisite moment comes on our final day in the chase boat, after an
hour of gloriously riotous behaviour by a bunch of six “rowdies” (males
vying for position with the female). When their display of pectoral fin
slapping, bubble streaming and tail lashing calms down a little, Captain
Piers playfully tells me to slide into the water. Beneath me an Atlantic
spinner dolphin is larking about. I’m so distracted by this that it takes me
a moment to notice that I’m also drifting over a male whale, simmering with
power beneath me, like a Boeing 747. I really have plummeted off the edge of
my known world.
Jill Dawson’s novel Watch Me Disappear (Sceptre, £12.99),
which was longlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction, features a marine
biologist obsessed by sea horses.
Need to know
Whale trips: Aggressor (001 800 348 2628, www.aggressor.com)
runs whale snorkelling trips from the Dominican Republic each year during
the breeding period in February and March. One week, including transfer from
the airport and all meals, costs from about £1,180, plus additional fees
payable locally to the whale sanctuary of $200 (£115).
Getting there: Thomsonfly (0870 1900737, www.thomsonfly.com)
has return flights from Gatwick and Manchester to Puerto Plata in the
Dominican Republic from £199.99.
