When I swam with Giants

Do you remember the last time you felt pure, undiluted happiness — the kind that fills every cell and stays with you long after it’s over?

For me, it happened off the coast of Tahiti, on a small island called Moorea. The reason: two baby humpback whales.

Tahiti and Moorea are dreamlike — volcanic peaks, waterfalls tumbling into turquoise lagoons, nicest people imaginable, sunsets that feel unreal. But what struck me most wasn’t above the water. It was below.

French Polynesia is one of the few places where humpbacks migrate each year to give birth and nurse their calves before returning to Antarctica. The mothers don’t eat for months, surviving off their own fat while their babies drink about 120 liters of milk a day.

We joined a small tour with Manawa, a local group that treats the whales with care and respect. When they spot them, the boat stops far away. Then you swim with your guide.

That afternoon, we slipped into the ocean beyond the reef. For a moment, there was nothing but sunlight streaming through blue. Then, out of the deep, two shadows appeared; a mother and her calf, gliding towards us.

I froze. Everyone did. These giants are very fast yet graceful and seeing them this close is a privilige.

As they passed beneath us, the baby rolled onto her back, waved her fins, and looked straight at us. For a few minutes, I forgot to breathe.

A male escort followed, but I barely noticed. I couldn’t take my eyes off the baby. My husband later told me he came even closer than the mother and calf. The guides call them “the knights” — they stay near the females to guard them from other males or predators.

On the way back, we spotted another mother and her newborn resting near the reef . The mother was catching some much needed sleep and the calf, just three weeks old, was playing with the waves, never drifting far from her fin. We watched them for a while, trying to be silent and respectful as we can.

Some minutes later, the mother stirred , and seeing us, took her baby and vanished into deep water, leaving only bubbles and silence.

A friend who went out the next day told me she heard a male whale’s song underwater — deep, haunting, vibrating through her chest. Above the surface, it was silent. She still gets goosebumps talking about it.

The next day we kayaked to Plage des Tipaniers to swim with stingrays and reef sharks. It was surreal — stingrays gliding between your legs, followed by sleek sharks circling nearby, calm but cautious.

That night, during a walk on the beach, we saw baby sharks gliding in the shallows, their fins cutting through moonlit water. Another shark between my toes — no big deal.

It’s strange how some moments burn themselves into you — the whales, the rays and sharks, the light and the quiet pulse of the island.

I know I’ll return to those islands. To listen for the whale songs again and to feel that pure, wordless joy that only nature can give.

Nature tells us to slow down, breathe, and remember we’re part of something larger than ourselves. And I am listening.