GETTING TO MY LIVEABOARD IN PUERTO PLATA SHOULD’VE BEEN A BREEZE—TWO FLIGHTS AND A QUICK CAB RIDE. EASY PEASY.

But the travel gods had other plans.

Running on four hours of sleep, I get hit with a flight delay, courtesy of an earthquake in New England. When I finally land at my destination in the Dominican Republic, I’m greeted by thick tropical heat—and I have zero pesos. With every ATM spitting out errors and my sweat pooling, panic rises. I’m one suspected fraud freeze away from being stranded. When I finally crack the code and get some cash, I punch in a random amount, praying it’s enough to get me to the hotel. I arrive, only to discover that the beautiful peacocks parading the property enjoy screaming like strangled alley cats—especially at night. I escape them at the beach the next morning, where the Caribbean sun torches my Michigan winter skin. I arrive at the merciful luxury of Turks & Caicos Aggressor II that evening salty, sunburned, and swearing every peacock my nemesis.

I come to find these misadventures are nothing compared to what humpback whales endure to get to and from these waters.

Thousands migrate south every year from summer homes in the North Atlantic, such as Canada’s Bay of Fundy. They dodge ships and evade orcas through 1,500 miles of open ocean to arrive at Silver Bank, a shallow shoal in a marine sanctuary about 80 miles north of the Dominican Republic, in January. Here, they mate and give birth to calves, surviving months without food. By May, they turn around and make the same brutal trip north—and the new mothers do it on empty stomachs with babies in tow.

I’d take a peacock feud over a killer whale fight any day, I think as Camila, a crewmember from São Paulo, walks us through the basics of the whales’ lives and behavior in Turks & Caicos Aggressor II’s dining room that evening. The images on-screen tease magical encounters, and fellow travelers fan my excitement.

“I didn’t even want to come the first time I was sent here on assignment,” Scott Johnson, a dive photographer on my sailing, tells me. “I figured it would be boring. It’s snorkel—it’s not even scuba. By the end of the first day I was in tears it was so beautiful.” My first sailing is his 12th. He comes every year, bringing along friends and family to share the wonder.

That sounds like exactly the type of experience I need right now. Coming off over a year full of dashed goals and personal loss, I’m aching for wonder and joy. I jumped at the chance to join this sailing, desperate for a baptismal dip to wipe away the past 16 months.

For me, being in the water is the ultimate form of play. It always has been. There’s a beloved family video of me dabbling in the icy waters of a northern Michigan lake as an infant, excited and clumsy movements much like the baby whale we watched during our onboard presentation. Any other 5-month-old would be hollering their head off at the water’s crisp touch, but I laugh and splash—and still do to this day. It’s something I’ve been craving stuck topside for so many joy-deficient months.

When the yacht engines kick on just after 9:40 that evening, I instantly feel my shoulders begin to drop. We’re off to my happy place—floating in the middle of nowhere. I fall asleep hoping this salt scrub is enough to refresh my soul.

Related Reading: What It’s Like to Swim With Humpback Whales

Spotters

Whales are heavily acoustic creatures. Their eyes are small compared to their body size and light is scarce when diving, so they lean on hearing to navigate and communicate. Clicking sounds help them move through the ocean, while pulses and whistles allow them to interact with other whales. Some behaviors, such as smacking the surface of the ocean with fins or tails, can be heard by other whales from hundreds of feet away in what scientists think may be a move to scare prey or warn other whales away. And then there are their famous songs—complex and ever-evolving cultural communication that scientists are still unraveling.

This is all to say: If you actually want to see a whale in the water, never jump in behind it. Even if they cannot see you, they’ll hear you. And without a visual, they’re going to assume you’re a threat and jet off.

It’s advice front of mind as Camila floats off the edge of our skiff, rope in hand, face in the water, and eyes on a mother-calf pair hovering underwater feet from our boat.

Getting to this moment was a group effort. Snorkeling with a whale isn’t like leisurely finning over a reef while your dive guide points out the resident seahorse. Whales rove as they please below the surface while you race around the boat deck. Everyone’s eyes are peeled in different directions, straining to spot a surfacing whale somewhere before the horizon so the boat can stop meandering and start following. A massive breach or pec slap is the easiest way to spot a whale, but most often it’s a spout blown by a whale coming up for breath. This is why mother-calf pairs are the easiest to track—a grown whale will often stay down for 30 or 40 minutes, making them near impossible to follow. A calf, however, needs air every few minutes, creating a path like a skipping rock, broken but tight enough to track.

Once we’ve locked on a mother-calf pair, we’re in hot pursuit and crossing our fingers to see the babe pop up for several breath cycles in a row in one spot. This indicates the pair is simply hanging out, giving us the chance to hop in with them.

Fin length times two, I think, reminding myself how far I need to stay from the whales for safety in case we strike gold today. I don’t want to lose myself in the moment. Don’t chase them or they’ll dart off. Never get in between mama and baby or you’re a threat, and you don’t stand a chance.

As we race through the wide open blue, I can already feel myself begin to unwind. The ocean spray on my face is enough to loosen my chest and ease my breathing. I haven’t even jumped in the water yet, but as always, the incredible sight of blue for miles is a marvel.

As we race through the wide open blue, I can already feel myself begin to unwind. The ocean spray on my face is enough to loosen my chest and ease my breathing.

My wonder mounts as the mother begins to slow. “This is good,” says Captain Dennis Gautreau, piloting the skiff in her wake. “She’s slowing down. That means she’s settling.” He recognizes this mother-calf pair from other encounters this season thanks to a distinctive lump on the mother’s top fin. While some mothers are wary of snorkelers, this one enjoys having somebody around to “babysit” her energetic pup. “This calf likes to show off what it’s learned since it last had an audience,” he tells me. “We may be able to get in the water here soon.”

When the calf pops up for a second breath in the same spot, Camila slips quietly into the water. She aligns her body with the whale so even topside we know which way mama is looking.

Hustling to the edge, we await with bated breath. Finally, the moment arrives. Camila points in the direction the whale is looking before giving us the sign we’ve all been waiting for: a thumbs-down. Time to plunge.

We drop down in full view, and it’s showtime. The mother hangs below, massive and indifferent. She’s decided we aren’t a threat and lets her calf rise up from beneath her, slow and tranquil, for a breath. As the baby brings her head back underwater, she continues to invert until hanging upside down before sloshing her tail on top of the water.

Play Date

That clumsy swat was an “attempted tail slap,” humpback whale researcher Dr. Olaf Meynecke, of Griffith University, says later, with a slight laugh, after watching a video of my encounter. “It looks like the calf was energetic, in contrast to mom, and just playing around in the vicinity…. It’s really funny and entertaining to watch that, of course, when the calf tries to do these behaviors but is so floppy and it doesn’t really succeed, but it also shows that a lot of these behaviors are not intrinsic, that they are learned through cultural transmission and, of course, most of those basic behaviors are still very complex.”

Meynecke’s use of the word “play” strikes me, as that too is what I feel I’m watching in the water. After the wobbly tail slap, the calf twirls and attempts a pec slap before twisting in the water and aiming right at me. Her tail kicks faster, her body gaining speed, and she comes barreling my way. My chest tightens as she swerves left, gliding so close I can trace every ventral pleat running down her sleek, gray body. There are mere feet of ocean between me and this growing giant. “All mammal babies like to explore their environment,” Meynecke tells me later. Clearly, at that moment, I was a shiny new toy.

She circles back, slicing the surface, muscles rippling as my pulse continues to thunder. Every powerful action is a skill she’ll need to make a successful migration back up north before peeling off to make it on her own in the ocean. It’s a serious task—but there’s nothing directed about the calf as she twirls around. These aren’t drills in a classroom but exercises in a playground.

I’m reminded of the famous quote from Swiss psychologist Jean Piaget: “Play is the work of childhood.” We so often talk about play as a relief from work or learning, but play is naturally how we learn. Undirected play helps children develop executive functioning skills critical to survival in a complex society, like planning and self-control, and those who play unsupervised more often have better social and emotional skills than kids who are always under a parent’s watchful eye, research shows.

Playing is so embedded in how we learn that we use the term play to refer to practice itself. “I forgot to play with it before I came,” a fellow snorkeler said to me early in the trip, gesturing toward her new waterproof camera she wasn’t entirely sure how to use.

And play doesn’t just expand our mind, it sustains our mental health as well. As U.S. children have been given homework at increasingly early ages, received shorter recesses, and had structured enrichment activities crowd out unstructured play time, rates of anxiety and depression have skyrocketed. Some researchers are starting to suspect there’s more than a correlation at play here.

I am struck by how similar we are to these giants. Now, before you dismiss me for anthropomorphizing whales, scientific research does indicate they play. Meynecke and his team recently conducted the first systematic review of media shared online that captures a behavior known as “kelping,” where humpbacks and other whales play with kelp or seaweed, rolling around it or wearing it like a hat. “There is an element of cleaning as well,” notes Meynecke, as whales do rub against objects to remove marine flotsam and jetsam. “But there’s also clearly play involved because they are doing quite fancy things.”

And, OK, I’ll admit I am anthropomorphizing whales a bit here. Their communities are complex and their emotional range is wide—they’ve been spotted helping species escape predators, indicating high-level feelings like empathy—but it’s clearly not a one-to-one match for humans. Yet, isn’t that one of the things that’s so wonderful about exploring our ocean? Floating in the middle of nowhere gives you the distance you need for a fresh perspective.

Related Reading: Diving in Brazil’s Caribbean-Like Paradise

As the mother swims away with her calf, my face breaks the surface. Whoops and cheers greet me as my fellow travelers revel in the magic we just witnessed. It’s so different from the silent “shaka” gesture that follows an awe-inspiring dive encounter. “I don’t care what happens the rest of the trip,” says Doris, an ecstatic traveler floating next to me. “That’s what I came down here for.”

We hustle back to the skiff, with no time to lose. If we move fast enough we may be able to track them again for a second encounter. Fortunately, this bouncing baby makes it easy. In the distance, she bursts out of the water, practicing a breach. As we race behind, she begins bouncing like a jackhammer, flying up and over and over. She breaches dozens of times, and we let out a collective cheer as she nails a 360-degree turn in the air before crashing down.

“This mama must be exhausted. That’s one energetic calf!” Captain Dennis calls above the spray.

And indeed, she eventually ends the joy ride with a series of thundering pec slaps that send water sloshing in every direction. They never resurface in our view, but how could we ask for anything more from a single day? We turn back to Turks & Caicos Aggressor II, soaked and smiling.

When I wake the next morning, I’m already feeling better than I have in months. But how could I feel anything else? I have a playdate with a whale.

Behavior Breakdown

Every day on the water brings its own delights. These are some of the whale behaviors you might see in Silver Bank on any given day:

SINGERS Male humpback whales are known to sing long, complex songs that can last up to 30 minutes or longer. Their songs are unique to each pod and can evolve over time as they interact with other pods.

ROWDY MALES Male humpbacks often engage in aggressive and competitive behaviors, like fighting and making trumpeting sounds, as they compete for the right to mate with females.

VALENTINES A pair of whales preparing to mate will dance around each other. Females in the mating stage can exhibit unusual behaviors, like swimming upside-down, and often mirror the dance of the male.

SLIPSTREAMING Calves ride on their mother’s back or nose for faster, more efficient swimming.

SPY HOPPING Whales lift their heads out of the water to observe their surroundings above the surface.

Need To Know

Boat Turks & Caicos Aggressor II

Port Ocean World Marina, Puerto Plata

Airport Puerto Plata (POP) International Airport

Humpback Whale Season January to April

Currency Dominican peso

Equipment In addition to snorkeling equipment, you will need sun protection to wear on the skiff in between encounters, such as a sun shirt, sunglasses, buff, reef-safe sunscreen, and hat you can fasten against the wind.

Park Regulations No drones permitted; skiffs must be off the water by 5:30 p.m.; snorkeling only—scuba is not permitted; only permitted operators allowed in the park.

Expedition Cost Starts at $4,495.

Operator Aggressor Adventures (aggressor.com)