Swimming with Something Sacred
- The Anxious Passport
- Jul 13
- 8 min read
Updated: Jul 15
Over the past few years, I've had more than my fair share of surreal wildlife encounters-moments that stamped themselves into my memory like pages from a dream. I've caged-dived with great white sharks, followed orcas for research, shared jungle paths with gibbons and wild orangutans in Sumatra, and once made eye contact with a curious Minke whale as it hovered beside me in the blue. Each experience has somehow managed to outdo the last.
But I recently added a new on to the list.
And this time, it's claimed the top spot.
It started off as one of those perfect Western Australia days - warm sun, clear skies, and a shimmer on the water that made everything feel like it had been dipped in gold. I was up in Coral Bay, a tiny coastal town perched on the edge of Ningaloo Reef. Known for it's whale sharks, manta rays, and sea turtles, it also happens to be one of the best places in the world to swim with humpback whales.
The boat crew was cheerful and welcoming, with the kind of easygoing vibe you can only get from people who spend their lives on the water. I'd booked with Ningaloo Reef Whale Sharks, a shop well known for its responsible, respectful approach to wildlife encounters-and they did not disappoint. Even better, two of the crew were past coworkers and friends of mine from my time on the Great Barrier Reef. There's something so grounding about stepping onto a boat and seeing familiar faces, especially when you're gearing up for something incredible - unpredictable - as swimming with a 40 ton-whale.
I honestly didn't know what to expect that day. It began the way all the best adventures do - a little nervous, a little bit hopeful, and totally open to surprise.
We left the docks with a sun already warming the deck, cruising smoothly out toward the inner side of the Ningaloo Reef. The crew gave us a friendly briefing along the way, walking us through the plan for the day and what we might encounter - though, of course, nature doesn't follow schedules.
Our first stop was a reef snorkel, a chance to warm up (or, more accurately, chill down) before any potential whale swims. The moment I slid into the water, I gasped. It was colder than expected - but that jolt of chill quickly gave way to wonder.
We followed our guide in a close little train, weaving through coral gardens, pointing out flashes of color, shimmering schools of fish, and the occasional reef shark lazing near the sand.
Then-something I'd been hoping to see for years.
Lying perfectly camouflaged under a beautiful head of coral was a wobbegong shark-my very first. I squealed, embarrassingly loud through my snorkel, "OH MY GOSH-IS THAT?! IS THAT A WOBBEGONG?!" The poor snorkeler next to me nearly choked laughing. But I couldn't help it- my excitement had officially breached the surface.
Soon, out first snorkel session came to an end and everyone climbed back on board, buzzing from the reef but eager for what was next: the search for humpbacks.
Overhead, the spotter plane circled, scanning the sea and radioing down to the crew whenever a pod was found. The skipper adjusted our course, expertly navigating us toward the whales-but always with care. Respect for the animals was the top priority. We were entering their world, and everyone on board understood that.
In the distance, we saw them: glistening backs slicing effortlessly through the water as they surfaced for breath, then disappeared again beneath the waves like ghosts.
The first group of seven was called to the back deck. They lined up quietly, a mix of nerves and excitement humming in the air. At the word of the spotter and the skipper, they slipped into the ocean, silently.
Once in the water, they followed the guide's commands to a T-every kick, every pause, every direction. And just like that, they were back on the boat again. The whales had passed quickly, faster than expect. if you blinked or turned the wrong way even for a second, you'd miss it.
Back on deck, people whispered in that stunned giddy way you do when something extraordinary happens too fast to fully process.
I stood there, heart pounding behind my wetsuit, watching the horizon and waiting.
My turn was coming.
The crew called out for group two-my group-to start gearing up. We pulled on our fins and masks, adrenaline kicking in as we lined up along the deck, waiting for the call that would send us into the water. The skipper once again adjusted the boat's position, trying to find the perfect angle-close enough for a swim, but always at a respectful distance.
And then... the inevitable happened.
A storm rolled in-fast and unexpected, as they often are out on the open ocean. Within minutes, the clear skies turned gray. The wind picked up. Rain pelted the deck. And just like that, everything stopped.
The spotter plane had to ground the plane for safety, and we were forced to detour to the other side of the storm and wait it out.
Everyone in group two stood watching the clouds, fins still in hand, scanning the skies like we could will the sun back out. We shared uneasy glances.
Would we even get a chance?
After all the build-up the briefing, the nerves, and the excitement... would our moment with the whales be taken away by weather?
No one said much, but you could feel the collective question in the air. These creatures move fast. the opportunity window is small. And nature, as always, was calling the shots.
The storm may have halted the swim, but it brought something else entirely.
As the rain eased and we drifted just out side the storm's reach, a gentle swell began to roll through the water-and apparently, the humpbacks loved it.
Suddenly, the ocean came alive.
One after another, whales began breaching-towering bodies launching into the sir and crashing back down with thunderous splashes. Some were so close to the boat you could feel the vibrations through the deck. It was like watching joy in its purest form-giant, powerful, creatures flinging themselves skyward, over and over again, just for the thrill of it.
We stood there salty and wide eyed-cheering like kids at a fireworks show.
Sure, we might have lost our chance to be in the water with them. But what we got instead was something else: a front-row seat to wild celebration.
As the storm began to break apart and the sky softened, we got news we'd all been hoping for:
The pilot was back in the air.
A ripple of excitement passed through the boat-a second chance. The storm hadn't ruined everything after all. We gathered our gear again, buzzing with cautious hope. It wasn't over yet.
But it wasn't as simple as jumping straight in. The whales were still energized from the swell, some still breaching and tail slapping in the distance. And as much as we wanted to be in the water with them, safety came first.
We couldn't enter the water if the pod was too active. Breaching whales are majestic-but they're also 40-ton beings throwing themselves into the air. Once misplaced splash could end badly.
Now, it was a matter of patience-finding a pod calm enough and relaxed enough to invite us in.
The crew stayed in constant contact with the spotter plane, watching, waiting, adjusting course again and again, holding onto that small flame of hope.
Then the call came.
"Group two-get your fins and masks! Looks like we've found a calm group!"
We scrambled. Heart rates spiked. Excitement and nerves collided. One by one, we lined up at the back of the boat as directed, masks fogging slightly from our breathes, fins awkwardly clunking on the deck as we shuffled into place.
And then-we slipped in.
The boat continued to glide forward gently, moving away as we dropped into the swell. Immediately, all eyes turned to the guide. Her ears were turned to the radio crackling with updates from the spotter plane overhead.
We weren't trying to chase the whales. That was never the goal.
Our mission was to get into a position-somewhere ahead of their path-so that they would chose to swim with us.
That alone felt like a thrill. the swell rolled beneath us, the current occasionally pulling at out fins and dulling our kicks. We followed the guide closely and silently, watching for her every signal. Listening to the radio as the spotter called out commands:
"Head south"
"Pause"
"Keep going"
"Pause"
"Head east"
"Pause"
It felt like a secret mission. Some ocean themed bond sequence where the goal was reverence, not rescue.
And then-
"HEADS IN THE WATER NOW!"
Without hesitation, every face went down.
Within seconds, they appeared.
The giants were here.
It felt surreal-like my brain couldn't quite catch up with what my eyes were seeing.
Two humpbacks appeared from the blue, gliding toward us with the kind of calm, deliberate grace that made the whole ocean feel like it had slowed down just for them. Their massive bodies-mottled with scars, barnacles, and stories-moves in near silence.
They weren't in a rush.
They didn't blast past us in a flash of power like I'd braced for. Instead, they cruised slowly, almost curiously making a half circle around us. There was something deeply humbling about it. As if they weren't just aware of us, but interested in who we were. Like they wanted to know what kind of creature swims like this, breathed like this, hovers so awkwardly at the surface of their world.
In moments, they were gone.
With a few gentle sweeps of their fins, they vanished into their vast underwater world-leaving behind only stirred water and stunned silence.
The seven of us surfaced almost in unison, heads bobbing above the waves, eyes wide. Then the stillness broke.
We erupted.
Cheers, gasps, laughter, a few stunned expletive-that collective, slightly unhinged joy you only get when something utterly unbelievable has just happened. We were all shouting over each other, trying to put it into words, trying to reassure each other that yes, that really did just happen.
That wasn't a dream.
We had just shared space, just shared presence, with two of the most magnificent creatures on earth. And somehow, impossibly, they had chosen to meet us there. Not just swim past, but actually acknowledge our existence. To turn their eyes, to tilt their bodies, to show curiosity.
It's hard to explain what that does to you. That kind of encounter stays in your bones. It reminds you that we are part of something so much bigger, older, and wilder than we often allow ourselves to feel.
They gave us a moment that felt...sacred.
If You Go: Swimming with Humpbacks in Coral Bay
If you're dreaming of your own sacred encounter, I highly recommend going out with Ningaloo Reef Whalesharks Their team was kind, professional, and genuinely passionate about creating safe, respectful interactions between humans and humpbacks.
Best time to go:The humpback whale swim season in Coral Bay typically runs from July to October—during their annual migration along the Ningaloo coast.
What to expect:
You’ll head out on a small group boat tour
Spotter planes help locate suitable whales
All gear (snorkel, fins, wetsuit) is provided
The swims are completely on the whale’s terms—sometimes brief, sometimes breathtakingly close
Even without a swim, the surface action alone is spectacular
Pro tip: Bring a GoPro if you must, but don’t forget to pause, look up, and just feel it. Some moments deserve to be lived, not filmed.
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