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In Deep With the Whales

Getting up close and personal with humpback whales off the coast of the Dominican Republic.

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And like a bar brawl, it eventually disperses. One or two males can't keep up. Others grow discouraged and drift away. Their departure is marked by flukeprints -- broad, flat circles that rise to the surface after a whale pumps its tail underwater. The flukeprints hold their shape among the swells and serve as markers to track how fast a whale is traveling, and in what direction. As the group disperses, we turn our attention back to the horizon, ready to find whales that are safer for an audience of snorkelers. The tender putters over the crests of small waves, and we scan the surface of the ocean for spouts, fins, flukes, any sign that might invite us back to the world beneath our boat.

ON THE NIGHT OF OUR LAST FULL DAY on the Silver Bank, I stand on the sun deck and watch a mother and calf circle the boat slowly, moonlight running in white ribbons down the length of their backs. I couldn't begin to count the number of whales I've seen out here over the week, but somehow I still feel compelled to watch them for as long as I can, until an undeniable need for rest sends me reluctantly downstairs.

In my cabin I can still hear the whales breathing, a sound like the sharp exhalation of a horse, only bigger, wetter. The first few times they blow, I sit up quickly and pull the curtain back to see, but the ocean is dark. I lie back down. They blow again. This time I don't move, and quickly drift asleep.

OUR FINAL HALF-DAY ON THE SILVER BANK turns out to be a bust; turbulent weather closer to shore results in rising swells, and we cut the day short to avoid a potentially unpleasant return voyage. In dry wetsuits, we unload the tender and get ready for the nine-hour ride back to the Dominican Republic. Onboard the Rorqual, the passengers scatter, gathering in the dining area to play board games or wandering to the top deck to bask in the dangerously intense Caribbean sun. For a while, I sit with a small group of guests gathered near the windows, watching a pair of dolphins accompany our departure.

Halfway back to the marina in Puerto Plata, I can already feel the gap start to close between where I am and where I'm going. The sea is no longer dotted with spouts.

Lamenting our return to the world of constant accessibility, someone behind me on the sun deck says wistfully, "My cellphone has been off this whole time."

Darkness falls while we're still offshore. I join the group of passengers and crew members gathering around the tables on the top deck. We watch our approach to Puerto Plata, the hazy blur of city lights creeping up over the horizon, dimming the stars and brightening the sea behind us.

Caitlin Gibson, legal administrator for The Post, is a writer who lives in Bethesda. She can be reached at gibsonc@washpost.com.