My most amazing memory? The day I tickled a baby whale

I’m in a state of disbelief. I look down at my hands. How can they still look normal after doing something so incredible, so unimaginable? The people around me, crowded into a small boat, being tossed about in the grey chop of the sea, seem similarly stunned. 

The noise of our combined euphoria is silenced as we each try and take in what just happened; trying to hold on to the memory of what was surely one of the most extraordinary encounters a human can have with an entirely wild animal.

For three days we have been on a boat, travelling south from San Diego in California over the Mexican border to follow the coast of the Baja ­Peninsula. It is a curious piece of land, as forbidding as it is enticing, a finger of mountainous desert, almost devoid of habitation for most of its 800-mile length. 

But the waters that surround it – the Pacific on its west side and the Sea of Cortez to the east – are anything but lifeless. Already we have seen the stunningly acrobatic and playful California sea lions, been delighted by the joyful, leaping antics of a huge pod – about 400 strong – of common ­dolphins, scoped out by the soaring elegance of a Laysan albatross and spotted two species of whale (a Bryde’s and the mighty Fin, the latter being second only in size to the blue whale).

To stretch our legs, we went ashore, walking through the bleached remains of an old fishing camp to find a beach crowded with sunbathing ­elephant seals. Further on, beneath the beady eyes of a pair of ospreys ­riding the thermals, we hung out on the rocks to watch the squabbling antics of the Guadalupe fur seals – animals found only in Baja. That evening, as we returned to the boat and ­continued our journey south, we were accompanied by a squadron of brown pelicans, a prehistoric fly-past illuminated by the setting sun.

Zoologist and wildlife photographer Mark Carwardine, together with his colleague Rachel Ashton, has been leading trips here for 30 years. I wonder why this part of the world has drawn him back time and time again – given he has travelled and worked all over the world, written books, including Last Chance to See with Douglas Adams, and an updated version with Stephen Fry, as well as the definitive field guide to the world’s whales and other cetaceans. 

It turns out that the answer is straight­forward: “There is nowhere else in the world where you can have so many ­different encounters with such a variety of whales and dolphins in a single trip.”

The headline attractions of this “Mexican Galapagos” are found in the early months of every year in the sheltered waters of the San Ignacio Lagoon. Our boat, the aptly named Spirit of Adventure, bucks its way through the waves that mark its entrance and anchors in the wide, still waters beyond. We stand on deck, binoculars scanning the horizon, jittery with anticipation. A small flotilla of narrow motor boats approaches, low in the water. 

Their skippers are Mexican fishermen, who at this time of year stop fishing and instead use their intimate knowledge of these waters to take visitors to find the gray whales that migrate here every winter. From their feeding grounds several thousand miles north in Alaska, the whales travel down the west coast of America and gather here in their thousands to socialise, mate and calve.

It was the predictability of this annual gathering within the shelter of the lagoon that nearly spelt the end for these whales, which were hunted almost to extinction in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Dubbed “devilfish” by the whalers because of their ferocious attempts to protect themselves and their calves, the whales would chase down the small wooden whaling boats, ramming them with their heads and smashing them with their tails. But ultimately, they were no match for harpoons. Only an international agreement to protect the whales saved them from being lost for ever.

Given the history of these animals, it feels futile to be heading out to try and see an animal whose instinct, you’d imagine, would be to flee or fight. But the truly astonishing thing that Mark discovered on his early trips down here was that, far from avoiding any sort of human contact, the whales appear to actively seek it out. I had heard about the so-called “friendly” gray whales, but admit to being deeply sceptical. As I climb into one of the fisherman’s boats, my excitement is more cautious than that of my fellow passengers.

It is not long before our driver spots the rounded back with its distinctive “knuckles” of a gray whale breaking the surface of the water and, alongside, the spine of another smaller animal. It is a mother and calf. The boat stops and we all watch, holding our breath. Mark tells us that sometimes leaning over the side and splashing the water attracts the whales over, but it was to no avail.

I feel oddly, secretly, pleased. Not to have my scepticism justified, but because, if we were to have any sort of encounter with these creatures, it was gratifyingly clear that it would only be on their terms. We continue on, scanning the water, hoping…

“There’s one,” someone shouts, and we head over, stopping the boat well short of where we see the backs of another mother and calf cutting through the choppy waves. We lean over, splashing and calling, and the most miraculous thing happens. 

The mother raises her head out of the water. She looks at us, then starts to swim towards us, her calf close to her side. She stops a few yards short of the boat and seems to encourage her calf to carry on. By now I am overwhelmed by a riot of emotion. I am incredulous, flooded with joy, speechless. Tears spring into my eyes as the calf approaches the boat, lifts its head and then comes right alongside us, and rolls onto its back, exposing the underside of its head and belly. I look over at Mark, questioningly.

“Should we?” There are strict guidelines for watching wildlife to prevent any negative impact on natural behaviours, but none of us could make a one ton, 15ft calf approach our boat, roll over and invite us to stroke it. “It’s OK,” Mark assures me. “If you don’t, the calf will just go to another boat to find someone who will.” And so I lean over and place my hand on the side of the calf’s head and stroke its face. Its skin is unexpectedly soft and warm – it is, of course, a mammal – but I still expected it to feel cooler and more fish-like. And it may be fanciful to say it, but it felt like a moment, not just of connection, but of reconciliation between our species.  

I couldn’t imagine that anything in the coming days would beat that experience, but as a breeding and feeding ground for many of the world’s whales, Baja offers the chance of seeing more different species than almost anywhere else on the planet.

The further south we got the warmer it became. The birdlife changed, too. We started seeing frigatebirds, red-billed tropicbirds and blue-footed boobies. We explored mangroves and sand bars, finding warblers and waders and an unpromising-looking patch of scrubland gave us sightings of orioles and woodpeckers and another Baja speciality, the Xantus’s hummingbird. But it was the marine life that kept stealing the show. Humpback whales, ever the performers, gave us a textbook display of tail-lobbing, fin-slapping, leaping and breaching. And when Mark dropped a hydrophone over the side of the boat, we were able to listen in to their world, a chorus of hauntingly beautiful sounds that held us breathless with wonder.

A vast nursery pod of bottlenose ­dolphins, with calves just days old, played in the wake of the boat for hours. Mobula rays flung themselves skyward. Curious turtles paid us a visit. A sunfish basked beneath our bow and a young whale shark with a galaxy of white markings on its blue-grey skin gave us the great privilege of swimming with us. But then we spotted something that even Mark had never seen before.

Just as we were all eating breakfast one morning, one of the crew shouted from the deck that there were two whales alongside the port-side. Abandoning our eggs, we raced outside. ­Rising with graceful elegance just above the surface were the backs of two clearly enormous animals, travelling in perfect synchronicity.

“They’re blue whales,” confirmed Mark. “A female and her consort male.”

“But there’s a third just behind,” someone pointed. Mark explained that it would be another male, trying to muscle in. But there wasn’t just one. Clearly this female was a bit of a catch because there was a third male also giving chase, something that as far as Mark is aware, has never been recorded. For two hours we stood, unmoving, as we travelled alongside four of the biggest animals that have ever inhabited the Earth.

Whales may not be hunted as widely as they once were, but human beings continue to put the future of these extraordinary animals in peril. Yet these 11 days in Baja prove that whales will still allow us to see them, to experience the joy and wonder they inspire, and to come away with life-changing memories. They haven’t given up on us. For all our sakes, we should never give up on them.

Essentials

Kate was a guest on on Mark Carwardine’s and Rachel Ashton’s whale-watching adventure to Baja California (0117 904 8934; markcarwardine.com); from £5,995pp, including one night in hotel in San Diego and 11 nights on the boat, but excluding flights. 

British Airways flies to San Diego, from where the boat sets off and journeys down the Pacific coast into the Sea of Cortez. The trip concludes at the southern tip of Baja, with flights from Los Cabos back to London via Dallas. The Baja whale-watching season is short, between February and April, late February and March being the peak. There is still availability on  the Feb 23 departure.