The Pilot Whale Day That Led Me to Create Ocean Calling Retreats

I grew up in a house where protecting nature was simply what people did. Not a hobby, not a cause to post about. A job. My family were forest rangers. Dinner conversations were about fire risk, poaching patrols, and which trail needed closing before the tourists ruined it. Nature was not something we admired from far away. It was something we were responsible for.

We lived close to the sea, too. I saw it every day. But I want to be honest about something, because I think honesty is the only thing worth building a brand on: I did not have a deep relationship with the ocean as a child. I liked it the way you like a landscape outside a train window. It was there. It was beautiful. It was not mine.

What I did have was one very specific, slightly ridiculous dream. I wanted to swim with whales. I cannot tell you where it came from. A documentary, a book, a picture in a magazine, I really do not remember. But it stayed with me for years, the way only childhood wishes do, quietly, without asking permission, long after I could explain why.

It took me until my thirties to do anything about it.

Bali, and the Fear I Didn't Know I Was Carrying

By the time I got serious about the ocean, I was living a life that had nothing to do with it. I worked in international operations, the kind of job where you organise other people’s travel down to the minute and rarely think about your own. Executive support, project logistics, keeping things running for people who never see the machinery behind their trip. I was good at it. I still am, and it is still my job today, next to this one. But it is a job built on control. Every variable counted. Every risk handled in advance.

The ocean does not work like that, and I did not know it yet.

I went to Bali to learn to freedive properly, and the first weeks were much harder than I expected. Not physically. In my head. I was afraid of deep water in a way I had never fully admitted to myself, until I was floating on the surface of it, about to go down. Not exactly afraid of drowning. Afraid of the not knowing: what was underneath, how far down, how dark it got, how little I could control once I let go of the rope and started going down on one breath.

Freediving does not let you fake your way past that fear. You cannot force a breath-hold. You cannot out-plan the discomfort of an equalisation that is not working, or the moment your body tells you it wants air and you are still ten metres from the surface. The only way through is to get quiet. To stop negotiating with the fear and just be with it, breath by breath, until it stops being the loudest thing in your body.

That is what those weeks taught me, more than any technique: presence. Not the kind of presence people print on t-shirts. A very literal, physical presence. Being fully in the ten or fifteen seconds you really have, instead of spending them managing the version of yourself that is still up at the surface, still worried. I came up from some of those dives shaking, and from others feeling like I had finally met a part of myself I had been avoiding for years. Most days, both were true at once.

I left Bali a different diver than I arrived. I did not know yet that I would leave a different person.

The Day the Pod Found Me

I will not pin this to a date, or dress it up with more detail than I really remember, because that would not be honest, and this is a story I only want to tell honestly. It happened off a stretch of open coastline, the kind of water where you go out expecting nothing in particular, and the day decides otherwise.

We saw them before we understood what we were seeing. A change on the surface of the water, a rhythm that was not wind or current. Then the shapes. Around fifteen of them, moving together in that unmistakable way. Not a school of fish scattering and coming back together, but a pod: tight, steady, as if they already knew where they were going before any of them moved.

Pilot whales confuse people, and I understood why the moment I was close to them. The name says whale. The body says something else. They are one of the larger members of the dolphin family, and in the water you can feel that dolphin quality in how they move, how they seem to notice you without ever making you the point. They travel in tight pods because that is simply what they are: very social animals that do not really do “alone”. NOAA describes short-finned pilot whales, one of the two pilot whale species, as long-lived, slow to reproduce and highly social, usually travelling in groups of about 15 to 30 close family relatives. I cannot tell you which of the two species I saw that day. At sea, even experts find them very hard to tell apart. I wrote more about them in what pilot whales are really like.

I remember going quiet in the water in a way that had nothing to do with technique. My freediving training had taught my body how to be still. It had not taught me what it would feel like to be still on purpose, in front of something that clearly did not need my attention to keep existing.

This is the part I try to explain to people and usually fail, because it sounds abstract until you have felt it: I was not the important thing in that water. The pod moved with its own logic, its own conversation, one I was not part of and had no right to be. A couple of them passed closer, slowly. Most of them did not look at me at all. They had somewhere to be, together, and I was not on their plan.

I have thought about that a lot since. We talk about wildlife encounters as something we get to have. That day I understood, in my body and not only in my head, that I was a guest in something that would have continued exactly the same way if I had not been there. No performance. No moment held for my benefit. Just fifteen animals living their day, and one small human floating at the edge of it, trying to remember to breathe.

That is what I mean when I say the pilot whales taught me humility. Not the humility of being scared, or small in a frightening way. The humility of being irrelevant to something magnificent, and realising that was the gift, not a disappointment.

Reverence, Presence, Humility

I think about that day next to two other places that shaped me in the same way, just differently. There is a wreck in Coron, Palawan, the Lusong gunboat, one of a group of Japanese supply vessels hit by a U.S. carrier air attack in Coron Bay on 24 September 1944. Today Ocean Calling can connect guests with a local freediving team in Coron through Ocean Match. The wreck lies shallow, about 10 metres at most points, with parts close enough to the surface to see from above. Diving down onto it taught me reverence. You move through something that was once violent and is now silent, slowly taken back by coral and fish who were never asked whether they wanted a warship as a reef. You do not touch it. You do not take anything from it. You just go quiet and let it be older and more serious than you. You do not need much for a wreck like this: a well-fitting low-volume mask and snorkel and a pair of freediving fins are enough. There is more about how we approach these sites in what reverence looks like on Coron’s WWII wrecks.

Freediving itself, the discipline of it, taught me presence. That is what I found in Bali, in the fear I had to sit inside instead of running from.

And the pilot whales taught me humility. Three lessons, three places, and none of them mystical. Just specific days that rearranged something in how I understood my place next to other forms of life.

I do not think you come out of a day like that believing you own any part of the ocean. If anything, it is the opposite. You come out understanding that you were allowed to witness something, briefly, on terms you did not set and cannot renegotiate.

Why Ocean Calling Doesn't Chase

This is the part that really matters for anyone thinking about travelling with us, so I will be direct.

Ocean Calling Retreats does not chase wildlife. We do not touch it, bait it, or change an animal’s behaviour to create a moment for a camera. If a pod does not want to be found that day, we do not go looking for it anyway. If dolphins or whales pass at a distance and stay at a distance, that is the encounter. We do not drive boats on top of them because a guest paid for the trip and wants fifteen seconds of footage.

I built the company this way because of that one day, not despite it. The reason the encounter mattered to me is exactly the reason we refuse to force it for anyone else: it worked because nobody was managing it. Nobody herded those pilot whales towards me. Nobody baited them in. They were there because that is where they already were, doing what they already do, and I happened to be quiet enough, in the water at the right moment, to share a little of it.

You cannot schedule that. You cannot guarantee it, and I will not pretend to guests that we can. What we can do is build the conditions where it is possible: small groups, patient guides, boats and schedules that do not rush to squeeze in one more “sighting”, and a way of working that treats marine conservation travel as more than a marketing phrase. We go slowly. We watch. We leave when the animals decide the visit is over, not when it suits us.

This is also why Ocean Calling exists for people who do not feel like natural ocean people yet. I built the structure I needed myself: clear guidance, no judgement, real safety margins, space to be nervous. Because I was that person in Bali, shaking on the surface before a dive. Solo travellers, highly sensitive people, neurodivergent guests, beginners who find the ocean really intimidating: you do not need to arrive fearless. I certainly did not. You only need to arrive open, and let the rest happen at its own pace, on the ocean’s terms.

Where This Is Going: The Sea of Cortez

The Sea of Cortez is one of the most alive stretches of ocean on the planet, and it is where our next hosted retreat happens: La Ventana, in May 2027, from CHF 2,720, built the same way everything else at Ocean Calling is built. For a while I also dreamed of a small-group boat expedition through the Sea of Cortez with local operators. That is still an idea, not a trip you can book.

I am not building any of this to promise anyone a pilot whale encounter of their own. I cannot promise that, and anyone who does is not telling you the truth. What I can offer is the same conditions that made my day possible: small groups, unhurried time on the water, guides who know the difference between finding wildlife and chasing it, and a way of working that puts the animals’ day ahead of the itinerary.

If you have read this far, you already understand why. This is not a sales pitch dressed as a story. It is the reason the whole company exists. I want other people to have their own version of that quiet, humbling day. Not mine, copied. Theirs, found the same honest way I found mine: by showing up, going quiet, and letting the ocean decide what happens next.

Wildlife encounters are unpredictable. Time in the water near pilot whales should always follow local regulations and experienced professional guidance.

Questions people ask me about that day

Where and when did the pilot whale encounter happen?

It happened off open coastline during a freediving trip, in a moment that was not planned or scheduled. The pod simply appeared. I am not pinning it to an exact date or place on purpose, because the point of the story is not the coordinates. It is that it could not have been arranged, and I do not want to suggest it could be repeated on demand.

Can guests on an Ocean Calling trip have a similar encounter?

We hope so, but we never guarantee it. Wild pilot whales, dolphins and whales move on their own schedule, not ours. What we can promise is the way we work, which makes an encounter possible if it happens: small groups, patient guides, no chasing, no baiting, and enough unhurried time on the water for something real to happen if the animals choose it.

Why doesn't Ocean Calling chase or bait wildlife for better sightings?

Because the moments worth having are the ones that happen on the animal’s terms. Forcing a sighting for a better photo or a guaranteed “wow” turns a wild animal into a prop, and that is the opposite of what changed me that day. Ethical whale encounters mean accepting that some days you see nothing, and that is the honest version of the ocean, not a failed one.

Is pilot whale swimming or freediving with whales safe for beginners?

Encounters like this are not something to look for alone. They happen in a guided, small-group setting, where the rules allow them, with experienced local operators who read the animals’ behaviour and decide on distance and approach. You do not need advanced freediving skills to be present for a wildlife encounter from the surface. What matters more is staying calm, listening to your guide, and not needing to make the moment about you.

What is the Lusong gunboat?

A small Japanese WWII supply vessel in Coron Bay, Palawan, hit in a U.S. carrier air attack on 24 September 1944. It lies shallow, roughly 10 metres in most places, so freedivers and snorkellers can see it. We look, and never touch or take anything.

Can you swim with whales in Mexico?

No. Mexico regulates whale tourism as boat-based observation under NOM-131-SEMARNAT-2010, and swimming with whales is prohibited under that standard. Ocean Calling does not sell whale swims in Mexico. Check the current rule before you travel.

The Ocean Calling commitment

• We do not chase, touch, bait or manipulate wildlife for the sake of a better encounter.
• We travel in small groups, at a pace the ocean sets, not the itinerary.
• We tell guests honestly that an encounter is not guaranteed, because pretending otherwise is not respect. It is marketing.
• We build trips for people who do not yet feel like “ocean people”, because that is exactly who we were too.
• We choose local operators and guides who treat marine life as something to witness, never something to perform.

If this is the kind of ocean travel you have been waiting for, tell me. I would rather hear from you than send you a brochure. Write to me on WhatsApp, or see the retreats that are open now, like Moʻorea in September 2027 and La Ventana in May 2027.

More on how we decide where we work, country by country: wildlife and the law.

Wildlife encounters are never guaranteed and never forced. Ocean Calling works only with vetted, ethical local operators, and every animal is free to approach, or not, entirely on its own terms.

Sources & further reading

1. Diario Oficial de la Federación (Mexico). NOM-131-SEMARNAT-2010: lineamientos y especificaciones para el desarrollo de actividades de observación de ballenas.
2. Posta (Baja California Sur). ¿Por qué está prohibido nadar con ballenas grises? (on NOM-131 and the ban on swimming with whales).
3. NOAA Fisheries. Short-finned pilot whale species profile.
4. Azores Whale Watch. Short-finned pilot whale (family Delphinidae).
5. Dive3D. Lusong Gunboat, Coron Bay (history and depth).

Further reading on Ocean Calling: All destinations & rules · More from the journal · Ocean Atlas