Fins, Flippers and Flukes

Whale watching can be incredibly exhilarating if you get lucky. As a tour guide and as a whale-watching punter, I’ve had some of the most memorable and some of the most disappointing moments of my life. But you need to have both to keep the passion alive. Whale watching is a like a drug and each time you get a glimpse or a near miss, that addiction is fed. Eventually, you’re rewarded with an adrenaline and dopamine-filled experience as a whale or dolphin swims, in the case of these Atlantic spotted dolphins, right beneath your dangling feet.

That said, you don’t have to be on a boat to go whale watching. Some of the best cetacean interactions I’ve had happened without leaving dry land. Just last month (June 2024) in Scotland three members of an orca pod known as "the 27s" swam less than 10 metres in front of me whilst I was standing on John O’Groats Pier. But more on that later.

Whether I’m on a boat or land, I usually have a combination of the following whale-watching essentials stuffed into a rucksack. I just need to get better at remembering to apply the sun cream.

My adventures as a wildlife tour guide and avid whale watcher began in Cornwall in 2013. For over five years, Falmouth Bay was my playground. I was a young zoology student studying at the University of Exeter's Cornwall Campus at the time, and I spent as much of my free time as possible working as a tour guide on board a boat called Free Spirit, taking groups of up to 12 out to sea to spot wildlife along the Cornish coast. 

Atlantic grey seals, peregrine falcons and coastal seabirds were some of our most reliable species, but over the years, we had some amazing encounters with cetaceans. From lunge-feeding (a type of filter feeding) minke whales, leaping bottlenose dolphins and bow-riding common dolphins to the ghost-like and heavily scarred Risso's dolphins. On one occasion we were out watching nesting guillemots and razorbills when suddenly, an inky slick appeared, and dead half-eaten cuttlefish began littering the water's surface. Three Rissos appeared from the depths a few moments later, surfaced a handful of times, and then disappeared without a trace. 

Those early days working on FreeSpirit provided me with some unbelievable experiences, helped me hone my guiding skills, and sparked my need to travel to find more whales and dolphins.

In February 2016, on Iceland's Snaefellsnes Peninsula, my lifelong dream of seeing an orca in the wild finally came true. I was in Iceland on a week-long adventure with some friends, chasing waterfalls, and searching for wildlife. On February 25 we left Reykjavik before sunrise, ready for the three-hour drive northwest to the harbour town of Grundarfjörður. 

As we headed further north, family groups of whooper swans could be seen on the edges of frozen pools or flying over the lava fields, but it was whilst the three of us were driving the coast road around the stunning but cold Snaefellsnes Peninsula about an hour and a half later that I got my first distant view of a bull orca feeding on herring below a flock of diving gannets. His enormous two-metre dorsal fin wobbled like an inky sail as he surfaced and then disappeared beneath the wintery waves of the North Atlantic. This tantalisingly distant view through a field scope was nothing compared to the events the following afternoon. 

On the eastern edge of Grundarfjörður is arguably the best bridge in the world. It doesn’t look like much, but this concrete structure that crosses the Kolgrafarfjördur inlet is a prime orca-spotting location. As we crossed I saw distant dorsal fins far up the fjord. It was orca, and they were feeding on herring in the shallow waters. 

An hour after this sighting we were onboard the Laki SH55, a renovated traditional Icelandic oak fishing boat, floating with the engine off in surprisingly calm Icelandic waters, waiting for the orca. We could still see their dorsal fins in the distance beneath the bridge, with cars driving right past them, seemingly unaware of their presence. But we were now facing a problem. The winter sun was beginning to set, and we were losing light by the second. We were now unsure whether the orca would swim out of the inlet before the boat had to head back to the harbour. 

We distracted ourselves by watching a juvenile white-tailed sea eagle as it soared over the nearby hills and mountains, still desperately praying for the orca to head our way. Suddenly, we could hear a few orca spotters on the bridge chatting with giddy excitement, their voices carrying across the eerily still water. The orca were coming!

My heart was pounding; black backs and dorsal fins were swimming beneath the bridge and, within just a few minutes, were alongside the boat, the sound of their blowholes filling the salty breeze. It was a pod of about seven individuals led by a wise old matriarch. In her company were some of her adult daughters, one of which had a newborn calf, its white markings still stained a reddish brown, some teenagers, and one large, towering bull, most likely the matriarch’s protective adult son. He was magnificent and nicknamed Thunderstorm. Tears rolled down my cheeks. 

To this day, that Icelandic orca encounter remains one of the best wildlife-watching moments of my life. I have been fortunate enough to see orca on several occasions since; the Northern Residents in British Columbia’s Johnstone Straight and a pair of transient orca chasing down Stellers sea lions near Race Rocks off the coast of Victoria. In 2023, I returned to Iceland onboard the Iris, where we saw not one pod but several pods totalling 80 orcas feeding on herring. 

But if I’m sincere, all these fantastic orca encounters have recently been trumped in the UK. At the start of June 2024, I was invited to Caithness by The Mammal Society to attend the Sea Watch Foundation’s annual citizen science event, Orca Watch, to help run a Youth Sea Watching event on Duncansby Head. Sadly, no cetaceans were spotted during our four-hour youth engagement event, but just half an hour after the event finished (typical), the call went out that three orca (three members of the infamous 27 pod) had been spotted in Brough Bay (Scotland’s most northernly mainland village) and they were heading east, right towards us. 

The great thing about Orca Watch is the community engagement and the efforts of all eager orca watchers who post their sightings in a Telegram group chat. Thanks to this, I was able to play leapfrog with the orca as they cruised through the Pentland Firth, just metres from the shore, and position myself at the end of the short concrete pier right behind the iconic John O’Groats Signpost, followed by Duncansby Head, ready for the most breathtaking orca swim by ever. 

You can watch the whole moment below.

My next adventure was in October 2018, during a backpacking trip with my girlfriend. We’d been following a popular tourist route at the time, spotting elephants, drinking tea, and hanging out of train windows. But on October 24, 2018, I had something bigger than elephants on my mind. 

At 4.50am the alarm went off. I had a quick and cold wake-up shower, packed my whale-watching essentials into my rucksack and hopped into a Tuk Tuk to the coastal fishing port of Mirissa. I was on a mission to find ocean giants. 

A little after 7am, I was sat in a lifejacket on the top deck of a purpose-built Trimaran. The crew cast off the mooring lines and we set sail into the Indian Ocean. White-bellied sea eagles were patrolling the coastline, and it wasn’t long before I spotted several flying fish gliding over the glassy calm water, most likely evading an unknown marine predator beneath the surface. When we were about 16 miles off the most southerly tip of the Indian sub-continent, we saw our first distant blow. It was the blow of a Bryde’s whale (pronounced ‘Broo-dess’), a new species for me and one that looked a bit like an overgrown minke. After a few quick breaths, the 15-metre whale disappeared into a deeper dive. 

The next half hour of the trip was eerily quiet. But after a while, the guides started to get a bit fidgety and excitable. Two huge spouts of spray appeared on the horizon—Blue whales. As we got closer, we sailed through a red-coloured patch of blue whale poo (digested krill). A little further on, the first whale was feeding close to the boat, making very shallow dives. It looked like there was an enormous blue submarine just below the surface. The second whale took five or six breaths before diving deep, revealing its enormous tail fluke.

The blue whales that frequent Sri Lankan waters are non-migratory and thought to be resident in these waters year-round, which is a bit problematic. By remaining in the productive waters of the Indian Ocean, this endangered sub-population of blue whales is feeding right in the middle of an international shipping lane, and ship strikes threaten the survival of this population. Sadly, this isn’t all. They’re also facing increasing pressures of entanglement, plastic pollution, and underwater noise. 

We were in the presence of these impressive whales for about half an hour on and off, marvelling at their colossal size as their massive heads and blowholes broke the surface, spraying fishy krill spray 10 metres into the air before their endless backs rolled through the surface. 

To top it all off, as we were returning to port, a pod of over 50 Indian spinner dolphins sprinted towards us and then began showing off with their characteristic spins and tumbles.

Kaikoura is one of New Zealand’s leading eco-tourism destinations, with whales, dolphins, sea birds and fur seals living permanently in the coastal waters. The main attraction for whale watchers in this stunning part of New Zealand is sperm whales, which can be seen year-round and close to shore, thanks to the Kaikoura Canyon, which runs right alongside the coast. This 2km-deep sea trench creates a rare system of currents that sustains a prosperous marine food chain, making this a prime hunting ground for squid-loving sperm whales. 

So, how many did I see? Well, none. Sadly, the mighty sperm whales alluded me on this occasion. Still, as the Te Ao Marama left its South Bay anchorage and sailed into the slightly choppy Pacific, Westland petrels and prions circled the boat, and we soon reached an area where a group of sei whales (at up to 19.5 metres long they’re the third largest of the baleen whales) had been hanging out that week. While I didn’t see a sperm whale I did see five sei whales, one of which came alongside the boat and eye-balled us as we stood on the bow.

The name sei is derived from the Norwegian word for pollack, as the appearance of sei whales often signalled the presence of large numbers of these fish. We were in the company of these whales for a surprisingly long time, probably over an hour, with periods of adrenaline-filled anticipation as the whales would submerge for 5-10 minutes at a time before reappearing with a loud “psshhhhhhhhh” as their double blow holes sprayed water 10-13 feet high, followed by their great big arching backs and sickle-shaped dorsal fins sticking up like little flags. 

Do you know the perfect way to burn off a boozy Christmas dinner Kaikoura style? 

Waking up at the crack of dawn to squeeze your bloated belly into a 7mm wetsuit and then throw yourself off a boat into inky black, chilly water—that’s how. Well, a coffee, a borracha, and a short walk might have the same effect, but that’s nowhere near as awesome. 

Conditions were less than ideal as the Lissodelphis pootled out of the South Bay Harbor and into the choppy Pacific Ocean. It would be a long few hours bobbing about in the swell. I’ve worked on boats on and off for the best part of a decade and have sturdy sea legs, but I must admit that I felt rather ropey. But that could have been the gammon and mulled wine trying to resurface. However, these unfavourable conditions were no problem for the dusky dolphins we were sailing out to encounter. 

Within 25 minutes of leaving the harbour, we had duskies playing in the wake of the boat and Australian gannets known as the Tākapu in Maori (something I’d thankfully done before boarding the boat) littered the horizon. The two-metre-long dusky dolphins are well known for their energetic and skilful leaping and tumbling activities; they give the spinner dolphins I encountered off the coast of Sri Lanka a run for their money with their acrobatic antics. On deck, the crew split us into two dolphin swimming groups, alternating between being in the water and back on deck. I have to say I thought jumping into the chilly Pacific water would help remedy the on-deck queasiness, but the mixture of a thick wetsuit, a buoyant backside, and choppy waves made it feel like I was in a washing machine.

But despite all that, the next hour was one of the best of my life. As soon as my snorkel mask went beneath the undulating waves, five duskies appeared out of the inky water and swam right beneath me. Their cone-shaped faces seemingly smiling as they cruised effortlessly through the ocean like black and white torpedoes. I think the first word I exclaimed was “f**kinghell”, which was quickly followed by a mouthful of the Pacific’s finest, saltiest water. Everywhere I looked, black and white dusky dolphins were zipping and zooming around the group of splashy, excited swimmers. The crew onboard told us that duck diving and singing were great ways to keep the dolphins engaged with you as they came in for a closer look. So, that’s what we did. Well, my duck diving was pretty ropey on this occasion, with the buoyant 7mm wetsuit and Christmas-filled belly relentlessly dragging me back to the surface, but the dolphins were more inclined to check me out as I got further into their domain. Then there was the singing. 

I tried to sing a few classic numbers through my snorkel, easier said than done, but after a few shoddy renditions of ‘Beyond the Sea’, I found that dusky dolphins are massive Toto fans. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I’d be belting out Africa in the middle of the Pacific Ocean in the company of over 100 dolphins. The more you sang, the more the dolphins were inclined to give you a swim by, and why wouldn’t they? Africa is a belter of a tune. Just ask anyone who has seen me in a nightclub at closing time.

Before I go into more detail about lively, dusky dolphins, I just wanted to say that Dolphin Encounter Kaikoura has done its homework correctly and is an ethical company operating on the dolphins’ terms. In fact, they time the dolphin swims during periods when the dolphins are socialising and playing, as opposed to resting or feeding. As their diet is mainly comprised of anchovies, hake, and squid, duskies primarily feed at night on prey associated with the deep scattering layer, so this frees up time for them to laugh at all the humans that bob about off the coast of Kaikoura.

After the most incredible time being eyeball to eyeball with curious dolphins, a life-long dream ticked off the bucket list; we had the inelegant task of removing our wetsuits on a stationary boat that was bobbing around in two to three-foot waves. Not easy. After a lot of slipping and hopping around, taking regular breaks to settle the stomach by looking at the horizon, we were all dried off and dressed, standing on the bow with a warming cup of tea.

But the fun didn’t stop there. The duskies were still hurling themselves out of the water, carrying out their own version of an aerial ballet. One individual dolphin did about ten backflips in a row, and I have the video to prove it. How’s that for a Boxing Day morning?

Some days, when you're out at sea with guests, you feel the pressure build when wildlife is eluding you. Other days, however, the wildlife comes right to you. In September 2023 I was guiding onboard the Hjalmar Bjørge on a six-night cruise around the Inner Hebrides. On the third day of our adventure, we were moored up in a small anchorage at Bunnessan on the west coast of Mull. 

I was up early as many of the guests were avid sunrise chasers, and at 6am I had a flask of tea in hand, binoculars around my neck, and I was climbing the ladder to the top deck of the Hjalmar Bjørge to see what I could spot in the early morning light. A few red deer were grazing on a nearby hillside, a male hen harrier glided like a ghost right over my head, and then I heard a splash. The ripples that followed were probably a few hundred metres away. At first, I thought a clumsy harbour seal might have left its rocky haul-out to head out fishing, but then the magical sound of exhaling blow holes carried across the eerily calm sea loch. 

A pod of five common dolphins, including a tiny newborn calf, were milling around and swimming slowly towards us. The Hjalmar Bjørge was still anchored and we had dolphins before breakfast! The small pod of common dolphins did a few laps of the boat, the tiny calf clinging to its mother's flank, before heading out into deeper water towards the Treshnish Isles. This was good news, as that's where we were headed after our scrambled eggs on toast. 

A short while later, we had sailed a short distance north to the mouth of Loch Na Keal and were quickly surrounded by more common dolphins. Our passengers were over the moon with the pods of bow-riding dolphins taking turns to catch a ride with us just metres below them. But it wasn't just dolphins that were lingering outside the entrance to Loch Na Keal. Some gulls caught our attention a little distance away; they were clearly up to no good and circling a small area of water. This is always a good sign.

A shiny glint of light reflected off the wet back of a surfacing whale. It was a minke! At up to ten metres in length, these are the smallest of the baleen whales that can be found in UK seas, and thanks to photo-identification projects, over 250 individual minkes have been identified around the Hebrides. We were fortunate to watch the minke feeding for 20 minutes before it vanished effortlessly beneath the waves. 

As I mentioned, some days when you’re guiding, you get lucky. This was one of those days. About half an hour after the minke whale slipped away, we were sailing out towards the Treshnish Isles; common dolphins were still everywhere, fulmars were gliding across the surface, their wings almost touching the water, and then I spotted them. It was a trio of dolphins, but they were much bigger than the common dolphins that were still playing around the Hjalmar Bjørge. They were bottlenose dolphins, and at almost four metres long, they are the largest bottlenose dolphins in the world and are proper chunky monkeys. I legged it up into the wheelhouse to let the skipper know that I’d spotted them, and thankfully, despite wanting to drop anchor for lunch, he adjusted his course slightly, and within a few minutes, the three-bottlenose also adjusted theirs and beelined straight for us like a trio of fighter planes. 

I alerted the guests that we had bottlenose heading straight towards us, and the shock on their faces at the size of these animals was a picture. We had spent all morning watching 2-2.5-metre-long common dolphins, and the difference between the two species was staggering. All the guests aboard the Hjalmar Bjørge were up on the bow with me, and we were treated to the most stunning view as the three bottlenose bow rode and breached within touching distance of us. 

The smiles and sheer excitement on the guests' faces are the best thing about guiding, in my opinion. Of course, the wildlife is a crucial component, but getting to share my passion for whales and dolphins with guests, on this occasion, including a gentleman who had never even been on a boat before and nearly fell over with joy as a common dolphin leapt out of the water right in front of him, was truly special.