Whale Sharks, Typhoons, and Turtles

(I initially wrote this in March 2019. In July 2020, it seems like a distant world - a world I'd very much like to go back to).

Modern city life creates a problem — you get used to getting what you want, whenever you want. Almost anything you can think of can be delivered to your door or your computer. The world on demand.

Instead of being satisfied we are distracted: constantly expecting to be entertained and bad at being alone with our thoughts. Solutions to this, in essence solutions to modern life, are a popular topic. It’s fashionable to sell the virtues of meditation, of spending time away from digital devices, of reconnecting with friends, and learning how to be bored again.

But those slightly worthy solutions are themselves a bit boring, and still rely on controlling your world ever more closely — just in a different way. Far more interesting is what happens when you are back in a situation when you can’t simply get what you want, where you are not in control.

Infinite fish

The last time I got a chance to spend time outside of a city was when I broke up a business trip with a week of travelling in the Philippines. All I wanted to do was snorkel. There are enough divers on most islands, that even as a snorkeler, you can normally join a boat every couple of days or so and get out to the best locations.

On our first day out on the water, my wife got into snorkeling like she hadn’t before— investing in a good mask helped, and suddenly we were able to enjoy a whole new world together.

There’s something special about swimming with someone you love. Watching the way they move in the water, following their gaze to see what they are seeing. Pointing out an interesting fish and looking at it together. It’s deeply satisfying. And luckily, the coral in the Philippines is very beautiful. Fish flitting in and out, fins flashing. The big ones cruising by like they own the place. Starfish in unrealistically bright colours. Sea urchins so large they look like computer game enemies: huge balls of black needles.

Doing something new like this with your partner gives you a chance to see them in a fresh light. Like when you see them across the room with a group of people, holding court, and feel as if you’re seeing them again for the first time — and get a thrill of attraction and pride.

Later on that day I swam off alone for a while, far from the boat. Suddenly, a shoal of bright silver, meter-long fish, started to swim past me. I felt like I was hallucinating. Fish after fish racing by, like an old cinema reel on repeat: the same fish again and again. There were hundreds!

And at that moment, something new. A mix of awe and fear, being caught in a natural event, beyond anything I could control. Just a foot away, this unknown swarm. If the fish were scared or hungry or confused, there was nothing I could do about it. The reel played on, and resigned in the face of it all, I relaxed into a strange kind of peace. I don’t know how long it took, but the fish had a limit after all. The last one passed, and I felt almost drunk as I swam back to the boat.

The divers, whose boat we shared, asked what the fish had looked like. I mumbled something about them being at least a metre long, and silvery coloured. The diving instructor said they were probably a [fish name I didn’t recognize]. It didn’t seem important.

The whale sharks of Cebu

A popular touristy thing to do is swim with the whale sharks in Oslob, Cebu. Unfortunately, there is an ethical question about the whole process, as it’s run almost industrially. Hundreds and hundreds of tourists a day, teams of local fishermen, and a large group of whale sharks, who have become used to getting a daily morning feeding of krill. All set up for the visitors.

Guides with Go Pros, for that golden selfie. The beach stacked with people, getting briefings about the safety procedures, grabbing life jackets, and heading out loudly and excitedly.

A sense of concern that being an attraction for untold thousands is not exactly the ideal life for the whale sharks, who have become used to their new, perhaps insufficiently nutritiously diverse, daily diet.

The knowledge that despite the various rules and potentially high fines, with such numbers, there’ll be a tiny minority of tourists who abuse the trust and touch the whale sharks.

There are other places where you can swim with them in a more natural environment. But we didn’t have time. I guess neither did the others. I tell myself that it’s OK really, because it’s so good for the local economy, with a whole industry of people earning a living through their local animals, who technically remain wild. Is that so different from us farming intelligent animals like pigs? Isn’t it better, really? But the truth is, I wasn’t quite convinced by my own arguments. It was uncomfortable.

And yet. When you are suddenly in the water with them, everything else falls away. Something primal about seeing creatures like that so close. It’s overwhelming.

Just the way something on that scale moves. It’s not just a big fish. There is a real sense of weight, of majesty. And, behind it all, a frisson of fear. Logically, you know they won’t hurt you. Yet it’s hard to explain that to the animal part of your brain, when they swim toward you, mouth agape, looking oh-so-capable of swallowing you in one mouthful. And you sense that however much you keep your distance, it wouldn’t take much for them to close it, and an unintentional flick of that tail would be really quite bad news.

An interesting phenomenon. Everyone online says the best time to get there is at 6am. So that’s what every tourist, who all read the same sites, did. At 6am it was packed. I later watched with jealousy as the 9am layabouts enjoyed time with the whale sharks with a fraction of the fellow tourists. Perhaps this is a start of an online reviews arms race, where the hippest sites know the actual best time? Until the knowledge gets popular, and is useless once again.

The way is shut

Perhaps because of the huge volume of tourists, the place we stayed in Oslob didn’t have the incredible welcoming warmth we’d experienced in other parts of the Philippines. It was all a bit hard-edged — you felt like you might get ripped off. So after seeing the whale sharks, we were keen to leave, and get back to Dumaguete.

We’d arrived on a bus from the ferry port, which was cheap and fast, and we knew we could take that back. As we waited at the bus stop outside, a motorized tricycle driver immediately started trying to convince us we should take his (more expensive) service:

“There’s a storm coming! They’re going to close the ferries. I can take you to the last port which is open, but you don’t have long.”

I hadn’t heard of any storm, but hadn’t had WiFi or data for two days, so it wasn’t impossible. I looked at the sky. It looked clear and bright blue. I wasn’t going to fall for this. I explained that even if his story was true, we could take the bus, and arrive only slightly later. He kept arguing:

“If you wait for a bus, you’ll be here for an hour!”

I said I doubted that. 30 seconds later, the bus arrived. I felt smug and streetwise. This faded as soon as I explained to the conductor I wanted to go to the port, and the whole bus started muttering. I couldn't understand Tagalog, but received several helpful translations from fellow passengers. Along the lines of “storm.” And “ferries are being stopped, ports closed.”

We arrived at the port and saw a ferry pull away. It was near enough that one, if feeling masochistic, might calculate it would have been possible to have caught if one had taken a motorized tricycle instead of a bus.

The officer at the port gate grinned good-naturedly as he patiently explained:

“Because of the typhoon coming to the north, the coast guard said the last ferry that could leave today would be at 12. And now it’s past 12.”

Only barely past 12, I thought bitterly. Finding out that ferries might be stopped for several days didn’t help, as that would set off a chain reaction of missed hotel and flight bookings.

We tried another port entrance, 1 minute down the road on the back of a motorbike. My wife asked the driver the price for this one minute journey. Without missing a beat, he responded “250 pesos ma’am.” I gave him 10, and he didn’t even argue, as that was still at least double what was fair. No ships were leaving from there either.

Some local boat owners offered to take us across the channel, for several times the ferry fee. It would still be far cheaper than cancelling everything, I agreed. One went to speak to the coast guard. He returned 10 minutes later. No deal, the coast guard was serious. A less scrupulous group offered to go anyway, for USD 100. We demurred.

Again, that sense of helplessness in the face of something bigger. There was a storm coming. The only way back to Dumaguete was by boat. There were no boats. We are just not used to not being able to do something — we are so accustomed to there always being an option. But now it looked like we were truly stuck, and would have to learn to live with nature’s indifference to man.

Unfortunately for the purposes of dramatic effect they resumed ferries later in the day, and we made the crossing without a hitch.

The quest for the sea turtle

The stormy weather didn’t actually hit the south until the next day. It still created problems though, as we were at the stage of the trip where I wanted to fulfill a long-held dream and swim with a turtle in the wild.

I don’t know why I like turtles and tortoises so much. They have always fascinated me. Maybe it’s because of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld books, in which the fantasy world travels on the back of a turtle, swimming through space. Maybe it’s because turtles are about as close as one can get to a dinosaur. Or maybe it’s their charming look of wizened wisdom.

We were all set to take a boat out to Apo Island’s marine sanctuary — famous for its turtles. But once again, the universe refused to bend itself around our schedule. The friendly owner of the resort we were staying at explained cheerily that they “hadn’t seen weather like this in the last 5 years.” Mmm.

Boats were cancelled, and we faced two long days of being unable to go out. It was time to go home. Frustrated at getting so close, and with a forecast of good weather the next day, we took a risk, and did some frantic flight rescheduling, giving us one last chance — one trip to the island, with a planned hurried race to catch a flight afterwards.

The weather held and we were going to Apo Island after all! The process was surprisingly complex, with our guides swimming out to get clearance from one coastguard to make the trip out to the island, and then when we arrived there, swimming across to get another permit from the island itself.

When we were finally ready to explore the first snorkeling spot, the water was still choppy, and even the stronger swimmers mostly wore life jackets. We plunged in, but no turtle in sight. I swam off by myself, aimlessly.

At first nothing, but then, slowly rising, with a heavy grace, I saw it:

If it noticed me, it didn’t show it. Like their land relatives, turtles are faster than one would expect, each pull of their flippers perfectly calculated, but I could keep pace. Swimming alone with it, drinking in its every movement, the patterns on its shell, and those extraordinary, world-weary and wise eyes. Time stretched endless… though it was probably only 5 minutes.

I eventually called my wife and the other snorkelers over. The local guide was beaming happily — “a really big turtle!”

We followed it for a while longer. It continued to cheerfully ignore us, giving a sense it had seen more impressive things in its time. We watched it come up for air several times — a slow ascension, a snapping gulp, and back down it went. I could have watched it forever.

Surprisingly, that was the only turtle we or the other snorkelers saw the whole day. But I didn’t consider complaining. Its rareness made it more precious.

A lot of people talk about the value in getting back to nature. Being in harmony with ones environment. Getting back to basics, back to a simpler time. They are half-right for the wrong reasons. Getting back to nature is the opposite of harmony — it’s being in touch with chaos. Being in touch with a world beyond your control, with your smallness and impermanence and your fear, surrounded by moments of dazzling, temporary, beauty.