Whaleshark Season

Photos by Junjie Koh

Where do people go for answers? My friend wasn’t exactly into saintly intercession or parental advice. That left us with the nature quest—a common enough refuge for gaining so-called clarity. We were at our respective crossroads, procrastinating on a decision that could easily define our next five years. To get out of our own heads, we somehow convinced ourselves, we had to get out of urban Manila for a few days. And it seemed to us—as we leafed through ecotourism brochures—that an encounter with the “largest fish in the world” offered just that type of grand-scale experience that would likely, in a manner of speaking, put us in our place.

The prospect of leaping into a giant’s watery domain demanded the reassurance that learning about them beforehand afforded. Whale sharks (Rhincodon typus), butanding to the locals, grow up to 60 feet and weigh up to 40 tons. Happily for us, they feed on plankton. This migratory species finds sanctuary in the protected waters around Donsol, Sorsogon from January to May (March to April being the best times to go).

And so we went. A 45-minute daily flight from Manila to Legazpi City—some don’t mind the 10-hour bus travel from Cubao’s central terminal—followed by a one-hour ride by passenger van (taxi or buses will do too) delivered us to the Donsol tourism office and visitor center (mobile phone +63 927-2330364; butanding_donsol@yahoo.com or ecotourismdonsol@yahoo.com). We paid the registration fees (P100 for Filipinos, P300 for foreigners) and split the P3,500 group fee that covered boat rental and fees for the Butanding Interaction Officer (BIO) and spotter-guide. We brought cash because credit card facilities were not available, at least not yet. For accommodations, we were given plenty of choices: beach resort cottages like Woodland (mobile phone +63 921-9699544) and Amor Farm (+63 917-6941687) and several homestays.

With the practicalities dealt with, we made a gift of our bubbling excitement to our assigned BIO. He turned teacher. An illustration he traced with a finger showed how we were expected to maintain a distance of three meters from the whale shark’s head and body, and four meters from its tail. We were not to get in its natural path. And, by the way the BIO kept reminding us not to touch the whale shark, we could guess many must have lost their heads in the moment and tried just that. “No flash photography, no scuba diving, no unnecessary thrashing in the water…” These giants are clearly shy.

Snorkeling gear could be rented on site but we packed our own. An ill-fitting mask, we imagined, could flood upon us plunging in, and the initial shock of that could lose us the seconds it takes to zero in on a whale shark. It would be equally disastrous to be finning after a better sight of a butanding only to find we’ve slowed because a strap broke and one fin has dropped to irretrievable depths. (My friend is a master at worst-case scenarios.)


We’re also told that no more than six swimmers per whale shark are allowed and only one outrigger boat per whale shark. We joked about suddenly feeling competitive against the other groups scheduled to head out that same morning. Every BIO’s pleasure, our guide confirmed, is for his boatload of visitors to experience the amazement of staring down into the deep blue, only to realize with a jolt that he’s seeing silvery-white spots, and then finally making out the moving outline of a butanding beneath him. No one forgets that first instance of recognition. Especially because nature doesn’t always put on a show. Just the day before, Japanese tourists logged in an entire day without a single sighting.

We hoped for better luck as our boat motored through open water. We even wore our optimism: vests on, fins fastened, masks around our neck. The BIO wanted us ready to jump overboard upon his signal. A half hour later, butanding unseen, we were beginning to feel a little silly about being so dressed for the water yet remaining dry on the boat.

Just when my friend was starting to reconsider the merits of seeking saintly intercession, we got our signal from the BIO. “Talon!” And so we jumped after him, hitting the water in a graceless splash. There was hard swimming in between coughing of saltwater (a far match from the magically serene communion-with-nature we pictured) as we tried to keep up with the BIO who positioned himself ahead like a buoy to keep us oriented. We were soon confused anyway because the BIO seemed to be heading back. “Tigil! Tingin sa baba! (Stop! Look down!)” he yelled over the choppy waves.

The BIO, bless his heart, expertly deduced that the whale shark’s “grazing” direction would cut below our boat. We planted our faces in the water, not seeing very far in the “nutrient soup” that cultivated the algae that fed the krill that attracted the whale shark. Then I felt a tug from behind. Our BIO was Superman. He pulled on my vest with one hand and my friend’s vest with the other and, with a few strong kicks, he got us in place just in time to see a wide, flat head and a small eye from our angle. A capacious mouth sucked water that was strained through its gills, filtering its food. A massive blue-grey body—with its telltale pale yellow dots, vertical ridges, pairs of pectoral and dorsal fins, and muscular tail—glided ponderously underneath us. We could see it was going to dive back into the blue. Taking quick mental snapshots, cropping images here and there, was how I responded to the ephemeral quality and scale of it. Huge, I thought. The entire moment, despite taking less than a minute, was huge—the kind that makes us go: I can do the next thing now.

Later, as the day turned to dusk, our boat cruised the Donsol river lined with mangroves that winked with fireflies. We were still aglow ourselves, momentarily bonded by a powerful shared-experience. Our BIO was happy about notching that for us. He’s had days when he’s counted over 10 whale sharks in a single hour, making one-for-the-day sightings all the more precious. As a younger man, he shared, he wanted to be a seafarer to see the world. Now—with a local ecotourism industry in place that helps preserve the vulnerable whale shark and its habitat—the rest of the world comes to his fishing village and him for their take-away encounter. The whale sharks make him special. Communing with the giants does change everyone.