With the mother alongside, the whale calf raises its head above the surface – as curious, playful and eager for attention as any young mammal – and I splash it on the nose with handfuls of water, a sensation which it clearly enjoys.

Then the mother does something utterly extraordinary. She sinks beneath her calf and deliberately brings it closer to the surface by supporting it on her back, so that I can touch it easily on the head and nose. As I run my hands along the calf’s lips, the mouth opens with an audible release of suction and my fingers brush the baleen fibers that line the upper jaw in place of teeth among the grays and all other baleen whales.

No wild creature can make a greater gesture of trust than to bring you her newborn and allow you to touch it. This mother is bringing me what is most precious to her, the calf she has carried for twelve months in her body and brought to birth a few weeks ago in this lagoon. The next time she surfaces, she lingers alongside and I begin speaking aloud to her, naturally and without thinking. I tell her how beautiful she is, how happy I am to meet her. She blows again, a short misty burst like a snort, and submerges. A moment later the wooden panga is rattled by the power of her more forceful underwater exhalation. It rises out of the water, rocks and settles back, and I realize with shock that she has just lifted us up on her back and placed us gently down again.