 |
| Bancas on the ready |
 |
| VITTON? No, shit. Let's hope whale sharks are NOT turned into handbags here. |
 |
| Our little group consisted of a boatman, a whale shark spotter, a "Butanding Interaction Officer" (or "BIO"), a brash American in his late 20s, two really young German girls, Chris and myself |
 |
| Our mighty vessel |
 |
| Looks like a "Butanding Interaction Armada" to me. |
 |
| Our "spotter" |
 |
| The next boat's spotter, who actually had a very... attractive derriere |
 |
| Chris is happy |
"Go! Go! Go!" Randy, our "Butanding Interaction Officer" (BIO) yelled, sending everyone on the boat jumping into the water immediately.
Everyone except me.
I was busy getting my fingers caught around the ribbons of my life vest. All the while, I was hoping that maybe - just maybe - I'd still manage to catch a glimpse of the butanding (whale shark) before it got spooked by a "feeding frenzy" of tourists jostling for position with flippers, elbows, fists, knees, teeth.
Sure enough, the butanding swam deeper into the water by the time I got my life vest secured. I stood on the banca in my bright orange flotation gear with matchy-matchy blue mask and flippers, all dressed up with nowhere to go.
Amidst the jubliant squeals of delight from other tourists, I felt like crying. Why can't I fucking move on from being "The Fat Kid"?
With steely conviction, I resolved to keep my gear on. I may look stupid but dammit, I'll be ready when that mythical butanding next decides to make an appearance.
Sure enough, it didn't take too long 'til we were again rattled by Randy's cries of "Go! Go! Go!"
I was the first on my boat to jump into the water. I focused my gaze down, squinting... and squinting... and squinting harder. The butanding was four metres beneath the surface. All I saw was an iffy shadow of what might have been a butanding feeding on the plankton-rich waters. Visibility was shit.
"False alarm," Chris cried. "It's just a guppy!"
I was pissed. I was mad and disappointed and livid at these so-called "gentle giants" for avoiding an encounter with me. I may be hyperactive and gay, but that doesn't automatically make me hungry for butanding pelt to craft into handbags. I'm all for sustainable eco-tourism! C'mon, whale sharks. Gimme a break here. One. One measly encounter - that's all I need.
The third time I heard Randy's "Go! Go! Go!" which had quickly become all too familiar, I simply made a nominal effort to join the fray of frenzied tourists flapping about to swim with the butanding.
That's when magic happened.
Because I was amongst the last to jump into the water, I happened to avoid the area of water occupied by a million other tourists. A few seconds after I jumped from my boat, the butanding appeared directly beneath me. It approached me steadily and with purpose. I felt as though an ancient school bus was about to steamroll me and I couldn't do anything except stay frozen to bear the full impact.
I saw the butanding from head to tail. It was about the length of four human beings. And it must have been swimming no deeper than three inches beneath me.
I was humbled and speechless and content.
I had just encountered Mother Nature in her full majesty.
It was a sight I will remember forever.
 |
| Yay, I swam with whale sharks! |
