Close encounters at the end of the world

Curiosity, privilege, and the quiet responsibility of being there... my personal thoughts

There is a particular silence that falls over a zodiac when a whale surfaces close by. You hear the exhale first — a low, misty breath — then the collective intake of ours. Cameras freeze mid-air. Someone whispers “Oh my God.” Someone else forgets to press record being amazed in the moment. And then, suddenly, the whale is there. So close that you can see the barnacles on the rostrum. So close that your sense of scale disappears.

In recent seasons, videos of these moments have filled our feeds: whales gliding beside black rubber tubes, flukes lifting just meters away, curious humpbacks circling boats in the Peninsula. The images are breathtaking. They are also complicated. Because Antarctica is not a theme park. And whales are not performing.

“They Came to Us” It’s a phrase we all use.“They approached.” “They were curious.” “We didn’t move — they chose to come.” And often, that’s true. Species like the humpback whale are naturally inquisitive, especially in feeding grounds such as the Western Antarctic Peninsula. After more than a century of industrial whaling — particularly in places like South Georgia — their populations are slowly recovering. In some bays, you now see multiple blows on the horizon again. And that's an amazing experience that feels like hope made visible.

But curiosity is not consent. And proximity is not permission. Specially when their loud noises can mean distress. The fact that a whale surfaces near us does not automatically make the encounter neutral. We are still generating engine noise, hull vibration, acoustic disturbance — even when idling, engine off we are still present in the middle of their grounds.

The Southern Ocean is one of the last places on Earth where, for a few precious weeks each year, whales can feed intensely and — perhaps — experience something close to acoustic relief from shipping lanes, seismic surveys, naval sonar, and industrial traffic and all the noneses that humans are deeply unaware of making for them. Or at least, that used to be true.

A Precious Agreement

The International Association of Antarctica Tour Operators guidelines were not written to limit magic.

They were written to protect it, to preserve the magic better. Minimum approach distances, special angles, engine-neutral positioning -not off as a permition to stay- limits on zodiacs numbers and time expended close by, avoidance of repeated pursuit — these are not bureaucratic hurdles. They are buffers. Margins of disturbance prevention in a rapidly changing ocean and in an ever-growing industry.

Recently, the last number of Freeze-frame, the IAATO staff newsletter quietly reminded field staff of these standards. Not dramatically. Not accusatorily. In the usual diplomatic caring IAATO tone, just a comment — and a gentle nudge. Maybe that’s what we need more of. Nudges, at the right time, like the guests look at posters before the operations.

Because the line between “extraordinary encounter” and “subtle harassment” is not always obvious in the moment. Especially when everyone on board is hoping for the best experience of their lives.

The Quiet Stretching of Expectations

Guests travel far. They invest heavily. Expedition teams care deeply about delivering unforgettable moments. Social media has quietly raised the bar of what “success” looks like.

The result? Sometimes we edge closer. Sometimes we wait a little longer. Sometimes we justify. And most of the time, it still feels beautiful. But conservation rarely collapses because of one dramatic mistake. It erodes at the edges. Gradually. Through normalization.

If every zodiac in every bay accepts slightly closer encounters… If the kayaks gets right into the "Whale soup" and we don't paddle back... If every operator assumes wildlife's curiosity equals comfort… If the expectation shifts from “observe respectfully” to “immerse fully”… Then what was once rare becomes routine. And routine becomes pressure.

Humpbacks come south to feed — to gorge on krill, to rebuild energy reserves lost during migration and breeding. Minkes weave quietly between brash ice. Fin whales move like shadows beneath slate water.

Feeding is work. Migration is work. Survival is work.

Antarctica, for them, is not an attraction. It is a seasonal necessity. If there is anywhere on the planet where whales deserve predictable calm, perhaps it is here. Not silence — the Southern Ocean is alive with wind and ice — but the absence of pursuit. The absence of industrial insistence. For a few short austral months, could this still be a place where they are simply whales?

None of this is about blame. It's about maturity. We can still be awed. We can still feel goosebumps when a fluke lifts beside us.We can still celebrate recovery stories that were unthinkable decades ago. But maybe our greatest offering as expedition professionals is not proximity — it’s restraint. Maybe the most powerful story we can tell guests is this: “That whale came near us. And we gave it space.” Not because we had to. But because we chose to. And the biggest take away of an extraordinary voyage can be , "Let's care".

The Privilege of Enough

I, as a Polar guide, am privileged enough to see these encounters often. That perspective changes things.

The real magic of Antarctica has never been about how close we get. It is about how intact it still feels. If we want future guides, future guests, future generations to feel that same intactness — we have to protect not just populations, but experience quality.... Not just for us, also for the wildlife, for the whales.

Sometimes the most wonderful encounter ends a little sooner than the camera would prefer. And that is okay. Because wonder does not require contact. Only presence.