We woke up and drove out of Punta Viejo at first light. There is just something magical about that hour of day. We arrived at the office of Whale Magic, in the town of Guerro Negro, Baja California Sur, and before long the owner Shari Bondy arrived, as did three other adults, one woman holding a tired-looking two year old in her arms. We learned quickly that they had been up all night with food poisoning – including the child. They were weary, but resolved to go, and we admired their courage! We all piled into Shari’s Subaru Outback (a miscommunication led Shari to cancel her van service because she thought our group would be smaller), with me in the hatchback sitting on cushions, for the 40-minute drive on a washboard, dirt road leading out to Laguna Ojo de Liebre. Let the adventure begin!

Stopping quickly for coffee and breakfast burritos, Shari began educating us about whales as soon as we were on the road, making the drive out to the lagoon with only one stop for one of our ailing tour mates. Gray whales are the only species of whale that comes into sheltered lagoons to mate, and give birth; the high salinity of the lagoons helps the newborn calves to float as soon as they are born – their massive, 1 ton body bobbing up to the surface to take their first breath. Their mothers do not eat while in these lagoons, rather, they devote themselves to nursing their young calves, teaching them to swim and maneuver about in the current before making the return trip north, slowly burning the reserves that they accumulated in their feeding grounds in the months before. A calf can consume up to 80 gallons of its mothers milk, gaining 100 pounds, a day!

Other interesting facts: gray whales reach 35-50 feet; grow to 40 tons; live between 55-70 years (the maximum recorded age is 75-80 years); and their 8,000-16,000 mile journey from the north eastern (and western) Pacific to the sheltered lagoons of Baja is one of the worlds’ longest recorded migrations.

These whales, said Shari, are also recovering from a recent period of abnormally high mortality, in which 25-30 percent of the population was lost. The primary source of the problem is the loss of their feeding grounds in the Artic: as the ice caps melt, this impacts algae that serve as the food sources for tiny crustaceans (marine amphipods), that in turn form the basis of the gray whale’s diet. Gray whales are bottomfeeders, that turn on their side and scoop up sediment from the ocean floor in giant gulps, then using their baleen to filter out the amphipods, while expelling water and debris. (Another fascinating fact according to Shari: gray whales almost exclusively feed on their right side, while swimming counter clockwise!) For the past many years, Shari and her counterparts were seeing fewer, and much emaciated, adult whales returning here to Baja’s Pacific Coast, along with dramatically fewer calves. In many cases, whales died before leaving the lagoon, and beginning their return migration northward.

After a period of several years of helplessly watching these gray whales continued to decline, researchers reported seeing some members of this eastern Pacific gray whale population feeding off the coast of Russia. Like many whale species, individual whales are recognized, and can be tracked, by distinguishing marks on their bodies. The whales were figuring it out – migrating longer to find new feeding grounds. It seems to be working, at least for now, in that the whales arriving back in the sheltered bays off of Baja’s Pacific coast are again more numerous, healthier, and having more calves.

We piled out of Shari’s Subaru at Whale Magic’s base camp, on the shores of Laguna Ojo de Liebre, donned our life vests, and loaded into our ponga – a Mexican fishing boat, in this case repurposed as touring vessel. Shari explained that we would be approaching the whales at a slow pace, to ensure they had time to hear us, and avoid or maneuver around us as they chose. If whales were in our vicinity, or approached us, the Captain would put the boat motor in neutral, to convey our location and intentions to the whales – who can distinguish between a motor in gear, and not. We weren’t out on the water very long before we began to see their tell-tale spouts, and as our boat motor slowed and grew quiet, we were able to hear the distinctive sound of whales rising and forcibly exhaling, their spine arcing gracefully above the water, followed by a deep, resonant inhale just before they dove below. Sometimes, we caught a glimpse of a tail. Usually, not. Despite it being the very end of their calving season, over the course of several hours we saw dozens of mothers and calves within 5-30 meters of our boat.

We lingered in the lagoon several hours, maneuvering slightly against the tide in order to stay near the whales, allowing them to come to us. Shari, who helped to create the protective regulations that govern whale watching in Vizcainio Bay’s Biosphere Reserve, is adamant about letting the whales come to us, rather than the other way round, and has numerous stories of tour guides and fisherman who pressed too far, too fast, with a whale – only to find themselves tossed out of their boat, or worse.

That these whales tolerate our presence at all, much less show signs of active curiosity and even playfulness toward us, is one of those inexplicable phenomena of nature that invites deeper reflection. Throughout the 17th to 20th centuries, commercial whaling threatened to drive the eastern Pacific gray whale population, if not the entire species, to extinction. Here along Baja’s Pacific coast, the waters of their mating and calving grounds became a slaughter house, turning crimson red with blood as whaling vessels trapped mothers and their calves in the shallow waters of these lagoons, bludgeoning them to death with repeated thrusts of hand-held harpoons. During this time, whales began to recognize boats and their human occupants as the source of this terror, and launched counter-attacks, usually in vein.

Captain Charles M. Scammon, for whom “Scammon’s Bay” at Laguna Ojo de Liebre is named, bears the dubious distinction of being one of the most successful whalers of all time. At the time of his operation in the late 1800s, there were an estimated 18,000-22,000 whales migrating into these protected bays each year; by 1937, when the US and Mexico forged international laws prohibiting commercial whaling, the population was estimated at 250 individuals.

Despite our grim shared history, the gray whales of Baja’s Pacific coast regularly approach boats that are instead now occupied by visitors coming just to see them, people from all over the globe. The whales lift their head up out of the water within inches of the gunwale, turning over on their side and casting their giant eyes up at us as we peer down at them, often nudging against our outstretched hands, encouraging us to touch, even scratch them. The whales alive today never experienced whaling directly, but their parents, and grandparents, did. Surely those ancestors taught them to be very, very leery. Yet today, it is not uncommon for a mother to lift her young calf up to the surface right beside a stationary boat, as if making an offering – or at least, an invitation, to us both. Know each other, she might as well be saying. Know our shared past. Forgive, but do not forget. Choose a different future.

On this particular day, the gray whales kept some distance from our ponga, sometimes approaching but not lingering. We were of course still delighted to see them, spellbound in our revery as we quietly watched these gentle giants. But Shari and our boat’s captain wondered aloud if perhaps someone had gotten too close to one of these whales in recent days. Improbable as it might seem, they said, the whales seem to communicate among themselves when human encounters get too aggressive, or too close, and keep their distance for several days afterwards.

And then, just as our captain slowly turned us towards home after three hours on the water, a calf approached out boat, differently than the rest – more curious, more deliberate in checking us out. It circled our boat, showing us its tail as it lingered, just at the surface, for several seconds before making a shallow dive on our starboard side. A few seconds later, it reappeared, port side. Our group could barely contain its enthusiasm, scarcely follow Shari’s instructions to gently move across the boat, to lean over the gunwale. But we managed not to tip over, as everyone scampered to the other side, reaching over, peering down at this 1-ton marine mammal, just inches beyond our reach. JD, with the longest arms of us all, and seemingly the least fear of getting wet, managed to grace the calf’s skin near the top of its head, just before it dove again beneath and perpendicular to the hull of our boat. When asked what it felt like to touch the whale, the best description was from Shari, who likened it to touching a wet eggplant.

To say we were elated would be a gross understatement. The energy in the boat went up several notches, as we talked about the animal’s obvious inquisitiveness, the mother’s watchful presence just a few yards away. I came down from the bow of the boat to hold JD’s hand, to look into his eyes, brimming with delight. After many more moments of group celebration, our group once again settled in for the return trip back to camp. As we did, we noticed that most of the whales were joining us – or perhaps we were joining them – as we collectively rode the outgoing tide back toward the mouth of the lagoon, and its entrance to the Pacific. Escorting them out, wishing them safe passage on their long journey north.