Samaná: My Whale Watching Wonder

We were in Samaná in peak whale season (February) and I still get emotional thinking about it. This magnificent bay — 40 miles long by 15 miles wide, one of the finest natural harbors in the West Indies — is part of the Marine Mammals Sanctuary established in 1986, alongside the nearby Silver Bank Humpback Whale Sanctuary, one of the first protected areas of its kind in the world. Every year between mid-January and late March, 1,500 to 2,000 humpback whales travel more than 5,000 miles from the cold feeding grounds of the North Atlantic to these warm, shallow Caribbean waters to mate, calve, and nurse their young. This migration has occurred for centuries — longer than human memory — a pilgrimage written into the DNA of these gentle giants.

The waters here are ideal for whale calving: warm (77-80°F), shallow enough to protect newborns from deep-water predators, and sheltered by the peninsula's embrace. Mother whales give birth in these protected bays, then spend weeks nursing their calves in relative safety before the long journey back north. The success rate for whale sightings during season? An astonishing 95%. You don't come to Samaná and miss the whales — you come and they surround you.

The ship anchors and tenders us to the dock; we walked straight onto a waiting catamaran with maybe 40 other people — perfect size. Within 30 minutes we were in the bay and the captain cut the engine because we were surrounded.

A mother humpback (45 feet easy) and her calf (already 18–20 feet) were breaching in perfect synchrony — rising together, arcing through the air, and slamming down with explosions of white water that drenched us even 100 yards away. The sound alone — that thunderous percussion of forty tons hitting the surface — is something you feel in your chest before you hear it with your ears. Then a male escort started singing, and everything changed. This deep, haunting, vibrating moan came through the hull of the boat, an otherworldly sound that seemed to resonate in the water, in the air, in our very bones.

The naturalist had a hydrophone and played it over the speakers — whale song amplified and clarified — and I looked around to see grown adults openly weeping. I was one of them. There is something about that sound, ancient and mournful and beautiful, that reaches past every defense we build. It's a love song, a territorial claim, a lullaby, a prayer. Scientists still don't fully understand it. Neither do I. I just know it changed me.

We saw pec-slaps, tail lobs, spy-hops — at one point the mother lifted her entire head vertically out of the water, eye above the surface, like she was checking us out with the same curiosity we felt for her. Easily a dozen different whales, all within a mile radius. For nearly two hours we drifted in their nursery, witnessing something that has been happening in these waters since long before the first Taíno canoes, long before any human set foot on this peninsula. A pilgrimage of life, repeating in the rhythm of the seasons.

Back on land we had time for Cayo Levantado — better known as "Bacardi Island" because it was featured in famous Bacardi rum advertisements, and once you see it you understand why. It's postcard-perfect: palm trees leaning at impossible angles over white sand beaches, turquoise water so clear it looks Photoshopped, and beach bars grilling lobster over driftwood fires. The water was warm as bathwater and so transparent I watched permit fish follow my fins hoping for scraps. Lunch was whole grilled snapper with tostones and ice-cold Presidente beer while a merengue band played under a thatched palapa. If the whales are Samaná's soul, Cayo Levantado is its postcard smile.

Samaná has a fascinating history that sets it apart from the rest of the Dominican Republic. Around 1824, it was settled by freed American slaves who migrated from Philadelphia and other U.S. cities, seeking a fresh start. Their descendants still live here today, and many of them speak English — a linguistic island in a Spanish-speaking nation. When you chat with the locals, you might hear that melodic Afro-Caribbean English patois that's survived nearly 200 years.

If you have time beyond the whales, two natural wonders await. El Limón waterfall, the crown jewel of Samaná, thunders 130 feet down through lush rainforest into a clear pool — you can ride horseback or hike the trail in. And Los Haitises National Park, a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve covering more than 600 square kilometers, is a dreamscape of limestone karst formations rising out of mangrove swamps, dotted with caves that hold Taíno pictographs and petroglyphs more than 1,000 years old. The park is accessible by boat, and the morning light filtering through the karst towers feels otherworldly.

The pros: whale encounter of a lifetime, and the Dominican people are some of the warmest on the planet.

The cons: outside January–March it's "just" a pretty beach day (still great, but the whales are the main event).

Practical tips: Book whale watching through the ship for guaranteed return or with Kim Beddall's Victoria Marine — the gold standard. Bring binoculars and a waterproof camera. Seas can be choppy — take Dramamine if you're prone.