I was alone, swimming back slowly towards our boat after an hour in the water, when I heard the sound of whales. The outside edge of the Ningaloo Reef is a whale highway so to hear whale song whilst one is underwater is not uncommon. This, however, was more intimate, more squeaks and rumbles than whistles and drawn-out notes.

I raised my head above the surface and looked about. Not thirty metres from me a whale blew and then, shortly beside it, a calf sprayed its spout into the afternoon air. They were coming straight towards me. I lowered my mask into the sea searching its opacity for their form. When their unmistakeable dark shadow started to appear on the edge of my visibility, I gulped as large a lungful of air as I could muster and dived.

I could see them clearly, swimming slowly, directly to me. At about ten metres down, I turned upright and waited for them. The mother did not even attempt to veer away, she just slowed until less than ten metres from me she stopped. Her huge pectoral fins hanging loosely towards the close seabed, her tail slightly raised as if to hold cupped by her protection her young calf that swam directly over her broad back. They talked, an exchange of squeaks, low grumbles, and a single short whistle. I felt as if I was being discussed. My heart pounded in my chest.