Text and photos by Mary L Peachin
Vol. 30, No.11/12
August/September, 2026

Searching for whale sharks consumed twenty years of scuba diving around the world. My first brief siting was in rough water conditions in the Galapagos, two brief sitings. It was not until my Chicken Diver buddies shared a summer whale shark migration in Holbox, off the Yucatan, that I fulfilled my quest. Returning the following summer, after my story had been published in Undercurrent, thousands of snorkelers (scuba not permitted) and boats from as far as Isla Mujeres.

Then I heard about the juvenile migration in La Paz. I took the short cut by crossing the CBX bridge from the United States into the Tijuana airport. Again, I enjoyed an unbelievable experience, then again spoiled it by writing about it. As the whale sharks became increasingly popular, the Mexican government became very possessive of sharing its treasured possession with tourists. It was possible for them to close La Paz Bay without advance notice. They overlooked eager snorkelers who had spent money and traveled thousands of miles. Volatile windy conditions around the large bay also created days of closure.

After two days of tarpon fishing in Florida, Zachary, my twenty-year-old grandson, asked me if he could go on another adventure. I knew just the right place! La Paz! To make it even a grander experience, my son Jeffrey joined us. What more could a grandmother ask for, sharing whale sharks with her children.
My first view of La Paz had been from the window of my Cessna T-210. The Sea of Cortez welcomed me from the air. A scenic town, the La Paz malecón curves along the water with sculptures, palms and benches, fishermen mend nets at dawn, pelicans hover with patience searching for their next fish. La Paz invites you to slow down, to breathe, to explore.

But, I had brought my family to see the whale sharks, of course. That is certainly La Paz’ attraction. I did not realize how much the city would matter—the desert hills leaning toward the sea, the quiet confidence of the people who live alongside these waters, and the way Mexico has chosen to protect something enormous and fragile at the same time.

On the morning of our first snorkel, we gathered at Baja Charters’ marina before the sun had fully warmed the docks. Their catamaran was spacious, plus came with a chef that whipped up some awesome guacamole. We would travel by skiff, wearing life jackets, to get permission from the Federales. The skiff was modest, practical, with a shade canopy and a ladder that had seen thousands of challenging climbs back aboard. Our guide gave a calm, but firm briefing. There would be no chasing, no touching, no crowding. Masks, snorkels, fins—check. Respect—non-negotiable.

When the first whale shark appeared, it was not the shock I expected. It was a calm recognition, as if the sea itself had decided to show us one of its deepest treasures. The animal moved with a grace that belied its size, mouth open as its baleen filtered plankton, the largest shark drifting just below the surface. Its polka-dots and stripes, which made it adorable, overcame any sense of trepidation.

We slid into the water two at a time. The sea closed around me, chilly and clear. The sound of the boat faded into a hush broken only by my breath through the snorkel. Then there it was—closer now, impossibly large, yet entirely gentle. Swimming alongside a whale shark is an expectation that no one expects, especially for twenty minutes. More typically, they swim away. The time it glided with us reminded of its scale in a humbling way.

I kept my distance, as instructed, concentrating on staying with the slow, but powerful swimmer. That is part of the discipline here: you adapt to the whale shark, not the other way around. As it glided forward, its eye rolled slightly, not in alarm, just awareness. There was no sense of fear or acknowledgement. I felt like a guest who had been granted a brief, generous welcome. Time does strange things in moments like this.

On another day, the wind was blowing, the waves were choppy with poor visibility. Amazingly, the Federales gave us permission to go the the whale shark park. We strained to watch one whale shark after another. Each was different—patterns unique, movements subtly their own. We spent our time making efforts to stay out of their paths. Between swims, we shivered on the boat. Our experience had been just plain awesome.

What struck me the most was how deliberately all of this was managed. The permits, the limited number of boats, the rules enforced without exception—it all just happened to work for us. Mexico has chosen stewardship over spectacle here, and it shows. The whale sharks are not props. They are residents, seasonal migrants with rights that outweigh our desire for the perfect photograph. When conditions change—if visibility drops, if too few are present, if the sharks show signs of stress—the operation stops. Full stop.

That kind of control requires patience: trust that visitors will return even if they do not “get their swim,” the ideal that protecting the animals will protect the experience in the long run. Standing on the deck, wrapped in a towel, we almost froze to death for this experience. The privilege of being here is earned by perseverance.

Later cruising by catamaran along the desert island of Espíritu Santo, its cliffs glowed in the afternoon light. Frigatebirds traced lazy arcs overhead. The water near the rocks was so clear it felt like floating over air. Here we were able to observe sea lions focused on extending their fins above the water for warmth. I thought about how rare it is to see conservation practiced not as an abstract policy but as a daily habit—guides modeling behavior, visitors following suit, nature responding in kind.

When we returned to La Paz, the city again welcomed us. We walked the malecón as the sun slid behind the hills. Families licked ice cream cones, couples leaned into one another, the sea at nightfall was turning from blue to copper to ink. Dinner was delicious and unhurried. Conversation drifted from our incredible experience to the simple pleasure of being in La Paz.

I realized then that snorkeling with whale sharks here is not just about the animals, magnificent as they are. It is about a relationship—between people and place, between protection and access, between awe and responsibility. La Paz and Espíritu Santo offer a lesson in balance that feels increasingly rare.
If I close my eyes, I do not just see the enormous spotted back of the whale shark disappearing into the blue. I feel the stillness of floating, the measured cadence of breath, the quiet authority of rules that exist for a reason. I remember a city that moves at the pace of the sea, and a country that has decided some wonders are best preserved by asking us to be careful, patient, and kind.

And I know I will return—not to chase the moment, but to meet it again, on its own terms. Then again, maybe I will choose the opportunity to design another “grandmother adventure” for my darling children.