Before long, the spotter spotted, and now one tourist butt after another plopped down on deck, feet dangling over the lush blue, a row of snorkel clowns. I didn't care much for the comical fin-race and so I got the worst spot to plunge in from – before I could even fix my goggles on that first whale shark, it had disappeared in the underwater fog. That missed opportunity stank, even underwater, but it also put me in the sweet spot for the second round and that was the big ride. This time I hopped in ahead of that second behemoth from my front row seat, which gave me ample time to maneuver my clunky water-body into the opportunity. A fish, on paper, that benevolent beast was certainly a whale in the water. It glided towards me like a dotted submarine with an open mouth that was somehow more amusing than scary. I got out of its way even though it looked like it would have done the same for me. Less than a moment later it was right under me and its skin was smooth and shiny like a plastic shell, strangely solid and artificial. I could keep up with it until it dove, or sank, but I can't be sure whether our encounter lasted ten seconds or a hundred. Moments like those don't lend themselves to calculated words. But they always share one sober feeling that can be articulated – the feeling of "well, I guess this is happening and that's what that's like."