Jump Scared by a Whale Shark: A Scuba Diving Story

Have you ever wondered what scuba diving with a whale shark is like? This is a story about getting jump scared by one.

In June 2022 I was working as a Divemaster in Honolulu, Hawai’i. The company I worked for started offering 11 a.m. wreck dives— considered “late” dives by industry standards. I was leading my first one that morning. 

Honestly, I thought to myself, what animals are going to be out here past 8 a.m.? The dolphins had moved offshore, the wind had picked up, and we were well past the shift in activity from night to day. At least we had the site to ourselves. 

We were alone.

Mooring the boat fell to me. Below the surface lurked the mooring ball: an air-filled sphere attached to the seafloor. Connecting a line from the boat to the ball would keep the boat from floating away. My job was to jump in and connect the lines. 

I waited with my scuba gear on until the captain gave the signal to jump. When she did, I put in my regulator and strode into the choppy water.

I could see straight to the bottom. The site, Sea Tiger, was just off Waikiki in 130 feet of water. I could make out the blades of seagrass on the bottom— it was that clear. Usually a good surface haze fogged the water, but not that day.

The mooring ball shone like a moon against the blue sea. Other than a lone black turtle sunning itself, it was just me out there. After connecting the lines, I hung out on the surface in my scuba gear while my divers finished getting ready.

I had my head out of the water for a total of 5 minutes.

My first scuba diver jumped in. He surfaced in a frenzy.

“Holy ******* ****!” he screamed, “there’s a whale shark right behind you!”

I turned around. 

A mouth the size of a living room sofa popped open at me, 20 feet away and closing the distance. I couldn’t tell it was a whale shark— just a dark, massive fish that appeared like a lightning strike, watching me.

I felt the floor drop away, but there was never a floor— only 130 feet of saltwater. I couldn’t touch anything solid behind or beside me. The sea became a void, a sensation I had never experienced.

Of course it was a whale shark. Of course it was filter feeding. But they look different in real life than in photos: ruddier, more camouflaged, moving. My thoughts became primal— my instincts said, “That’s big! Run!” 

After the initial shock, I started to relax. Whale sharks aren’t dangerous. So other emotions revved up— mostly elation: the jumpy, bubbly kind that makes you wonder if your blood really can pump too fast inside you. How often do you get to swim with a whale shark? Maybe 1 or 2 will pass by Honolulu each year.

This was special.

The other scuba divers jumped in. We floated on the surface like leaves. The shark really was massive! Every time it moved I was struck with its sheer big-ness. 

Despite its size, I had never seen something so graceful. I never truly understood the word “graceful” until this encounter— seeing a giant dance without stirring up an eddy. After years of scuba diving, I considered myself decent at maneuvering in the water. Perhaps even elegant if you glossed over my beat-up gear and ripped wetsuit. But nothing compared to the way the whale shark curled and moved, effortlessly shifting itself to see us.

That’s what the shark was doing: giving us all a good once-over. It was looking at us.

The whale shark approached each of the divers. It inspected everyone in their time, moving its enormous head to rake us with its gaze. I marveled at the way the shark’s eyes were positioned on the sides of its head, spaced out by its wide, wide mouth.

Finally it was my turn. We made direct eye contact. Heartbeats usually go by fast, but the 3 beats that passed while the shark and I locked eyes felt like a year. It’s the eye that I’ll never forget: its small pupil set into circles of skin, worn by the sea, and how hard it stared into mine. How the shark twisted its body so it could gaze at me, in me. It wanted to see me properly.

Whale sharks embark on migrations of epic proportions. This shark was crossing oceans, probably not for the first time. It heard our commotion while mooring and came to inspect. What struck me was how its life was so intrinsically different from mine. I would go home to my bed; this animal would go swim across the world. 

After studying all the scuba divers, the shark spun one more time, unhurried, angling itself toward the open sea. It dissolved in seconds. And yes, it really looked like it dissolved, like a cloud passed over it. As much as we rave about fun whale shark patterns, at the end of the day it’s camouflage. And it’s good camouflage. 

I’ll never forget its tail disappearing like a blown-out candle.

I’d heard the word “power” before, but I never felt the word, knew the word, until that day.

I searched for the whale shark for the rest of the dive. But there were other animals I had to focus on. As if summoned, sandbar sharks, whitetips, eagle rays, and a horde of turtles appeared out of nowhere.

That number of animals had never shown up at Sea Tiger before or since.

Outnumbered by wildlife, the dive overwhelmed me. I knew logically the sea couldn’t be controlled, but that fact migrated into my bones for good. 

When you’re scuba diving, it feels like you have control. You meet animals on their level and take up space. This is a comfortable illusion. After the second sandbar shark motored by, I embraced that I could never have prepared myself or my divers for a day like this. The ocean is, by nature, a wild thing. 

When I read kitschy dish towels and t-shirts with phrases like “Stay Wild” and “Wild at Heart” it gives me an image of the word “wild.” I picture people doing outdoorsy activities, but knowing they’ll returning home safely. That’s not a bad thing. I do feel it misses the soul of the word “wild.” 

“Wild” can mean soft, calm days at sea with the light playing on the water and the wafting smell of sunscreen. “Wild” can mean rest. 

At the same time, “wild” means action. It means taking up space without asking, lacking a clear moral code, and acting on impulse. It exists outside the realm of control. We build industrial ships and find ways to breathe underwater, but when an eel swims by there is ambiguity in its intentions. “Wild” means dark music playing in the background, not as an aesthetic, but as a warning. 

Ultimately, “wild” has space for both meanings. It exists in ambiguity: not knowing if your group of divers will see the sandbar sharks and understand that those animals are different from the whale shark. True wildness comes from holding both things in your hand at the same time and living life despite the soreness it creates.

“Wild” means a whale shark looking you directly in the eye, and falling asleep that night with its pupil burned in the darkness.

Have you ever seen a whale shark? Tell me your story in the comments below!