The water around me is green – thick, almost glowing, like some vast, moving stone. I can’t see more than two or three metres ahead. There’s no bottom, no horizon, no shape. Just this weightless, cold silence. Somewhere in this murk, a creature the size of our boat is feeding with its mouth wide open. I know it’s near. I saw the dorsal fin moments ago. But now, submerged, I’m just floating in the unknown.

Every stroke I take is slow and silent, my breath steady through the snorkel. Above the surface, I peek for glimpses of the fin – my only compass. I don’t chase it; I just drift in its direction, no splashing, no kicking. George – that’s George Karbus, the wildlife documentarian and underwater photographer behind the lens on this shoot – had taught me this: with basking sharks, it’s never about approach, they’re always calm. You wait, you read their movement, you ask permission without words. This is their world, not ours.

Then suddenly, out of the green, a shape begins to form. At first, just a shadow – broad and slow and silent. A ghost. Then the mouth appears, wide and impossibly white, with soft ridges and a faint pink glimmer in the gills. As it glides closer, the shadow becomes a being. Not dangerous. Not afraid. Just present. A giant, gentle creature who – for reasons I still don’t fully understand – has allowed me to be here. It passes within arm’s reach. I don’t move. It doesn’t need me to.

I swam alongside the shark – just by its head, close enough to see the white patterns inside its open mouth and the deep wrinkles of its skin. It felt like the shark was aware of me – adjusting slightly, letting me stay near.

Two or three minutes passed like that. I was nearly ready to let go, when something shifted.

The shark began to pivot. In a circular motion it deflected from its trajectory and started coming back to me. Then, from below, a second head appeared. Then a third. They followed the first in a wide, slow arc. And suddenly, all around me, shadows. Silhouettes gliding in and out of visibility. I turned and counted. Four. Five. Six. Maybe seven. They circled me in silence, their movements so synchronised it felt choreographed. At times, I could only see outlines. Then one would come closer and the details would sharpen – scars, gills, eyes – and then fade again into shadow. I held my camera, not sure where to aim, or whether I should even use it. Part of me wanted to let it all go and just stay still in the water, inside whatever this was. A ritual? A welcome? I’m unsure, but it didn’t feel accidental.

I swam with them for what felt like forever and no time at all. One moment I was moving beside a single shark, watching its mouth filter the water, the next I was in the middle of a slow-motion spiral. An ancient dance.

They seemed to emerge from the murk in every direction – fins, shadows, gliding shapes – and then vanish again just as easily. Some stayed further out. Others came close. And all I could do was float in place, turning slowly, trying to see them all. Trying to take it in.

George had once told me that basking sharks don’t just pass by. They invite you in.

“They just swim around you, looking at you,” he had explained. “And it’s such a magical moment, when you feel like the animals accept you. The more time you spend with them in the water, the more that feeling grows. At first, you feel small – like you don’t belong. But eventually, you just become part of it. When I was in the middle of the circle, I felt it: they’ve accepted me. I could just be there, be part of them.”