There is an ancient ritual, practised by the seafarers of Tonga for generations before the age of engines, in which a cup of kava is offered to the passing whale. It’s not to appease it, nor is it to summon it, but simply to acknowledge it. In the Tongan understanding of the world, the humpback whale is not merely a large marine mammal navigating a migratory corridor, but a guardian, a deity, and an ancestor returned.

These are beliefs worth holding in mind when we try to make sense of what happened in the waters of Vava’u in August 2024 – an encounter that does not subscribe easily to one single framework of thought. Not the scientific, not the statistical, and not entirely the spiritual. It’s an encounter that requires all three.

The humpback whales arrive in Tonga each year between July and October, travelling north from the cold feeding grounds of Antarctica to breed and calve in the warm, sheltered archipelago of the South Pacific. They have been doing this, in various numbers, for longer than the islands have had a name for them. The population that migrates through Tonga is one of the smallest in the Southern Hemisphere – geographically restricted, genetically distinct, and, for much of the 20th century, devastated. When commercial whaling reduced humpback numbers globally to a fraction of their historical abundance, it was the South Pacific populations that were among the hardest hit.

Recovery has been slow and uneven. Despite this, Tonga’s humpbacks have returned, season by season, to waters that their ancestors survived and that conservation legislation has helped protect. They return to calve, to nurse, and to teach their young the ancient choreography of breath and depth.

Like many ocean dreamers, I grew up fascinated by the legend of Moby Dick, the white whale that existed within the pages of Herman Melville’s fiction, yet drawn from the real life whale once spotted along the coast of my own homeland, Chile. For years, before setting out to sea each morning, I would tell my partner that ‘today is the day we will see a white whale.’ It was a small ritual that, over time, became routine yet carried with it the ultimate wish of a child enamoured by the mysteries of the ocean.

It was on 17 August 2024, that the ocean finally answered the call.

Despite the less-than-favourable conditions, our Captain, Filitonga Viliami “Pela” drove his vessel farther southwest than usual. The sea was restless, the wind was up, and several of the guests aboard were beginning to display some of the more obvious signs of seasickness. With pressure mounting to turn back towards calmer waters, Pela finally offered up the cause for his determination: rumour of a white whale to the south.

Twenty minutes later, the waters of the South Pacific revealed its own secret.

A white flash broke the surface – solid and unmistakable against the deep blue. A calf, barely days old, surfaced beside her mother and an escort. From face to fluke, she was entirely white. Tofua’a Hinehina. In Tongan, the White Whale. Around her, the adults moved in deep grey – a living backdrop and a palette arranged by nature herself.

After observing the whale’s behaviour for a while, our captain finally gave us the signal to enter the water. The moment we slipped in, everything slowed down – like a surreal scene shot in slow motion. Every moment played out like a ballet on an infinite blue stage.

Two days later, they found a white calf again.

The assumption was a unanimous one, it had to be the same animal. The alternative was simply too much to hold. But Alice, a researcher who had been in the water for one of the encounters, was not convinced. She went back through the footage, frame by frame, checking every distinguishing detail. Weeks later, she presented her conclusion. Two encounters, two calves, two entirely separate individuals. Both presenting the characteristics of albinism.