It’s impossible to grasp the true size of a sperm whale from the surface. You begin to sense it underwater—but never fully.

The animals are the largest toothed whales on the planet. They're also the most dimorphic of any cetacean. Males can reach seventy feet and weigh over fifty tons, while females are about a third the length and half the weight. Their communication and echolocation clicks are also distinct. While females click, males clang—more blacksmith's hammer against an anvil than baseball card in bike spokes.

You don’t need a marine biology degree to know you're in the presence of a male. One look—and one clang—is all it takes.

While identification may be easy, encounters with males are far less common. Sperm whales form matriarchal units that include grandmothers, mothers, and juveniles. Females remain in warm tropical waters year-round, while males leave their units to live mostly solitary lives closer to the poles. These heavyweights will return to the waters off Dominica for just a few weeks each year to mate—making sightings especially rare.

On this day, the males were unmistakably present. Bodies longer than double-decker buses swimming alongside the matriarchal units. On several occasions, I found myself some distance from the whales as they began their descent. But there was one moment when I knew I was perfectly positioned. 

One of the males coasted forward—a vessel of muscle and mass moving straight for me. He veered just enough to pass on my right, staying near the surface for air. Even with a wide-angle lens, he barely fit in frame.

There was no pomp. No show of force.

He owned the water—without needing to prove a thing.