John Hopkins

The anxiety around the boat underscores a grim, unspoken knowledge.

That if Nan has run into an aggressive male, it's highly unlikely she'll come out of this encounter alive.

And meanwhile, a few hundred meters away from the boat, several feet beneath the surface, Nan is still alive, trying desperately to establish some distance between herself and her 45-ton assailant.

Seeing an opportunity, she pushes off from his body, trying not to kick him in the process.

The last thing she wants to do is startle the animal.

Try as she might, Nan can't escape the whale's vast orbit.

He seems determined to stick on her, shifting his body to keep her by his side.

The animal flips around, deftly repositioning Nan on his head.

Down to her right, a pectoral fin the length of a pickup truck swings through the water like the mechanical arm of some giant machine reaching for her.

She pushes herself away, trying to avoid being pulled under by that formidable, barnacle-encrusted limb.

By now though, Nan has started to notice something.

The whale's body language doesn't appear aggressive, even as he tries to tuck her under his fin.

If anything, he seems protective, less like an attacker and more like a parent trying to shield its offspring.

It deepens the mystery about what is happening.

His mannerisms seem gentle, not threatening.

Still, that could change at any moment.

When the whale momentarily lowers his peck fin, Nan seizes her chance.

She slides off his back and swims away until she's reached a distance of a few meters.

Then she turns and eases herself backwards, pushing the water down with her arms, looking back at the whale side on.

For a moment, curiosity supersedes any fear, and Nan just stares at the giant creature looking back at her.