A Whale Named BRIGITTE

By Larry Hall — Aboard SV Francesca
Date: September 20, 2025
Location: Between the Farallon Islands and Drakes Bay, California
Estimated Reading Time: 6 minutes

An unexpected companion off the coast of Point Reyes

“The sea is never empty. It holds stories, watchers, companions we will never fully know.”

On a calm September afternoon, while sailing close-hauled toward Drakes Bay, I shared thirty-five unforgettable minutes with a humpback whale who decided to join Francesca for the journey. Encounters like this are why I live at sea — where the boundary between awe and humility disappears into the horizon.

It was two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, the twentieth of September. The wind was light but steady, pushing Francesca close-hauled at a good six knots. The sails were full and content, the ocean brushed with a long, lazy swell. We were halfway between the Farallon Islands and Point Reyes, bound for Drakes Bay, when it happened.

The sea was calm in that deep and quiet way that can make a sailor forget the wildness beneath. Francesca moved easily through the water, her wake parting clean and true. Then, from somewhere behind us, came a sound — a deep, living exhale, like the sigh of the world itself.

We turned quickly, scanning the horizon, but saw only the open sea. We were disappointed to have missed her, not knowing yet that the whale had chosen to stay — to travel with us for a while.

When she surfaced again, the sight of her stopped time. A humpback — enormous, glistening, magnificent. She came from behind and then along our side, her back gleaming like wet stone in the sun. At one point she rose so near that we saw every curve and scar upon her, and then, as if to announce herself properly, she swam up and gave the transom a gentle little tap — a kiss, light as breath.

From then on, she played. She swam beneath Francesca’s hull, her shape vast and shadowed, then surfaced on the other side, rolling onto her flank to study us. We could see her eye, dark and knowing, watching. Often she swam on her side, her great pectoral fin tucked close, then slowly extended again with the ease of a dancer.

When she rolled over, her belly flashed pale in the blue-green water, and down below we could hear her — the soft thunder of her body pressing gently against the sea that held us both.

After ten minutes, our joy took on a nervous edge. We wear our life jackets always aboard Francesca, but we gathered more — the handheld radio, the personal locator beacon, and a knife, just in case this ancient creature had other plans. There is a humility that comes when you realize you are entirely at the mercy of another being’s curiosity.

But she meant no harm. Her movements were deliberate, patient, almost tender. Later, I learned that such encounters are called “whale muggings” — when a whale lingers with a boat that cannot easily move away. But it never felt like that. This was not a mugging. This was play.

For thirty, maybe thirty-five minutes, she stayed with us. And then, as quietly as she had come, she peeled away. Before she vanished, she made one final dive — a slow, graceful descent — and lifted her great tail flukes high into the afternoon light. It was her farewell, solemn and perfect.

When the sea closed over her, the world felt still. The wind whispered through the rigging, the sails sighed, and the ocean shimmered as though holding a secret. None of us spoke. There are moments when nature takes your voice — not out of fear, but reverence.

I thought then that the sea is never empty. It holds stories, watchers, companions we will never fully know. And once in a rare while, one of them rises to meet you — a reminder that we are guests here, small and lucky beneath the endless blue.

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Reflections from Aboard Francesca

Living aboard Francesca has taught me that time moves differently on the water. Out here, moments like this one become their own kind of prayer — unplanned, wordless, and deeply humbling.

The whale did not just cross our path; she shared it. And in doing so, she reminded me why I chose this life afloat — to be near enough to the world that it can still surprise me, touch me, and, every now and then, look me straight in the eye.