After Hurricane Joaquin devastated his home in the Bahamas in 2015, flats fishing guide Elton “Shakey”ĚýMcKinney and his community were left to rebuild. Though the storm devastated the mangroves, an integral piece of habitat for fishing, filmmaker , with support from , was able to hook up with more than a few fish.

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For a good number of travelers, the ultimate bucket-list experience is swimming with whales. There’s somethingĚýabout the idea of being in the water with these enormous creatures that calls to people. And if you talk to people who have swum with whales, chances are they’ll tell you it changed their lives. This is true even for veteran adventurers who’ve seen it all—people like şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř contributing editor Rowan Jacobsen, whose past assignments include a journey to the Amazon to seek out the source of the world’s greatest chocolate. Last fall, Jacobsen joined a small crew in the Caribbean that was filming and studying sperm whales by getting in the water with them. Though he had no delusions that swimming with whales would heal him or transform him, he was certain that he would learn a thing or twoĚýfrom being very, very close to these legendary giants of the sea. And he did.

This episode of the şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Podcast is brought to you by Avocado Green Mattress, makers of 100 percentĚýorganic-certified mattresses—and more products, like their new meditation pillow. Visit to learn more. And to save $175 dollars on any mattress, use the code OUTSIDE175 at checkout.

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Three miles off the coast of Dominica, on a flat blue Caribbean sea, Pernell Francis lowers a hydrophone into the water and slides a pair of headphones over his ears. Captain Jerry kills the engines on the Southern Cross, his sportfishing boat, and the other two people on board, the marine scientist and her mother, Stacy, get superstitiously quiet.

It’s eight o’clock in the morning on November 21, and we’re listening for the sounds of the world’s brainiest and most charismatic mega­fauna.

Dominica is one of the best places in the world to interact with sperm whales, and each year the government grants a handful of permits that allow scientists and photographers to get in the water with them. Gaelin’s permit is for Visual Assessment of Potential Stressors on Physeter macrocephalus. Her goal is to produce a photographic record of Dominica’s whales, looking for signs of injury incurred from things like ships and fishing gear. She’s also hoping to make a film about our species’ complicated relationship with sperm whales. Pernell, a local Dominican who’s been called the whale whisperer for his uncanny ability to find them, is our guide.

Sperm whales communicate across miles of ocean using a complex language of sonic clicks. By listening to the hydrophone, Pernell can tell if they are near or far, diving or surfacing, feeding or cruising. He rotates the pole, pointing the device in every direction, face tight with concentration.

Behind Pernell, Dominica looms. A precipitative pile of rainforest, with countless waterfalls cascading down its 4,000-foot flanks, it has almost no natural harbors, very little nautical traffic, and deep underwater canyons teeming with large squid. It’s an ideal place for sperm whales.

But they don’t always show. Just ask Gaelin, who is standing beside me with crossed fingers and is whispering whales, whales, whales. At more than $3,000 a day for the boat, guide, and other appurtenances, the project is a major gamble. To raise the full funding for the film, she needs some killer footage, and for that she needs whales. In 2018, she secured a permit, hired Pernell, and got skunked—five days on the water, a whole lot of silence in the hydrophones. The island’s parting gift was a flash flood at the airport that nearly swept Gaelin, Stacy, and their camera cases out to sea. Now she’s back for one more try.

But as Pernell pulls off his headphones, the early verdict is not encouraging. “It’s quiet,” he says. “Nothing within three miles. We gotta keep going.”

I feel Gaelin deflate a little. Trained in coastal environmental management, she now describes herself as both a scientist and a storyteller. She tagged Atlantic bluefin tuna in graduate school, but after watching her research subjects slide toward extinction, with the population declining some between 1957 and 2007, she shifted to advocacy. In 2008, she founded , which organizes research expeditions and documents the work of scientists through photography and video. More than a decade later, she has partnered with scientists in the Arctic, Antarctic, and many places in between. “It’s about bringing back stories of expeditions that people can relate to,” she says, “as opposed to just writing scientific papers.” Recent trips have taken her to Palau, to make a short about climate-resilient corals, and to the bottom of Belize’s Blue Hole with Richard Branson and Fabien Cousteau, a grandson of Jacques.

Gaelin’s film concept is inspired by a close encounter she had with a sperm whale as a child, which helped set her life’s course. (pronounced “feisty,” a play on Physeter macrocephalus) was a young sperm whale that tried to beach himself on Coney Island in 1981. Sick with a mystery illness and being battered by waves, Physty was towed to a nearby boat basin for rehab.

At the time, well over a thousand sperm whales were still being killed by humans each year, and Physty made their plight personal. Floating on his side in the basin, weak and disoriented, he became a national sensation. Thousands of people traveled to the harbor to root for his recovery.

Among them was Stacy Rosenwaks and her young son and daughter. “We went every other day to watch the vets take care of him,” Stacy says. “We were right there next to him. You could smell his breath, see his spray.”

“I remember being so close and seeing his eye,” says Gaelin. “I wasn’t quite two years old yet, but that moment of interaction was really powerful.”

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My friend and I were two millennials with passports,Ěýflexible work hours, andĚýthe dream of exploring Central America. The only problem? We had aĚývery limited budget. Then, while browsing Google Flights, we stumbled across a deal that sent us packing our bags: $238 round-trip tickets from DenverĚýto Costa Rica. We quickly cleared our schedules, booked the flights, and started planning our itinerary. In two weeks, we managed to traverse the 20,000-square-mile country (often labeled the Ěýin the region) from north to south and coast to coast. Starting in the capital, San JosĂ©, we headed to the Pacific beaches of Quepos, Manuel Antonio, and PuntarenasĚýbefore goingĚýnorth to theĚývolcanoes of Arenal and Cerro Chato. The trip concluded on the Carribean coast, where we explored LimĂłn, Cahuita, and Puerto Viejo. Along the way, we lounged on immaculate beaches, spotted diverse wildlife, and scaled towering peaks, all for less than $500 each—including airfare. Rather than limiting us, traveling on such a tight budget meant we had better interactions with locals and found spots well off the beaten tourist track. Here’s how we did it.

Flights: $238

The inexpensive flights, booked through budget-but-not-luggage-friendly Spirit Airlines, necessitated some creativity when it came to connections and packing. From Denver, we took a red-eye to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, followed by a quick layover and a three-hour flight to San JosĂ©. Base fares from Spirit don’t include carry-ons, so to avoid the extra cost, we limitedĚýour luggage to one free personal item each. We fit everything into 40-liter roll-top backpacks by choosing versatile, packable synthetic clothing. In the end, we had one change of clothes and a bathing suit each, the bare minimum for both peak bagging and basking on the beach.

Transportation: $25

We decided to exchange time for savings, relying heavily on hitchhiking and Costa Rica’s robust bus system. Hitchhiking is foreign to most Costa Ricans, and many drivers responded to our extended thumbs with a similar gesture of their own. Despite this, we received numerous rides near the coast, usually from locals who had lived or traveled in other countries where the concept exists. From the town of Quepos, where we spent a day exploring Manuel Antonio National Park, and north to the small fishing village of , a gateway to the surfing hot spot of Osa Peninsula, we pieced together a free 60-mile ride from an off-duty taxi driver on his way home with a 40-mile lift from a wealthy business owner who chatted and shared fresh fruit with us. From there, to get into the adventure-filledĚýnorthern mountains, we rode 100 miles with a doctor who stopped at prominent locations in small mountain towns along the way, including magnificent churches and plunging waterfalls. In the more developed towns and cities, likeĚýSan JosĂ©, San RamĂłn in the , a port town on the Gulf of Nicoya, we stuck to the bus system, with fares averaging around $3 apiece. The buses wereĚýsurprisingly punctual, though rides often took longer than expected. On our five-hour trip from San JosĂ© to the southeastern coastal town of Puerto Viejo, for example, the bus was stopped for 30 minutes at the port city of LimĂłn while cranes moved shipping containers filled with bananas.

Lodging: $135

Upon arrival, we had no scheduled lodging, only a vague idea of our options from scouting Airbnb. Our $20-per-night budget severely limited our choices, so we kept our requirements simple: a kitchen and Wi-Fi. Communication issues further complicated our search—neither of us had switched our phones to an international plan, so we had to strategically work with hosts using limited connectivity in internet cafĂ©s, restaurants, and our previous Airbnbs. In Cahuita, a village on the Caribbean coast near the border of Panama, we arrived after a four-hour-long bus ride and waited for over an hour to get a response on directions to ourĚýcabina. In the end, though, Airbnb proved valuable for more than just lodging—it was a great way to connect with locals. OftenĚýwe’d eat breakfast with our hosts, who would give us the lowdown on activities in the area. Without staying atĚýour Airbnb in , we wouldn’t have known to stop at Crocodile Bridge over the Tárcoles River, where we spotted ten of the massive reptiles floating in the shallows.

Activities: $35

Many of the well-known hiking opportunities in Costa Rica require entrance fees into national parks and preserves, ranging from suggested donations toĚý$18. We were willing to pay atĚýsome places and not at others, instead opting for free alternatives that we found by talking to locals and diving deep into travel blogs. Instead of the near Cahuita, which would have cost $30, we hiked down a nearby abandoned dirt road that wound through a forest, offering views of both the Caribbean and a jungle bursting with toucans, monkeys, and sloths.

Despite our budget, we still managed to see some of the best the country had to offer. In totalĚýwe visited three national parks (Manuel Antonio, Arenal, and Cahuita), one private preserve (Green Lagoon), and seven beaches, from Cocles on the Caribbean to EspadillaĚýon the Pacific. The most expensive and beautiful of the parks was , which cost $18 to enter, more than half of our trip’sĚýactivityĚýbudget. But it was well worth it. The park featured pristineĚýwhite-sand beaches, with jungle stretching down almost to the water. Hiking through, we spotted three species of monkeys, giant green iguanas, and innumerable birds. Another worthwhile splurge was climbing the dormantĚývolcano Cerro Chato in ($10), in the north. We passed sloths and a six-foot pit viper on the way up to the summit, where we swam in a bright green crater lake.

Food: $56

Food was the easiest way to save money—and the most tempting way to spend it. After a few days of home-cookedĚýpasta, one of our Airbnb hosts taught us the recipe for pinto gallo (rice and beans), and we quickly adopted it as a diet staple. Both ingredients were sold in bulk, and we added eggs, salsa, and seasoning for variety. We also putĚýthisĚýhearty base on tortillas to make burritos, packing themĚýin bags for a snackĚýon the go. We did eat out to celebrate my birthday at a local soda (restaurant), a treat that came out to $3 each.

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“Where are you from?” Asked a Cuban last week.Ěý

“Canada!” Answered , enthusiastically.Ěý

Americans, stop telling people in foreign countries that you’re from Canada. You’re not fooling anyone, you’re not making yourself look better, and you’re not addressing the root cause of the problem.Ěý

I first heard about this harebrained scheme in high school, back in the late 1990s. It was an American system school for kids from military and diplomatic families, stationed in and around London. Our exposure to “foreign” cultures didn’t come from the occasional vacation, it came every day. I’m not sure why, in a country as safe as the United freakin’ Kingdom, some well-meaning parent or teacher decided to bestow it on us, but at some point we were advised that pretending we were from the frozen north, and perhaps even going so far as to sew a maple leaf to our clothes or backpacks, would prevent us from being robbed, kidnapped, or from falling prey to whatever irrational fear was causing adults to lose sleep that week.Ěý

Following the September 11, 2001 terror attacks in New York and Washington D.C., and our country’s even more disastrous invasions of first Afghanistan, then Iraq, the whole I’m-from-Canada thing found new popularity. Young people traveling abroad began, in large numbers, to perceive that their country’s image abroad didn’t match the propaganda they’d been raised on at home. The crushing realization that people weren’t as popular as they’d always thought they were was palpable.Ěý

“I’m from Canada,” really meant “Please don’t hurt me, scary foreign person from a scary foreign country that I, and millions of my peers have nevertheless chosen to visit.” Or, for some, “Screw you, daddy.” Or, maybe even, “I’m part of the club, I’m foreign too!”Ěý

Despite the number of inadvisable, unpopular, sometimes-secret wars we were fighting actually increasing, I noticed that I’m-from-Canada began to fade away during the Obama administration. I guess an eloquently-spoken, well-dressed, half-black President made America cool again, at least in the eyes of Americans traveling abroad.Ěý

Now, in the age of Trump, it’s back. You wouldn’t believe the number of Canadian tourists I saw taking selfies in Havana last week.Ěý

Did lying about their origin help any of those Americans better fit in? I doubt it.

No one, in any place that tourists visit even semi-regularly, will ever be fooled by an American claiming to be Canadian. We tend to stand out abroad. So if you I’m-from-Canada someone, you’ll be starting that conversation with a transparent lie. You’ll be disrespecting them from the start. You’re dismissing that person as dangerous or as not worthy of the truth. You're insultingĚýsomeone who might otherwise be a potential friend. By trying to avoid looking like a jerk, you’reĚýbeing a jerk.Ěý

And you’re certainly not making yourself any safer. While it’s absolutely true that traditional tourist traits like staring at your phone instead of paying attention to the world around you, flaunting conspicuous wealth, and demonstrating general cluelessness do make you a target for criminals and other opportunists, the actual geographicĚýorigins of your bad choices probably aren’t a factor.Ěý

If you want to fit in, work on fitting in, not trying to pretend to be something you’re not. Learn the language. Learn the customs. Dress better. Ditch the fanny pack and giant camera. Make friends.

Of course, safety is also a relative concept. While people in foreign countries might look a little different, and act a little different, you’re probably at far lower risk abroad, than you are at home. Our perception of risk is simply flawed. Take Mexico for instance. Our President says it’s full of criminals, yet . Our murder rate at home? . Would pulling an I’m-from-Canada make you safer in Chicago?

Then, of course, there’s the disparity between what I’m-from-Canada tries to achieve, and its overall impact on the perception of Americans abroad. Are Americans a scared people? Are we rude ones? Are we ashamed of who we are, or of our country’s role in the world? That’s what I’m-from-Canada conveys—it makes the perception of Americans in other countriesĚýworse.Ěý

Are you worried that people don’t like Americans? Respect them, befriend them, and show them that we aren’t all pathological liars and reality TV hucksters. Are you worried that you’ll be treated badly because you’re American? The Golden Rule applies abroad, just as much as it does at home. Be respectful, and you’ll be treated respectfully. Are you embarrassed of your country’s actions? Take steps to change them. Be a good example, and you’ll help change the way people think about our country.Ěý

“I'm from America” should never be a bad thing.Ěý

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If Budweiser is America, then Bud Light Lime should be Puerto Rico: the lighter, maybe I’ll have one-too-many, laid-back cousin. Puerto Rico is affordable, offers a vast array of cultural oddities, and has a plethora of tropical treats like sun, sand, and surfing. ThisĚýis why you should go right now.Ěý

Let’s start by talking about the price, because that’s the first thing everyone asks. My girlfriend and I were in Seattle when we decided to look at plane rides. Seattle to San Juan, round trip, for two? $600, out of the gate. Playing around with dates a little, it stayed roughly the same. I also looked at flights out of Phoenix and Los Angeles, and they were the same, too. And so we booked a flight. It was a red-eye out of Seattle with one of those awful connections at O’Hare, but hey, cheap is cheap.Ěý

The next step was finding a place to stay. Hotels, especially in old San Juan, are insanely expensive—$200 per night or more. But, on Airbnb, a small apartment with an outdoor kitchen and a massive rooftop deck rents for under $100 a night. We settled on twelve nights in that apartment, for roughly $1,000. The long-term rental netted us a discount.Ěý

One of the big draws, especially to old San Juan, was the architecture. Something like New Orleans meets Key West. The city itself, established by Juan Ponce de Leon in 1508, and henceforth occupied by the Spanish, Dutch, English, and perhaps soon, mainland Americans, is rich in culture in a way only a 500-year-old city can be. I’ll let you learn more about OSJ on the Internet because I’m here not to talk about the past, but instead give you options for the future.Ěý

Our first evening there, we got a call from an old friend who lives about 20 minutes inland from that apartment. is a surfboard shaper, born and raised in Puerto Rico. His specialtiesĚýare traditional mid-length, single-fin logs, and my favorite: a 9’ 3” pig with a flow-through skeg. he shapes and glasses all of his boards in aĚýworkshop he and his brother built in their backyard. Self-taught, Ricky is now climbing the surfing ladder, even visiting the mainland on occasion to do some shaping special clients. Anyways, Ricky suggested we surf the next morning at a spot called La Ocho. If you visit, there’s a wonderful shop nearby that will rent you boards: .Ěý

La Ocho is conveniently located just five minutes from Old San Juan. Ricky suggested we meet at the crack of dawn, then showed up an hour late, asking, “Do you like to surf big waves?” I pulled on a pair of trunks, followed Ricky out, and charged a set of waves that were well over 10 feet on the face, and reeling off a massive rock that sat maybe a quarter-mile off the coast.Ěý

I caught maybe five waves, each more massive than the next, before my weak little arms couldn’t pull me back into the lineup. In so doing I learned a few lessons that I can pass onto you: First, when a Puerto Rican says it’s big, that mean’s it’s really big. Also, when the swell starts to dos, and you wait it out a little too long, there’ won’t be waves. So go when it’s good, when it’s big, and then try not to die.Ěý

Our next move was to find a rental car. For something like $15 per-day, we snagged a sweet little Toyota Yaris, with four door and all the MPGs you could want. We borrowed a set of soft pads for the roof, strapped a pair of Ricky’s boards on top, and headed west towards the town of Rincon, the unofficial surfing capitol of the territory. A friend-of-a-friend loaned us his house, but for you, future adventure seeker, I’d again suggest using Airbnb. Rincon is like a jungle oasis for surfers seeking both warm waters, and big waves. Perfect, really, if your side something under nine-feet. Seek out spots like Maria’s, Domes, and while you’re on your way there, Wilderness, Surfer’s Beach, and Jobos, which is furthest to the east, and the most new-surfer-friendly of the bunch.Ěý

Rincon the town is small, but vibrant. Music festivals are a constant feature. Aside from the surf, Rincon and the surrounding area are full of dry-land adventures, including the most incredible Cubano sandwich you’ll ever have (, near San Jose), as well as some beautiful light houses you can stop and visit (Punta Higuera and El Faro). Advise from that, I’d advise pulling out the ol’ flip flops, and pouring back a few pints at , or some passion fruit margaritas at , and forgetting about whatever it is you need to forget about.Ěý

Back in old San Juan, we returned our rental car and settled back into city life. During the week, when the cruise ships aren’t in port, the city remains full of life, but slow-paced enough that it remains far from stressful. You drink coffee int eh Plaza de Armas, watching the pigeon man feed his pigeons, then stroll along the ancient walls that line the city, ogling the colonial architecture. Coconut popsicles at are worth the pennies.

The best part? In order to soak up all this exotic culture, you don’t even need a passport, and the currency is the dollar. Skip your next visit to Florida, and go to a place that really wants you (and right now needs you) to visit.Ěý

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St. John is the jewel of the Caribbean. While most of the other Virgin Islands were corrupted long ago, has preserved St. John’s integrity: 7,259 acres above sea level and 5,650 below, 26 miles of hiking trails, and 30 beaches Photoshopped by God. Alas, this is hardly a secret. With no remote camping allowed, and fleets of taxis delivering day-trippers to the same famous north-shore spots, the beaches can get downright bougie.

National Parks Centennial

100 reasons to love the parks (and a few things we’d improve)

Yet the charts show scads of remote coves accessible only by long hike, dubious jeep trail, or water. Scheming from the deck of my eco-tent on a December morn, I came up with a plan: What better way to gather intel than by circumnavigating the island by sail, then revisiting the gems with a paddleboard and a towel?

My visions of a solo journey were scuttled when I proposed to the watersports kiosk at Cinnamon Bay Campground that they hand over a Hobie Cat so I could round the island in one spectacular day of derring-do. Savannah, the tanned girl in the booth, was a veteran at deflating the egos of middle-aged, sunburned men. “We don’t let the boats go beyond the safety area,” she said. Besides, she pointed out, it would be impossible on such a short December day—she’d tried. Something wistful flickered across her face.

I thought fast. It was a slow day at Cinnamon Bay, I pointed out. She agreed. A beautiful day, I added.

A waiver form and $500 later, I was captain of the 14-foot Hobie Cat Rockefeller, which I’d temporarily christened for Laurence R., the man who scooped up half the island in the early fifties, built a five-star resort, and donated the rest to the U.S. government, which created the park in 1956. Savannah and I raced the Rockefeller out of Cinnamon Bay and into the trade winds that howl nonstop from the east all winter long.

The good news: the winds were honking so hard that a one-day circumnavigation was not absurd. The bad news: the winds were honking. We skittered past 40-foot catamarans like a 14-foot water strider. We were stripped down and built for speed: snorkel gear, water bottle, granola bars, and a GoPro, plus a second, smaller sail in case things got gnarly. Savannah steered with her toes.

By midday the winds had grown so strong that we ducked behind Waterlemon Cay to change sails. St. John’s north shore is protected from the open ocean by the British Virgin Islands, but its south shore is exposed, and we knew the wind and waves would be huge.

We needed every minute of daylight—but there were turtles and moray eels to snorkel with. And we had to hike up to the ruins of an 18th-century sugar plantation so Savannah could do headstands in the archways. She used to be a gymnast. Three years ago, for her 18th birthday, she got herself a koi tattoo and moved to St. John.

We swung around the jagged spire of Ram Head, which marks the island’s southeast corner, a couple of hours behind optimal and turned downwind in the open sea. Ten-foot terrors burst through the trampoline in a crash of foam. Every wave tried to surf us down into a trough, where we stood a good chance of pitchpoling, so for the next three hours we perched on the very back of the pontoons to keep the nose high, spilling wind from the sails to slow ourselves down. Our ship was basically two pieces of flotsam lashed together with a sail and a rudder, and I began to understand how the ancient Polynesians got around. When the seas are warm, you can be in them as much as on them.

Spectacular deserted bays and 200-foot-high cliffs slipped by to our right, white spray exploding up their faces. A helicopter came cruising low, perhaps to check on our sanity. Savannah flashed it a peace sign and it sped off.

In the coming days, I would revisit those deserted south-shore beaches with a Badfish Hole Shot—an inflatable paddleboard. Empty sand, deserted islets, and nonjaded fish were all mine.

But for now we’d lost the light. The last two hours we sailed in darkness; I peered ahead for the flash of warning buoys and strained my ears for the sound of reefs. Our twin rudders trailed phosphorescent sparks. At last we turned back into Cinnamon Bay, 11 hours after we’d left. As we dragged the Rockefeller up the beach, we left glowing footprints in the wet sand. They glittered for a moment, and then they, and the day, were gone.

Access + Resources

When: April to June, to avoid peak-season tourists and higher prices.

How: Fly to St. Thomas and Ěý($7) to St. John.

Play: You can rent Hobie Cats at the Ěý(from $70). Ěýrents sea kayaks and paddleboards and runs excursions.

Stay: Ěýhas jaw-dropping views at the edge of the wildest section of coast (from $135).

Eat: Celebrate your return to civilization with a plate of curried goat and a soursop punch at Ěýin Cruz Bay.

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Yes, the U.S. and Cuba have normalized , but that doesn’tĚýmean you can pack your bags and book a flight to Havana. Only Congress can change the travel restriction, which is covered under the CubaĚýĚýlaw. Not the president.

Compare the revised listed by the U.S. Department of Treasury (which handles Cuba travel) to the new ones outlined Wednesday on the : the restrictions are basically the same. You still need to apply to the feds for permission to go to Cuba. And unless you’re a journalist, a government official, a businessman, a health or education worker, or you have close relatives in the country, that permission isn’t going to be granted.Ěý

Since 2011, a few airports in the U.S. have been granted permission to host licensed charter flights to Cuba,Ěýwhich has made it easer for approved passengers to travel to Cuba. (American and JetBlue both operate charters.)ĚýAfter the announcement today, all U.S. international airports are eligible to service these charters, but they’ll still need to apply for permission from the federal government. But U.S.Ěýairlines still can’t initiate commercial routes to Cuba.Ěý

Still, if you really want to go to Cuba, there are ways to skirt the law. Cuba won’t stop you from entering, but you will get into trouble when you try to re-enter the U.S. with a Cuban passport stamp. To make sure that doesn’tĚýhappen, you’ll need to break another law—bribe the Cuban immigration officer to not stamp your book. Plenty of others have done it successfully: agencies that operate outside the U.S. have reported Americans make up to 20 percent of their business.Ěý

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