Face to Face with the Wild

When the Animal Still Has the Right to Say No

The current was brutal that morning. Suspended in the blue, I kicked hard just to hold my position as a reef manta ray emerged from the haze. My objective was simple: obtain an identification photograph for the database of Manta Trust.​

But the manta kept its distance.

Every time I tried to close the gap, she adjusted her trajectory. Not in panic. Not aggressively. Simply with a form of silent clarity. Today, I was not welcome.

A few seconds later, she vanished into the milky turbulence of the current until her silhouette dissolved completely into the ocean.

No photograph.
No identification shot.
Only absence.

When I lifted my head above the surface, two boats were observing the scene nearby. I could already feel the invisible gaze that now surrounds almost every interaction between humans and wild animals. Some perhaps envied my presence in the water. Others may have questioned it. Was this still observation? Field work? Conservation? Or simply another intrusion into a world that does not belong to us?
A few months earlier, a documentary aired by Arte reignited public emotion around the last captive orcas of Marineland. Filmed by drone inside empty pools invaded by algae and silence, the images deeply shocked audiences. For decades, marine parks had sold the story of a magical connection between humans and the wild. Today, that narrative no longer works.

And yet, I grew up with that fascination too.

Like many children of my generation, I was raised on Flipper, on the imagery of marine parks and dolphins interacting with humans. Back then, we saw magic.

I plead guilty too. As an adult living in Antibes, I visited Marineland without truly questioning what existed behind the pools and performances. At the time, I still knew very little about the marine world. Like many others, I was simply fascinated by these majestic animals evolving in direct contact with humans.

Then things slowly began to change.

One day, a colleague told me about the documentary Blackfish and the growing controversy surrounding marine parks. I still remember my response:

“At the rate things are going, maybe one day these captive animals will become the last witnesses of a planet humanity failed to protect.”

Like remnants of a lost world.

Looking back, that sentence reveals the mindset of an era in transition. We were beginning to understand the suffering linked to captivity, while simultaneously discovering another fear entirely: the fear of losing the wild itself.

Our perspective has changed.

What we accepted yesterday is no longer accepted today. And this evolution goes far beyond captivity alone. Even in human relationships, behaviors once normalized are now viewed differently. Our relationship with nature seems to be following the same path. Little by little, we are redefining the very notion of consent in our interactions with the living world.

But where should the line be drawn?

Because at sea, reality is often far more nuanced than social media debates suggest.

In Mayotte, the Bertrand brothers of SeaBlue Safari have spent nearly thirty years observing marine mammals. Mathias recently explained to me that the real problem does not necessarily come from professionals following strict interaction guidelines, but rather from the growing number of casual recreational boaters chasing “the perfect moment” for social media.

Experience changes everything.

Over time, some operators learn to read animals almost instinctively. They know when entering the water creates stress. They know when it is time to stop.

Just yesterday, off the coast of Mayotte, a group of spinner dolphins appeared near the boat accompanied by newborn calves. The young dolphins were still swimming clumsily beside their mothers, in that fragile stage of life where they are simply learning how to survive.

Nobody entered the water.​

Not out of frustration.
Not out of lack of interest.
But precisely because these animals were learning how to live.

The boat remained at a distance. The engine idling softly. Then someone quietly said:

“Today, we leave them alone.”

No debate.
No performance.
No content to produce.

Just the simple acceptance that some moments perhaps do not need to be turned into images.

Because despite what we sometimes want to believe, animals communicate very clearly with us.
A disturbed dolphin moves away.
A manta ray keeps its distance.
A stressed animal changes its behavior.

The ocean rarely lies.

The real issue is that wildlife encounters have now become a global emotional industry.

In the past, observing large wild animals required time and experience. Today, anyone can produce their own “wild encounter” using action cameras, drones or selfie sticks. As the Arte documentary accurately stated:
“The action camera has replaced the harpoon.”

We no longer capture bodies. We capture images.

And the boundary between awareness, fascination and consumption of wildlife is becoming increasingly blurred.

The paradox is that the very images capable of protecting wildlife can also increase pressure on it.

For years, photographers in La Réunion created extraordinary images of humpback whales. These photographs inspired admiration and created a genuine emotional connection with the marine world.

But they also created desire.

People no longer wanted simply to look at whales. They wanted to enter the frame themselves.

With social media, wildlife encounters gradually became experiences to live and share. More boats arrived. More swimmers entered the water. Until the marine park authorities in La Réunion were forced to impose much stricter rules to reduce pressure on the animals.

Some photographers became frustrated by these restrictions.

And yet, the situation reveals a deeper irony: the same imagery that helped people fall in love with whales also contributed — indirectly — to making these encounters more crowded and harder to regulate.

Images create awareness. But they also create attraction.

And sometimes, attraction itself becomes a threat.

Media figures such as Ocean Ramsey perfectly embody this modern ambiguity. For some, she helps transform public perception of sharks and contributes to their protection. For others, she turns conservation into permanent spectacle, where the animal becomes part of a personal visual performance.

The truth probably lies somewhere in between. Because images have also changed the world.

Without films, photographers or documentaries, how many people would ever have developed empathy for whales, dolphins or sharks? Organizations such as SeaLegacy or The Nature Conservancy understand this perfectly: powerful imagery can transform public perception and reconnect people emotionally to the living world.

And paradoxically, it is those same images that now push society to question our right to approach wild animals in the first place.

There is also another uncomfortable reality behind these debates.

Modern society sometimes places enormous moral attention on visible interactions between humans and wildlife — a swimmer near a whale, a drone above an orca — while remaining strangely disconnected from the far larger environmental pressures we collectively normalize every day.

Plastic waste.
Coastal urbanization.
Overconsumption.
Invisible pollution.
The slow destruction of natural habitats.

The irony is difficult to ignore.

Many people who would morally condemn a photographer entering the water with a marine animal also continue, often unconsciously, participating in lifestyles that have a far greater impact on oceans and ecosystems.

This does not mean wildlife interactions should escape ethical questioning.

But perhaps conservation becomes dangerous when it focuses only on visible symbols while ignoring the much deeper systems quietly destroying the natural world itself.

Wildlife photography is therefore entering an uncomfortable new territory — one where photographers must question not only the final image, but also the way it was obtained.​

Did the animal have a choice?
Could it leave?
Did we respect its refusal?

That morning, in the current, the manta ray gave me a very simple answer.

She left.
​
And perhaps the true challenge of modern wildlife photography begins precisely there: accepting that the wild still has the right to say no.

As I write these lines, I suddenly think again about the child I once was. The one who grew up with Flipper, the orcas of Marineland and that naive fascination for an ocean world I did not yet understand.

I also think about another figure from my childhood: Michael Jackson.

And for reasons I cannot fully explain, one song suddenly comes back to me:

Man in the Mirror.

Because beneath all these debates about captivity, drones, social media, photographers and tourism, perhaps there is a much simpler — and far more uncomfortable — question:

Before judging others, are we truly capable of looking honestly at ourselves?

So perhaps the real question is no longer: “What are others doing for the planet?”

But rather:

“What am I personally willing to change to protect the planet?”

A form of personal responsibility.
Almost a reflection inspired by John F. Kennedy:

“Ask not what your country can do for you…”​

Because in the end, everything may indeed begin there.

With the man in the mirror.