You step onto the launch as the peninsula shrinks behind you and the Caribbean opens wide — a burnished ribbon of turquoise that seems to dare you to keep pace. The captain eases into a steady hum and the harbor slips away; within an hour the chatter on deck hushes. Someone points, binoculars rise, and the surface breaks as a humpback arches into the air: water explodes, tails slap like punctuation. For two hours the ocean stages that same theater — males singing in low tones, mothers shielding calves, and occasional breaches that throw salt and sunlight in equal measure.