HERE’S A MOMENT, STANDING high on dolerite cliffs that drop like a knife’s edge into the ocean, when the rest of the world fades to insignificance. Sheepwash Bay is remarkably still, and the sky is crisp and eggshell blue. Then we hear it – whale song, melodic and haunting. I have goosebumps. The bay is a natural amphitheatre, and the pair of southern rights we eventually spot are not shy about using it as their stage. Their calls reverberate around the pipes of stone, and seem to bounce back at us from Tasman Island and its lonely lighthouse, just offshore. There are 15 of us gazing out to sea. And not a single soul can find the right words to express how special
