The story behind our decision — and the convictions that led us there.
There is a question we have been asked more times than we can count: why did you stop?
The answer is not simple. It never is when the decision comes from love.
Since 2001, Espaço Talassa had a strict policy regarding swimming with dolphins: small groups of eight maximum, trained supervisors, a mandatory medical certificate for each participant, a full briefing on the activity and the five species with which humans are legally allowed to swim, and a minimum five-day package. Taking time with nature is the key to respect — that was our belief, and it shaped everything we built.
The code of ethics we created was not born from regulation. It was born from conviction. My secret wish was to convince all the other operators and Azorean politicians to follow our initiative. To show that it was possible to offer this experience without compromising the animals or the swimmers.
Fifteen years later, I am forced to admit that we failed.
I am surprised, genuinely, that no serious accident has yet been reported. The reason, I think, is simple: dolphins truly are peaceful and patient animals. Their tolerance for us has been far greater than we deserved.
Without a briefing, there is no encounter – only an intrusion
The first thing that disappeared, across the industry, was knowledge. Swimmers entering the water with no information about which species they may interact with. No guidance on noise, on sudden movements, on the signs that an animal is stressed or retreating. When that foundation is absent, what happens in the water is not a connection — it is an imposition. We refused to operate without it, and we could not pretend its absence elsewhere did not matter.
Open water is not a pool.
Swimming in the Atlantic is a serious physical undertaking, and the risks are real: cramp, hypothermia, panic attacks at sea. Getting back on board is not always simple, and in certain conditions, it is not simple at all. The capacity, experience, and training of the crew — their ability to respond when something goes wrong — is what stands between a difficult moment and a tragedy. Too often, that capacity is assumed rather than verified. The sea does not make exceptions.
Swimming demands a closeness that observation never requires.
This is perhaps the most important point, and the hardest to explain to someone who has not spent time with these animals. To enter the water alongside a dolphin is to step into their world, physically, uninvited. It is their element, not ours. Their patience, in that moment, is extraordinary. But patience is not permission. And we reached a point where we could no longer reconcile our presence with our respect.
The ocean belongs, first of all, to those who live in it.
Very often — too often — swimming zones are occupied from 8am to 8pm, every day of the season. There is no silence, no pause, no moment of rest for the animals. In July and August, the pressure is greatest: the sea is full, the boats are constant, and the animals are saturated. By law, observation boats have priority over swimming boats during these encounters. In practice, this is rarely enforced. The experience being sold in peak season is, more often than not, an illusion — and the animals pay the price.
The law protecting these animals exists for a reason.
Azorean law allows only two people in the water at a time. It sets minimum trip durations. These are not bureaucratic inconveniences — they are the minimum conditions under which a respectful encounter is possible. When they are routinely ignored by operators, and when that conduct goes unchallenged by the authorities responsible for enforcement, what remains is no longer a regulated activity. It is something we could not continue to be associated with.
We tried for 15 years to change this.
We shared our code of ethics. We spoke to other operators, to politicians, to regional authorities, to anyone who would listen. We believed, genuinely, that respect could be taught — and that if we demonstrated it clearly enough for long enough, others would follow. Faced with the lack of respect from the majority of operators, their illegal conduct, and the passiveness — even the complicity — of the Azorean authorities, we had no other option than to cease our activity. Not as a defeat. As a refusal to be complicit.
Our deepest question was always this: should we be here at all?
In 1996, I wrote in my notes: Superb — I was in their domain. And it really is about that. When you enter the Atlantic blue, you cross into another world. Their world. The encounter, when it is real, is one of rare and intense beauty. I know this. I have lived it.
But let us question our desire to be in the water with them at all cost. Let us examine the frustration we feel when it is not possible, the almost childish relationship we maintain with cetaceans and their world. No one catches a dolphin by swimming. And yet we keep trying — and they keep tolerating us, long past the point where tolerance should have run out.
My deepest wish remains what it has always been: to see you climb back on board with a smile from ear to ear, and hear you say — *Superb, I was in their domain, and they looked me straight in the eye.*
Unfortunately, the pleasure is becoming less and less frequent.
We are always ready to talk about our decision. Who knows — together, maybe we will manage to persuade operators to adopt a more respectful approach, and oblige the regional government to enforce the laws that already exist.
Our dreams are far too often their nightmares.
Let us campaign, together, for a more responsible kind of tourism.
Serge Viallelle, Espaço Talassa · Lajes do Pico, Azores (2017)