Google calls this island Badubadu, but I guess the local people know its unabridged name. There’s a manta cleaning station about 50M off the shore of Goabadubadu, which sits in 10M of water.
After a slow chug through the heavy swell of Milne Bay, we arrive around 6.30 am on a misty morning. The grey sky meets the grey ocean with only whitecaps to break the monotony. Despite this, we are eternal optimists and gear up in the rain, enthusiastic about a possible glimpse of frequently elusive manta rays.
“Mantas like weather like this,” my dive buddy Pete chirps up cheerfully, “They always come out in the rain.”
“Sure,” I reply. “I’ve waited enough times for mantas to show up on Manta Dives to know all about that!”
After half a night with our dive boat punching through the waves, I’ve not slept well, and the 2 cups of coffee have not yet kicked in.
Even so, I encourage my tardy buddy to hurry.
“I’ll wait for you down there!” I shout as I jump in ahead of him and sink below the turbulent surface layers.
Part of me lives in eternal hope, and I’m keen to see a few mantas glide by like sci-fi spacecraft. Actually, on previous dives, I’ve not been entirely deprived and have swum with mantas swirling around me the entire time. They’ve flown past in formation, doing loop-the-loops, and come so low over my head that I’ve ducked despite my appreciation of how incredibly aware they are and knowing that they would not hit me.
The moment I start to sink deeper into calmer water, I relax, always grateful for the experience: the cocoon of water, the sound of my breaths, and an ocean full of life to discover. Mantas or no mantas, there’s always plenty to see, even on the flattest desert-like parts of the ocean floor.
This floor today is sandy, with an occasional coral bommie and an accompanying collection of fish. We make our way across the sand toward the manta cleaning station, with a short stop to watch the tiniest mantis shrimp I’ve ever seen. At least I’ve seen something with a manta in its name, I think, already prepared for, needless to say, the failure of the real ones to turn up. We hang around the manta cleaning bommie for a while, but none are keen for a de-parasite session, and the cleaner fish focus their efforts on the less spectacular fish.
The highlight of the dive is the most beautiful flounder, beautifully camouflaged against the coarse sand. On its back are three face-like circles, complete with chocolate eye dots and pale nose swirls. As we examine the flatfish, it lifts its head slightly off the sand, ready to flee, its eyes raised within a darker patch of skin, swivelling to ascertain the danger. It edges away on multiple tiny fingers. We back off, not wanting to create further disturbance and leave it to its watery domain.