Our research group splits today, one group to count birds on the atoll rim, and the other on an island within the lagoon. I’m in the latter group of lowlier researchers, who score the less exciting jobs. After a month of bird counts in the Tuamoto Islands of French Polynesia, our group is nicely zoned-out and not in a hurry. I’m in the habit of snorkelling between counts. The moment they’re done, I hit the water, where the visibility is fantastic. Today, I decide to snorkel alone ahead of my group across to the rainforest-clad island that’s reasonably close to where we’re anchored.
The sky is blue, and rays of light twist and turn through the water below me as I set off. Even through the crystal-clear water, I can’t begin to see the bottom. Swirling light beams vanish into deep black down there. For a while, I’m fine with this, but the swim is long enough for anxieties to surface. I begin to wonder about what might lurk in the depths. As a diver, who regularly sees sharks, I’m supposedly not so easily spooked. But it’s lonely out here and the dingy to bring my workmates across, still waits empty by the rusty boat that’s our temporary home. I tell myself not to be wimpy, a habit left-over from the days of my mother telling me not to be so stupid. And I continue, partly because I’m almost halfway across, so it’s now as risky to bail out as to continue to the island.
At last, a sandy slope emerges from the gloom below, and I’m less worried about being a target for a shark attack from below. At least I’ll be able to see danger now, unless it comes from behind as it usually does! In the shallower water, I slow and search for fish and turtles along the shoreline. It’s then I see fins twirling out toward the end of the island. My gut lurches and I swim quickly toward the shore, not splashing the water too much, to avoid unwanted attention.
My heart is pounding when I stop in 4 foot of water, and crouch under the surface to look out to where dangers lies. And I understand it’s all in my mind again. There’s a manta ray swimming loops out there as it filters plankton, its wings masquerading as shark fins. Now my chest is tight from excitement rather fear, as I push off from the bottom and swim hard toward the manta. It’s not alone!
For twenty minutes, I have 3 mantas all to myself as they swirl around in the shallows. I can hardly believe my luck. My colleagues arrive in the dingy and immediately flop over its edge into the water. They saw mantas from the surface on their way over. All thoughts of the bird count gone, we spend another surreal hour in the water while the mantas fly circles around us, so close we can almost touch them.