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Day 1,177 - Drawaqa Is, Yasawas, Fiji (17° 1S 177° 1E)
12:10hrs - August 20th 2010
Close Encounter |
It was a little over ten years ago when I spotted my first manta ray, and although it was housed in a giant aquarium at Paradise Island in the Bahamas, my first encounter with the largest of the ray family was nothing short of awe-inspiring. And for over a year, since we entered the South Pacific, we've searched for the opportunity to swim with them, to have a close encounter with the illusive Devil Ray (a name derived from their distinct horn-shaped pectoral fins), but unfortunately, from the Tuamotus to Tonga, the manta rays have continued to elude us, that was until yesterday.
Anchored off Drawaqa Island in the Yasawas - a chain of volcanic islands that form Fiji's western perimeter, we had timed our arrival to coincide with a short
twelve-week window when manta rays come to the area to feed in the plankton-rich waters that funnel between the islands. So at high tide, and aided by the beating drums resonating from the nearby Manta Ray Resort - a sign that rays had been spotted in the area, my nephew and I raced over in the dinghy to investigate. We dropped the anchor in shallow water and swam out to join the two boats and a dozen snorkelers already in the area.
The water was 60 feet deep and so blue and clear that it seemed to radiate light from its depths, and that's when we saw them, three shadows suspended below us, gliding effortlessly on the invisible tidal current.
It was as if we had entered another world, a quiet world of weightlessness and magical creatures. One of the manta rays veered away from the others and began a slow ascent, climbing to the surface towards us with open mouth, the distinct slits of 10 gills visible inside its enormous cavity, like an empty ribcage void of vital organs. It glided closer - 30 feet, 20 feet, 15 feet from the surface, and then, slowly, near the pinnacle of its loop, it arched upside down, its soft smooth belly reflecting the sunlight and flashing bright white against the deep blue water of its world. I moaned inside my snorkel, amazed at the performance as I watched the manta slowly descend to complete its aquatic loop-to-loop. The other mantas were feeding now too, filtering hundreds of gallons of seawater through open mouths, performing the same endless graceful somersaults, the contrasts of dark shadows and flashing white shapes meeting as the rays crossed.
I dove down, timing my descent to meet the manta as it swept up towards the peak of its climb. Suspended 20 feet below the surface the ray glided quietly below me, just 6 feet away, observing me as it completed its turn, then slowly sinking to begin another. I watching the rays swim up toward me again, aware of me, but seemingly unconcerned by my presence, I stayed with them until my lungs burned for oxygen.
I surfaced for air in the middle of what reminded me of the scene from the movie Titanic, just after the ship went down - a mass of thrashing bodies turning the water white, all kicking, splashing and paddling at the surface. A boatload of tourists had just been delivered by the resort, forty more snorkelers formed a tight formation, like a school of fish all drawn together and driven by the same force - to get a glimpse and perhaps a photo of the giant rays. Everyone was so excited that snorkeling etiquette was abandoned as the eager group scrambled to keep up with the mantas.
The rays fed for 30-minutes, completing endless sweeping loops underwater to the thrill of all, and I spent as much time with them as my lungs would allow. But even at the surface, amongst the noisy flogging gasping masses, being slapped in the face by the occasional rogue flipper, or torpedoed by a surfacing snorkeler, couldn't break the spell of an experience that was simply magical.
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