Image copyright, Robin V. Robinson

The photo above is from my dear friend, Robin Robinson robinrobinson.com, who encouraged me to follow my wildlife photography dreams and taught me so much about art and conservation photography.  I am the diver on the left!

Someone always has to crack, “I love the smell of neoprene in the morning,” but this time, no one groaned. We were too charged with anticipation, the kind that makes your chest hum. Lugging our heavy air tanks and dive gear to the dock felt like a small price to pay for what lay ahead. The small blue-and-white boat bobbed cheerfully in the water, and our captain, grinning ear to ear, guided us out to the open ocean.  

The sun climbed higher as the boat bounced over the reef, each jolt making us grip the rails tighter. We fell into a quiet rhythm, watching the coastline disappear, replaced by the vast expanse of glittering water. The captain finally eased the throttle an hour out, and an eerie hush settled over us. The boat swayed on the waves, its creaks the only sound as we huddled around the fish finder. We scanned the monitor, willing it to show what we had come for.  

It took time—several repositionings of the boat—before faint light forms flickered on the screen. A surge of energy passed through the group. We pulled our wetsuits over our shoulders with fumbling hands, excitement bubbling over as tanks hissed and buckles clicked. The signal came. One by one, we fell backward into the ocean’s embrace, the chaos of the surface replaced by the hushed, dreamlike world below.  

Descending to 60 feet, we followed our guide into the blue. Then, like a curtain parting, they appeared—a shimmering, orderly column of silver Cubera Snapper. Hundreds of them moved as one, glinting in the filtered sunlight, their calm choreography mesmerizing. We hovered nearby, the anticipation nearly unbearable.  

And then it happened. One snapper turned black, its body angling upright, and chaos erupted. The school dissolved into a furious maelstrom of snapping jaws and flashing tails. A milky white cloud billowed through the water, spreading rapidly toward us. We instinctively paddled backward, staying clear of the spawning frenzy that had transformed the serene column into an unruly storm.  

That’s when they arrived. 

Emerging from the haze like ghosts, the first whale shark appeared, then another, and another—giants gliding with almost supernatural grace. Their immense bodies dwarfed us, their cavernous mouths open wide to draw in the nutrient-rich spawn swirling in the water. We exchanged wide-eyed glances, signaling to each other in disbelief. Twenty-five. At least twenty-five whale sharks, each the size of a school bus, weaving through the chaos with effortless majesty.  

We rose with the column, our awe swelling as we broke the surface, surrounded by spotted fins and tails, the ocean alive with their presence. They were so close, their curiosity palpable, yet we stayed respectful, moving aside as their immense mouths swept through the water.  

Then came the call.  

Tiger sharks. Bull sharks. The predators had arrived, their sleek forms gliding into the feast. The shift in mood was immediate—a sharp reminder of the ocean’s dual nature, both wonder and danger. We obeyed the captain’s urgent signal, climbing the ladder with shaking hands, reluctant to leave but knowing better than to linger.  

On the boat, my heart ached, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what we’d witnessed. A tear slid down my cheek, mingling with the salt spray. In that moment, I felt the humbling weight of being a guest in this wild, untamed world, where the ocean’s giants gathered for a timeless ritual. I knew I’d carry the memory of their presence—their power, their grace—for the rest of my life.