Our expedition began with a desire to chase marine aggregations. We were on a quest to witness the last remaining wild wonders our world had to offer before it was too late. Grim, I know, but this has been and continues to be a real concern for us, especially with all the harrowing information we consume about our ocean and climate crisis through various news sources. With our oceans rapidly declining, it only seemed logical for new divers to want to explore these underwater worlds while it’s still possible. The training required to tackle some of these extreme conditions only added to the allure of seeing marine life come together at scale.
If you’re a fellow diver, you certainly know the big ones: the orcas of Norway, the sardine bait ball of South Africa, the manta rays of the Maldives, the great whites of Australia, and the devil rays of Baja California Sur, Mexico. But it was the devil rays (Mobula munkiana) that excited me the most. Every spring, the entire population of these elasmobranchs gathers in one place to mate and feed. Depending on particular environmental conditions, they form different aggregations, each with its own significance. The one called "the vortex" was of particular fascination to me. This rare behavior involves the rays bringing nutrients to the surface from the bottom of the water column, creating currents that aid in the feeding process.
You can also observe these rays transiting together, moving quickly when startled by a big fish or shark, circling when they are relaxed, or forming static formations, which is the best time to observe them. There’s also the mating train, a common sight during this period. And of course, what we like to call the “pancake flop,” where the ray jumps out of the water and lands back in with a splash, like a pancake being flipped for breakfast. The whole scene creates an impression of ocean abundance, with thousands of devil rays congregating right here.
Any aggregation of this scale and size can lead you to believe the news is wrong, and that the ocean is in fact thriving. However, with every ray “pancake flop,” there’s always another, darker story—the underbelly of ocean conservation, as I like to call it. This is what the internet prefers to serve to us, making us fear the sad realities of our climate crisis, rather than want to do something about it, or pursue the hardest challenge of them all: change. When we first set out to map this expedition, it was easy to find the doom and gloom stories. Devil rays are often caught as by-catch, meaning that commercial fishing in the area unintentionally scoops up these rays, leaving them to die. Additionally, the booming tourism industry in Baja California Sur brings an influx of boats, disturbing their one chance to mate.
The glam content seemed never-ending, especially from the freediving and snorkeling communities. This curated online experience could easily make you believe you were diving in pristine, warm waters and that everything about the ocean was just as idyllic as the photos themselves. However, our experience diving has shown us that capturing such shots is far from glamorous. There’s often more beneath the surface—both literally and figuratively—that these images don't convey. The reality includes dealing with cold temperatures, strong currents, and the unpredictability of marine life, all while trying to respect the delicate balance of the ecosystem. This disparity between online portrayals and the actual experience made us curious to uncover what was really happening with the devil rays and their habitat.
With time and more planning, we realized the magic wasn’t just in seeing these aggregations in mid-flight. Of course, for any scuba diver or freediver, witnessing marine aggregations is obviously thrilling. It’s why we care about restoration and conservation in the first place. Seeing is believing, and believing is protecting, as we like to say. But we began to understand the complexities around protecting our natural resources and the animals and people that depend on them. For instance, while we might view traditional ray fishing as harmful because it depletes these precious species, we also need to consider how local communities in Baja California Sur have sustainably lived off these animals for generations. Similarly, while tagging rays for scientific research might seem invasive and harmful, its upside is the crucial data that helps us protect them.
Even though our team of conscious explorers loves the ocean, we admit that we know very little about it. And with that, our quest had shifted from focusing on marine life to meeting the people who live, breathe, and depend on the ocean. Our aim changed from craving only close ocean encounters to actually understanding its complexities, hearing different perspectives, uncovering the multiple sides to every story in order to form our own opinions along the way. What started as a mission to chase the devil ray aggregation became a journey of listening and learning, to better understand what the world’s oceans are up against and who’s working towards solutions every day.
As we continued to map out a year’s worth of our expedition, searching for aggregations became more of a secondary “bonus” to the heart of our pursuits. However, the allure of the devil ray aggregation always remained a milestone marker, waiting for us come June 2024—it’s what catalyzed this whole expedition around the world in the first place! And when we finally arrived, it was everything we expected. The aggregation was breathtaking, the water was as calm and warm as could be (which would later prove to be not such a great thing) and yet it was far from glamorous, just the way we like it on the edges of earth.
As I’d previously foreshadowed, the stillness of the water while seemingly ideal came at a price, and a steep one at that. The warm, calm waters had invited numerous jellyfish to the area, and those jellyfish had no qualm having their way with us. And so our bodies ended up covered in fiercely painful jellyfish stings that left marks for days. These jellyfish latched onto any exposed skin, mainly our hands and faces. Even with gloves, the jellyfish would find their way onto our camera housings and wetsuits, sometimes escaping our post-dive scans letting a freshly exposed hand take a wallop.
The face brutalization was probably the worst of it, leaving us looking like we had just fought the battle of our lives out there. But this is how the ocean works: it’s never on our terms, and we have to be prepared for what that means. But the massive school of rays we had the unique opportunity to spend time with made the pain worth it. They came exceptionally close to us in nearly 3-5 meters of water, allowing us to dive down and observe them on repetitive single breath holds.
All of that planning, researching, connecting, and ideating finally led us to this moment—the one I had personally been waiting for a very long time (since April 2021 to be exact!) But the rays also led us to our true mission and reason for being, which I had never expected. It opened our eyes to the real problem at hand, which isn’t just about highlighting the last remaining large-scale aggregations, but about supporting the people who work tirelessly to protect them and amplifying their efforts. The more positive storytelling we share about what’s still out there, the more people might be willing and interested in getting involved.
I used to feel like there was no point, the damage was too severe and we were well past any meaningful solution. The climate narrative, especially concerning our ocean, had become fatigued and tiresome, leaving me wondering, “Well, who cares!?” because it seems like we’re all beyond saving. But this is far from the truth. The amount of change, progress, and restoration happening is real—it’s out there. We just don’t hear about it as much because it doesn’t grab attention, views or likes as reliably as the bad news does.
In a time where misinformation and disinformation are rampant and negative content dominates social media, it seems like there’s no room for the real, powerful stories of good news and progress. The devil rays inspired our team to change that, in any small way we can. They set us on a quest to uncover the hidden stories that need to be shared more broadly, to show that our world is not beyond saving and that we all have a role to play. We need to know where to go, what our options are, and who is already making a difference so we can learn from them and realize that all hope is not lost—far from it. Yes, it is true that devil ray habitats are in decline. They are often caught as bycatch, suffer from unsustainable tourism, and have slow reproductive cycles, birthing only one pup at a time, which doesn’t help their cause. However, teams of scientists, conservationists, ecotour operators, and community leaders are dedicating their lives to understanding and protecting these animals.
Pioneers like Walter Munk, after whom these rays are named, contributed significantly to early research and advocacy for their protection. Today, leaders like Marta D. Palacios, the Mexico Director with Mobula Conservation, continue this vital work. Collaborating with the nonprofit Pelagios Kakunjá, she advances research and community understanding of necessary conservation practices, backed by science. Ecotour operators like Dive Ninja Expeditions set the standard for best practices when interacting with these animals, ensuring their preservation. Organizations such as ORGCAS are helping fisherfolk find alternative livelihoods in tourism, steering them away from ray fishing. And increasingly, more people are diving in Baja California Sur with a commitment to protecting our planet and mitigating our impact on it.
We only just scratched the surface when we visited La Ventana in Baja California Sur in June 2024. The stories we heard, the people we met, and the rays we swam alongside were just the beginning of our journey in this special part of the world. There is so much more to learn about the efforts to protect the ocean and the individuals, teams and communities leading the charge. That’s the good news, and we’re feeling optimistic that there’s plenty more on the horizon. Looks like Baja is firmly on our map for a repeat expedition visit in 2025. The countdown has officially started.
To be continued …
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