There are some pockets of the ocean that truly stand out among the rest. They are far away, hard to access, and at times, painfully difficult to coordinate. A great deal of serendipity might be necessary just to scratch the surface of places I’m describing. Your dive training, your prior experience, your overall fitness and most importantly, mental state all must align, along with some of the more temperamental factors of diving. You have to either know the right people, have the right resources or work in the field to get access to some of these spots. But once you get there, it feels like the pieces finally fit together and that it’s your time to shine.
That’s how it felt on the liveaboard I signed up for, where we ventured 30-hours offshore to San Benedicto island, part of the less widely known archipelago called Revillagigedo Islands. Even though to divers this area is famed, considered some of the best diving in the world, I’m fairly certain the bulk majority of the world’s population would fail to point out this island cluster on a map, nor would they understand why it’s so special. But for me, this was the end-all-be-all of diving—a pinnacle moment in my diving career.
Revillagigedo has been long looked at by the Mexican government as a hotspot, and many other institutions and organizations have worked to protect the region. According to our scientific partner, Marine Conservation Institute, the archipelago was “designated as an Important Bird Area in 2000, a Ramsar site in 2003, a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2016, and Hope Spot in 2018. Revillagigedo National Park protects ecosystems with tremendous value and received a gold level Blue Park Award in 2021.”
Revillagigedo’s islands lie 698 to 1,092 kilometers (434 to 679 mi) west of Baja California Sur, and were formed by volcanic activity—and they still remain active today. The lava that flows from the volcanoes create an unique land-based ecosystem, while below the surface there are seamounts, shallow reefs and hydrothermal vents. The ripping currents in the area make for some extremely challenging dive conditions, but also is the very reason this region is known for its life below the surface. And that’s what I was heading out on the open ocean to explore, by myself, without my expedition team, simply because the seas were calling and the stars were aligning.
Departing from the southern tip of the Baja California peninsula to travel a daunting 250 nautical miles, I was off, leaving Adam and Marla behind for the first time in a year. Although the thought of leaving my forever dive buddy and husband behind for this kind of monumental adventure felt strange, it was a series of unforeseen and somewhat catastrophic circumstances that drove us apart—and there’s certainly a bit of backstory here. On May 2, 2024 Adam’s parents met us in Belize after not seeing us for a year. They were going to get a brief glimpse of what life was like on the edges of earth. Upon their arrival, we were elated to all be together again. The team’s energy was high and we were excited to plunge into a new partnership in Belize.
But on that day, we got news that Adam’s friends from childhood—Australians named Callum and Jake Robinson—went missing on a surf trip in Baja California Norte. This was coincidentally where Adam, Marla and I were heading after making our way up the Yucatan Peninsula following our stint in Belize, all via car. Thinking that the boys were just off the grid on a surf bender, we didn’t process this more deeply and chalked it up to “nervous mother energy” coming from their parents. But the days went by and there was still no sign of always-on Callum and Jake. In a completely shocking turn of events, our worst fears were realized. We came to find out they had been killed after resisting two criminals trying to steal the tires off their truck while camping off the coast of Ensenada.
As much as I wished to be by Adam’s side through this tragedy, the flights to Perth were simply too expensive for the two of us on our tight budget. So this left Adam to return home with his parents to Australia to mourn their loss, Marla to take some time off to visit friends from college, and myself, off to sea, to try to find a way to get off mainland Baja to do what I do best, all while processing this unprecedented level of tragedy. After close to a month of mourning beside my husband and his family during what was intended to be a joyous reunion, it was time for me to take in some solitude and reflect on what’s happened over the course of 12 months in the field.
Each of us on the expedition team had suffered in some way or another since the start of our journey. Right as we were taking off on our first leg in March 2023, I sprained my back and was left unable to walk for four whole months. Having to relearn basic motor skills over the course of six months was, at the time, earth shattering, causing us to cancel the entirety of our Malaysia, Thailand and Indonesia stops on the expedition before they even began. Then in August 2023, Marla got news that her family had been heavily impacted by the Lahaina fires that took Maui by storm and devastated the region. Her home sat in the center of the town, and although her family was fine, they had to be relocated. She spent months trying to figure out how to support her family from afar, not able to leave the expedition in full swing. And now this—undeniably the most shocking and tragic thing that any of us had experienced to date.
Why all this loss, suffering and pain wrapped up in the midst of an expedition of a lifetime? An expedition that was opening our eyes to some of the world’s most beautiful destinations, taking us to some of the most incredible corners of the planet, meeting some of the most special people on the frontlines of the climate crisis. How could so much excitement and energy also be compounded by so much pain? I wanted to spend my time on the islands unpacking this notion, searching for meaning and answers anywhere I could find them. Unplugging from the real world, submerging into temperate waters, and perhaps more selfishly praying for marine action to somehow appear in the right place at the right time, all in hopes to help me somehow grieve and grapple with this reality.
On expedition, we’ve seen huge success stories, much like the Revillagigedo Archipelago, where resources are appropriately allocated, the waters are suitably protected and enforced management is being upheld to the highest standards. But we’ve also witnessed places where this is not the case, where rather devastation is the hallmark of our visit. And I think this contrast allows us to appreciate the positives. That’s what I was craving at that moment. I wanted to see something beautiful, a success story, to help shift a deeply negative mindset to a positive one—if only for just a moment.
The ride to San Benedicto was hard. I was seasick and vomiting anytime I got out of bed. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I just laid awake, staring out my bunk bed window counting down the hours we made it to the volcano so I could get in the water and wash these feelings away. My roommate was a kind French woman named Carine in her early 50’s who was deeply interested in talking about my life. Although the last thing I wanted to do was share the woes of our world with the boat, it seemed effortless for me to explain my situation in full detail to anyone who’d listen. Perhaps because I was afraid of a random outburst of crying that would throw everyone for a loop. Or better yet, getting seasick all over them.
Carine seemed to genuinely care, regardless of the way I shared bits of my story. She was a scientist, and had been very much a contributor to helping solve the initial covid crisis. I was fascinated with her line of work and how modest she was in sharing her career accolades. Incredibly quirky, Carine was comfortable in her own skin, had the energy of a teenager, and suffered a recent injury to her shoulder making her happy to just be alive. She talked to me all through the night, as we sat awake in our bunks like newfound friends, taking in the joys of “pillow talk.” We talked and talked about everything—from our life’s work to tidbits of boat gossip here. It was nice to get validation from a perfect stranger that being on the edges of earth was a worthwhile endeavor, given the state of our natural world. It was nice to share my raw and honest truth with someone I didn’t know face-to-face, in one of my more vulnerable states. Talking to Carine calmed me, in a moment where everything felt so chaotic. We decided it was best we became boat dive buddies.
Diving San Benedicto cannot be put into words. Nothing I say here will do it justice, but I’ll surely try. The cleaning stations were filled with sharks of all kinds: white tip, silkies, galapagos, silver tip and of course, the beloved hammerhead. Huge schools of fish clustered close to the stations, and sharks swam effortlessly through our group, eyeing us as they passed with perfect precision through the water. You didn’t know which way to look. In the morning, dolphins would playfully swim around us, giving us the performance of a lifetime. And oceanic manta rays would be cruising by in the shallows, circling around as if in competition to be the true stars of the show. As we surfaced, blue-footed boobies greeted us at the waterline. Their blue feet paddled at double speed beneath them, and their watchful eyes examined us closely, questioning whether or not we brought them breakfast.
However, all of us were counting down for what we believed would be the main event: Socorro and Roca Partida. These two islands were another 9-10 hours out, so we had much more cruising in store. These were the more talked about of the islands, and in the dive community, the most well known. This is where, at the right season, you can see several species of cetaceans, whale sharks, fleets of hammerheads and endemic fish only found here.
Getting onto Mexican Liveaboard’s vessel, Rocio del Mar, at the very last minute was a genuine miracle. Timing lined up perfectly with Adam’s departure back home and getting our trusted and beloved truck across the border from Mexico to the USA that had taken us across the entire Central American stretch months before. A shark scientist named Dr. James Ketchum (that we would later be meeting up with in Baja) put me onto the Mexican liveaboard scene. He connected me with the Rocio del Mar’s owner who JUST so happened to have one last space available for me.
But oddly enough, and very out of character for me, I did practically no other research on this mission. I had no idea what season this was for the archipelago. I had no idea how cold the water would be. I didn’t know what species I was seeking out. All I knew was that, through a swift act of fate, I was on this liveaboard and I was going to this far flung location out in the Pacific. I was happy with simply that and for the first time since being in the field, I had quite literally zero idea of what to expect. A much needed change from my typical modus operandi.
As time went on, my sea legs got stronger and my sea sickness subsided. I was getting more adjusted to the 20-23C water temperatures, and finding myself feeling more comfortable diving in my 3mm wetsuit under my 5mm wetsuit with a heater vest on for good measure. Carine and I were adjusted to each other’s underwater ways and the dive team we were exploring with started to feel like family. Typical liveaboard antics ensued. And all the while, I still had no answers to the burning question of “why” that I was craving to unpack. In fact, my brain started to switch off. Reality felt far away. I was out to sea, with my new friends, just being in the moment truly and wholly.
More mantas, more magic. That’s what Socorro was all about. Commercial fishing was banned 9 nautical miles around the four islands back in 2002. And the marine protected area was expanded in 2017 to cover 14 million hectares surrounding the islands as well. And it was clear and evident to see what that did for this place. There was SO much life, it was in fact overwhelming at times. Marine Conservation Institute said this area was, “heralded as an ecological refugia, demonstrating enhanced resilience to the increasing effects of climate change.” And I was witnessing that, in real time. I felt honored to have this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Unbeknownst to me, it was only there that my eyes would open to something quite extraordinary. Something I had never witnessed before. The smallest of the three islands had water that was brewing and bubbling like a cauldron all around it. Boobies were everywhere, and I felt inclined to call Roca Partida “bird shit rock,” because of the thick layer of white boobie poo that coated everything. We had been alerted that 100 pilot whales were in the area, chasing something big. Eager, yet freezing, we suited up and dove in. The conditions were nothing short of WILD. I had clocked close to 120 dives in the year, but I had yet to experience anything this chaotic underwater. We pushed through a current that was so strong that I was basically getting a full body workout all the while.
But the physical exertion made the water feel warmer and allowed me to turn my heat vest down a notch. As we were moving through the madness, out of nowhere, what looked like a fleet was coming towards us. It looked like bullets underwater. What easily must have been hundreds, if not thousands of yellowfin tuna were moving in our direction. First, were the juveniles which were small and silvery. Behind them were the mid-sized adults. And closing the train were the giant-sized adults, with bodies that dwarfed my own. The school engulfed us, dividing the group and making it hard to see one another amidst the giant tuna.
Because there were so many fish bigger than me, they were blocking the sunlight. I was totally alone in these crazy conditions, out to sea, more than 250 nautical miles away from the mainland. It was right then and there that it hit me—the answer I had been looking for. Why do bad, scary, heartbreaking things happen to us? Why do things that make no sense infect our world? Why do we feel heartache, pain and loss? So that we remember to feel in the first place. We know what it’s like to hurt, so that we know what it’s like to love. So that we experience the world in full effect. To hurt and to love is to live.
At that moment, I was so in love. In love with the ocean, in love with these fish, in love with whatever crazy choices had gotten me to this place, time and space. All of it, from the hardest of times to the best, put me among this crazy fleet of tuna, swimming for my life to keep up and keep out of their way all at the same time. On a quest to stick with the tuna and spot Carine’s yellow fins to mark that I was safe. I felt, for the first time in a while, utter joy amidst the great tuna festival of 2024, as I affectionately started to call it. I felt like I was swimming among the giants—like Callum and Jake, Adam’s lost friends, who were over 6 feet tall and were both larger than life in their own ways.
After a serious, pumping swim that felt more like a run than anything else, I reunited with my dive team at Roca Partida’s underwater structure—the split rocks themselves. Those 100 pilot whales were said to be swimming above us during the tuna festival, but they were blocked out by the bodies of these huge fish. As we made our way back to the liveaboard on the dinghy that took us out to the sites each day, I realized that moments like these require acceptance. Acceptance of the good, the bad and the ugly. If you want these moments, you have to live through the hard times. And come out bigger, better and stronger than before.
Each dive after Roca was equally elating in its own way. Ten days of pure magic out to sea. The ride back was long, rocky and rough. I tried reading my book, “Barbarian Days: A Surfing Life,” by William Finnegan, which felt fitting given the expedition that I was currently on myself. But, I was losing my eyesight. To combat the seasickness, I was taking scopolamine—heavy duty meds in the form of a patch that sticks to the back of your ear. You change them every three days and they completely eliminate the feeling of death that one feels when violently sick out to sea. Unfortunately, I had not realized that one of their side effects was blurred vision when diving under pressure for consecutive days. Whoops!
Without access to the medical knowledge of the internet during my time on the liveaboard, I spent close to 30 hours having no idea what was wrong with my eyes. Trying not to assume the worst, I kept trying to find ways of reading this bloody book, or simply passing the time at that point. Thinking it might have something to do with the patches, I took it off early, willing to risk my stomach contents in exchange for my eyesight. And right as I did it, the conditions got worse, and my choice seemed terribly wrong. Sick and still losing sight, now I was living the worst of it as I headed back to reality.
The seasickness wore off. And my exhaustion from the upchucking and partial blindness subsided. What I had left was extraordinarily clear visions (and a few really epic pieces of content) to remember this life-altering dive experience, with newfound friends from all over the world: the only people who will ever know what happened down there, in and out of the tuna festival.
You don’t have to trek to the edges of earth and have every star align in your life to have these types of revelations. It’s no secret that everything you pursue in this life will inevitably go in some other direction than you had anticipated. Bad things will happen. Times will be tough. What matters is that you know how to ride the waves of hurt. You know what it will take to uncover the “why” in it all. For me, I find my answers in the ocean. Surrounded by temperate waters. Getting lost in a sea of tuna. Where do you find yours?
To be continued …
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