Flip, flap, fly

Sunset at Coral Bay | Barquing

Amy has her hand raised.
“Okay.” Says Colin, “Get in slowly and no swimming, got that? You’ll scare them away.”
We nod awkwardly, heads and feet encumbered by snorkels and flippers. Three-by-three, we slide off the back of the boat and into the sea. The shock of the water, suddenly cold despite the fierce sunshine, disorientating me completely.
I set off as I have been told, face first in the sea, breathing erratically through my mouth. The flippers feel ungainly on my feet, I can feel the sea churning behind me. I do not seem to be making much progress.
I bob up, and look around.
Somewhere in the distance to my left, I see Amy’s hand raised above the surface, a swarm of figures following with flapping feet.
Behind me is the boat, all eyes on me swimming in completely the wrong direction. The skipper waves his hand sardonically.
I cough apologetically and adjust my course, plunging my head back into the waves, I set off again. Progress is slow and torturous. Before me the water is pale blue, the sunlight a fractured shaft lightening the colour but not revealing anything other than more water, swirling with algae and plankton. I have never been snorkeling before, and when I told Colin this as he prepared the boat’s manifest, he nodded sagely and marked me down as average.
I forget to breathe through my mouth and choke on the sea water. Salt and silt fill my mouth and the mask clogs against my nose. I break the surface and cough myself clear. Somewhere, a million miles away to my eyes, Amy’s hand hangs high above the water.
That’s some serious stamina, I think blearily.
“How are you doing?” Cleggy asks, surfacing beside me, not unwhale-like. I had not even heard him approach.
“Okay.” I lie. “Went in the wrong direction.”
He nods.
“You’re not kicking properly.” He says, “You’re using your legs like you would swimming without fins, you don’t have to move your knees, alright?”
“Alright.”
“Alrighty.”
He hails the boat, which arcs around leisurely to pick us up.
“And breathe through your mouth,” he adds, “You doing that?”
“Mostly.” I manage.
“And keep your hands in.” he says, “The drag will slow you down, okay? Put them behind your back or something like this.”
He demonstrates awkwardly in the water.
“Got all that?”
I nod, still concentrating on breathing. My mouth feels full of salt water, my throat feels rough, torn. I suddenly worry about dehydrating in the middle of the reef.
“Okay.” He says. “Hang in there.”
The boat picks us up and drops us off again closer to where Amy and the group are swimming, face down in the sea. The image has a certain surreal quality, exacerbated by Amy’s raised arm.
“That woman,” Colin says of her admiringly, “Was as good as born in the sea.”
“Remember,” Cleggy says, “don’t move your knees and keep your arms in.”
Again, we slip off and again, I aim face down and – trying my hardest not to move my knees, flap my feet as much as I can manage.
Ahead of me, I see the yellow flippers of the rest of the group, pumping up cyclones of tiny bubbles towards the surface. I look down, concentrating fiercely and plough on, determined to see what they see. I find a rhythm of sorts, skewed and irregular but better than nothing, it feels comfortable and effective. I start moving faster. This works, I think. I can do this.
And there it is.
A shadow in the blue beneath me. A tight, dark rhombus, undulating and flapping three metres of wing.
I do not really know what I had been expecting of a manta ray. I knew they were large, and I knew they lived in the sea. Filter fish, they feed on the plankton and are largely harmless to humans, their major weapons being their size and their speed.
I think the last time I was aware of them, was – and this is to my shame – from the film Finding Nemo. And now one is beneath me, leisurely moving along the Niagaloo Reef. Occasionally, we see beneath it, a white belly under its black wings, a school of chubby, silver fish swim beneath it, almost in formation.
And then, as though it has become aware of our presence and tired of our scrutiny, it effortlessly gains speed and is gone, a vanishing speck in the turquoise distance.
We snorkel with a second manta ray – this one slower and clearer – and then take a more leisurely swim around the reef itself, the coral gardens abundant with clourful fish and marine life, going about their business and proudly ignoring our intrusion. Now more used to the breathing and propulsion aspects of snorkeling, I find myself becoming more adventurous and increasingly hypnotized by the almost endlessly varied spectacle beneath me. To say it is another world is a cliché, but a true one. It is wonderful and adictive, drifting across the surface, watching the underwater landscape scroll beneath.
Back at the boat, a school of multi-coloured fish thickens the water. I surface through it, the magnification of the water casting them near, then far as I bob above the surface. Delighted, I duck back down, and amble around the boat once more. A richly coloured fish, striped with purples and greens, bobs beneath me, calogen-lips opening and closing, eyes staring listlessly ahead. I watch it fascinated.
It swims left and right, then defecates extravagantly and sprints off into the depths, leaving a paltry trail of wispy grey behind it.
Back on the boat, a Canadian man juggles his infant son and turns to Donald.
“So where’s that accent from?” he asks, “London?”
Donald shakes his head patiently.
“I’m from the Island of Mull,” he says, warding off any ambiguity whatsoever, “Scotland.”
The Canadian nods. His son bounces his head up and down in imitation. The kid’s name is Buzz, and this concerns me for some reason.
“So, what you got up there, then?” The man asks, “A castle?”
Donald regards him levelly.
“No.” he says.
“So what’s the appeal up there then?”
Our final swim of the day, takes us to a portion of the reef where the reef sharks arrive to get their teeth cleaned by the tiny cleaner fish which live there. The reef is deep here, and the shadow of a shark – not a dangerous breed, but with a shape familiar from far too many Hollywood movies – circles distantly beneath. We circle above it, watching it go about its business as it ignores us blithely.
We arrive back at the beach two hours later than scheduled, my back already prickling from the sunburn sustained. We stay on the beach for the sunset, armed with beers and increasingly elaborate fishermens’ tales about the underwater wonders we witnessed. Sharks, turtles, schools of fish which nibbled on our fingers, octopuses and more manta rays. I don’t mention the defecating fish, it seems to spoil the sense of wonderment slightly, and instead just smile appreciatively of the enthusiastic stories which abound.
The sun slides into the sea before us and we talk on through the dark.