Snorkeling with Manta Rays in Hawai’i

The whir of the motor softens, but the wind continues to roar in my ears. The captain begins throwing the boards over the side of the boat and everyone flocks to starboard at a command I did not hear. I pivot in my seat on the gunwale of the boat, swinging my legs from the comfort of the cockpit over the side above open water. The waves lap at the sides, splashing my legs, daring my grip to slip before my mind has caught up with my body. I glance down at the rough waters, illuminated by the blue light spilling out from the raft. A silhouette passes beneath my dangling feet and out towards the open water.

A sharp inhale to my right startles my mind and body back into unison. Ethan is on the gunwale beside me. Even through foggy goggles, I can see the panic in his eyes. The open water unnerves him, his body tense against the rhythmic rocking of the waves. Together, we throw ourselves into the ocean and navigate through the churning debris to an open edge on the raft. With white knuckles, I grip the handle as tightly as I can as my body is thrown into Ethan’s, who is hanging on beside me.

We float on the surface of the dark water, the moon on our backs, a soft blue glow cascading down but unable to reach the seafloor. Harsh waves roll over the coral reef and threaten to dislodge our grip on the raft. Below the surface, the turbulent waves churn the sediment up from the bottom. Tiny life forms, otherwise gone unnoticed, dance in the glow, giving our eyes a place to focus. But these organisms are not the main attraction, far from it. They are just the bait.

Patiently, we wait.

They emerge from the depths, beyond our range of sight, and disappear just as quickly. If it weren’t for the oncoming storm, the clarity would reach the floor where they congregate. It happens suddenly, just a glimpse. A quick blink and we might miss it. Occasionally, I’d catch a flick of a flipper and mistake it for the distinct markings of an approaching ray. With the blue light illuminating the water around us, your eyes fall intently on the darkness where the light does not reach. With eyes pointed downward, looking to the depths of the dark ocean below, there is movement. 

Fifty feet below me, one of the world’s largest animals is swimming — no, gliding. Like an eagle soaring on the wind, the manta ray rides its own wave.  Light paints the back of its 15-foot wingspan as it emerges from its hideaway. Beside me, I hear the excited hums as Ethan announces his spotting through his snorkel. Then I notice that I too am letting out giddy bursts. From the surface, I imagine we sound like tone-deaf singing whales.

Then, there it is. Rising up from the depths, it swoops in a graceful arc, close enough to touch with our noses, like a breaching whale that never breaks the surface. The ray plays chicken with our raft as it loops repeatedly back and back again, each time just barely skimming the sky. With each pass, my heart flutters. To be this intimately close with a manta ray is remarkable. They twirl and twist, performing a ballet in the soft blue glow. But no one claps, our hands held fast to the raft as we are rocked by the waves.

I let the ocean fill my ears with its soft hum and immerse myself in this world. Balancing on the plane, a watery horizon, we watch as the manta rays drift peacefully in their realm. Slowly, they spiral back towards the oceanfloor, leaving us at the surface. The trance is broken as our raft is guided back towards the waiting boat. The lights go out and the ocean falls dark.