What Passed Below

Some moments arrive without warning.

This was one of them.

It began with tuna.

Stories from fishermen. Bird-watching from the bow. Looking down at shapes moving far below the surface. The excitement around this fish is genuinely contagious — I'd been less interested in catching one than in being near them. Diving into the feeding vortex. Having them spiral around me.

Most people thought I'd be eaten.

A chance encounter changed things. Meeting someone with the same curiosity, and the willingness to move toward it rather than away.

We stood on the roof of the boat watching the sky. Birds diving act as a compass — they point toward the bait ball, toward whatever is pushing it up from below.

As the sun cut through the sea fog, the birds appeared.

When I hit the water, the cold was immediate. I'd forgotten my hood in the rush. My weight belt was loose. Nerves high, water cloudy — 40 to 50 metres of darkness underneath me, 80 metres of surface swim to where I needed to be.

Without the hood I could hear clearly.

Dolphins, calling. Somewhere below.

As my eyes adjusted I saw shapes moving. Something flashing with colour. I took a breath and dove.

Long tubular jellyfish moved through the column — surging with light, electricity running along their edges. Surfacing again, I noticed the glitter. At first I thought it was bubbles. Then I understood: fish scales catching the sunlight from the feeding frenzy below.

Fish. Dolphins. Birds. Jellyfish. All moving through a sea of light.

I stopped looking through the viewfinder.

Just breathing and diving. Breathing and clicking. Hoping something would find its way into the frame.

Then the water became still.

I adjusted my settings. The cloudiness let the sunlight cast rays through the surface — bands of light extending into the darkness below, giving depth to what I couldn't fully see.

I floated. Cork on water. Sea of glitter going quiet around me.

I thought it was over.

I was looking back for the boat when I heard it.

A rush of air and water, directly behind me. I froze.

Out of the darkness, a shape came up — metres from the surface, rolling slowly onto its side as it passed below me. I pulled my fins up.

I looked directly into its eye.

It knew I was there.

It gave me just enough room.

I have been in the ocean my whole life. Salt water since I could walk. I have dived in cold water, in low light, alone, in the dark.

I have never felt as small as I did in that moment.

Reduced from observer to observed. A speck of glitter in water that something far older and larger moved through with complete ease.

From watching a sea of glitter to becoming part of it.

It passed. The water closed back around me.

I floated.

Some experiences resist being turned into photographs.

This was one of them.

What I carry from it has nothing to do with the images.