Raja Ampat — Cape Kri

In a blue ocean far, far away… lies Kri Island.

Legendary in the world of scuba diving, in 2012 an expert spotted 374 species of fish in one single dive. The Raja Ampat archipelago, where the island-reef lies, is the feeder for the world’s tropical reefs.

On any given dive at Kri, there are swarms of fish floating by, feeding on the reef or hunting prey — it’s like a spaceport with the universe’s traffic passing through, stopping for chores or bounty hunting glittering prizes.

I’ll bet a lot of sci-fi is ocean-dreamt — space stations, alien planetscapes and flying galactic battalions must have found inspiration in the amazing shapes of evolution on this very planet.

Drifting mid-water, looking at the world below, a thousand futuristic spaceships flit by, depending on your day — fish, jellies, manta rays, cuttlefish, sharks…

I’m feeling Star Wars while diving Kri. A huge slope sweeps downward to the ocean floor — a megapolis of corals as far as the eye can see — towers of beige and sunset orange, whorls of deep red, violet trees, domes of green, giant lilac fans like freeze-frame exploding fireworks.

Clouds of neon damselfish flutter up and dive back in like pyrotechnic comets; long-finned, bannerfish swim by with their light-trail-yellow plumes; salvage-vessel parrotfish excavate broken coral; puttering puffers; sleek, striped wrasses … every hue, shape and color of fish seems to congregate here.

The dive guide is looking for tiny macro creatures in the coral — pygmy seahorses, antlered nudibranchs, bubble-shrimp… elusive members of a secret underworld. Eusta and I float nearby, like two large spacecraft. A cloud of purple and navy triggerfish with c-shaped tails form a holographic 3-d wallpaper around us. It’s surreally beautiful. The triggers are feeding, swimming a few inches every-which way in a hundred directions at once.

The current is picking up as we drift slowly along. An army of prehistoric-looking trevallies swims by with it — silver hunters en masse. The drift is speeding up. All the fish are now turning to point into the current, switching to autopilot to stay in one place.

The guide finally gives up his search and turns to us, signalling to anchor in the coral with reefhooks. He hands me one. I assume he’s going behind me to hand Eusta another. I hook into a rock, and hold on to the extending line; head down into the current, flippers streaming upward behind me. Tiny floating nutrients zip past my field of vision and I’m flying at light-speed in one place.

The water is getting cloudy; the push is getting stronger. Two minutes later, I turn with difficulty to see where Eusta and the guide are. They’re gone! I scan high and low as far as I can see, but they’re definitely, unmistakably gone. You’re never supposed to be alone when you dive. Did they try and get my attention? Did they get blown away? Will they realise I’m still here?

The current is picking up like a storm. Even the fish seem to be struggling against it. Fast paced drift dives are not my forte — I tell myself to be calm and wait. I can’t shoot to the surface from this depth — it’s dangerous — expanding air in your blood and lungs can do serious damage and send you to a decompression chamber in a hospital which is most likely far, far away.

I can feel panic setting in. I look up — the sun is angling through the water far above, there’s a shark silhouetted against it and dark undersides of coral line the slope above me. Everything looks ominous. I’m trying to think. The current is pushing faster and harder. By the book, I’m supposed to wait until someone comes back. I give it two minutes, but there’s no way this undertow would allow it. I let go, hoping to drift into them, hoping not to get carried out to sea. It’s like being blown over the world. I’m flying backwards with my face into the onrush, kicking strongly against the current, dodging coral behind me. Bad idea? Should I have waited longer?

I pass billowing sea fans and stands of hard coral. Shoals of fish all face in one direction, frozen in place, mesmerised by some invisible force — huge missile shaped barracudas, a shark, a grouper the size of a small bear, sweetlips with morse-code patterns. The thousands of smaller fish seem to have fled. All I can hear is my racing pulse, ragged breathing and incessant tic tic clicking of a feeding reef. I’m struggling against the current; with limited air, how long can i keep this up? The nutrient cloud obscures my vision; bubbles of breath stream behind me. My goal is to rise gradually before I get pushed too far out, but I’m being swept rapidly over the slope of this underwater hillock.

Suddenly I’m past the soulless staring armada of fish, past the edge of the cape, blowing outward and away. The seabed drops another 30 meters. I can see a beautiful coral landscape below as I zip along. I’m looking at the dive-computer on my wrist, trying to gauge whether I’ve spent enough time at a safe enough depth to rise. It’s supposed to be 3 minutes at about 5 meters. I’m close enough. I kick to the top, inflate my jacket and wave frantically. I’m out in the blue channel, being swept along. Luckily, the boat sees me. Luckily no other boat is zipping overhead. It’s the scariest dive i’ve been on, in one of the most beautiful settings I’ve seen.

-

I dive Kri with Eusta a few days later. There’s no current, the water is clear, the corals are beautiful, small fish go about their business and there are at least a dozen other divers bubbling peacefully by. My Darth Vader breathing is normal. There are no Star Wars armada-ships of fish, no star-destroyer sharks, no blizzards from Hoth, no groupers the size of Ewoks, no alien cityscapes from above, and the cloud of Y-wing triggerfish keeps a safe distance. It’s beautiful, dull and perfectly safe today.

All Ok