In this volunteer blog, Research Assistant Abby Rogerson describes her memorable experience of night diving in the Bay of Ranobe, in what marked her final dive with us.

“I’m always weary of building up lasts. I need no culminating spectacle to seal an experience, and I find that reflections of my past are more often marked by seemingly trivial occurrences that elucidate a time’s importance. Perhaps this attitude is subconsciously built on a foundation of self-preservation—an indifference towards great endings ensures disappointment will not ensue.

My final dive at Reef Doctor was on a calm Friday night at Rose Garden Marine Protected Area. Rather than my interest waning as I became more acquainted with this reef—its resident species, their behaviours and habitats, the geography of the reef perimeter—I’ve become more attached. Familiarity is a settling feeling as a person uprooted from the subtle details that make one feel at home. Despite my reservations about lasts, the prospect of seeing this place in a different light is exciting, akin to visiting a beloved spot with a new companion—the draw remains unchanged, but details are amplified and refracted through a new perspective.

As we make our way offshore, I look back on the once homogenous coastline, which is now distinguished by time spent and knowledge gained. The dottings of dull green-grey trees are now Euphorbia; the faded red bungalows tucked in the dunes are remnants of the dilapidated Mangily Hotel; the dense stand of pines mark entry into Ifaty. Walks along this beach are differentiated by conversations on the phone with missed loved ones, by slow afternoons spent inspecting tide pools, by disjointed French conversations had with children met on my way.

We tie up to a buoy as the sun dips below the horizon. Flicking on our flashlights, we descend down the algae-laden anchor line. The artificial light illuminates particulates drifting in the water column, and I avert my eyes from the cloudy beams. The ensuing clarity is stark; I’m struck that a medium that exerts such resistance is as invisible as air.

Dusk seamlessly merges into dark. Fifteen feet above, I see the moon’s image stretched across the meeting of mediums and elongated into a rippling spectrum of color. With the moon’s light above and the presence of five others around me, I think about a conversation with my mom in which she said night diving must be unnerving. Although I understand the sentiment, the idea of being frightened in this moment seems irrational. To get a sense of this unnerved feeling, I let the others pass by and turn to see the darkness. My mind drifts to the possibility of being solitary in this blackness, and a pang in my stomach urges me to abandon this curiosity.

By night, short-spined urchins roam freely. Untethered from their daytime congregations, they shuffle singly across the substrate and continue their ramblings up the walls of massive coral bommies. Tiny red fish shimmy amongst their spines and reaching tentacles. Constantly I realise how little I know about the inhabitants of this ecosystem, and I wonder if these hitchhikers are parasites or partners in a welcome symbiosis. Three-spot dascyllus have also shed any semblance of shyness. By day, they nip our fingers to defend the eggs they’ve laid upon the coral nursery’s rebar as we scrape algae off its frame. Now, these small, drab grey fish do not dart away like other species as we pass by; rather, they flare their dorsal spines to the alert. Their prevalence and apathetic disposition begs me to label them the squirrels of the reef.

A circling beam ahead catches my attention. My eyes scan the matrix of tan and brown textures and catch the domed form of a cuttlefish—the first I’ve ever seen. Although they are capable of hypnotizing color displays, this one relies on a mottled appearance to keep it disguised among the rubble. A waving flap skirts its squid-like body, which allows it to hover slightly above the seafloor. I reluctantly move on, now distrustful that the broken shards of algae-encrusted coral are as they seem. My suspicion is warranted. An octopus’s bulbous head gives away its camouflage; it is not angular enough to blend into the surrounding mess of coral fragments. As we crowd around, it slithers its tentacles more tightly underneath its body. Its obvious tenseness makes me certain it will flee once free from our attention. Just as my fins pass out of its radius, it launches itself away with a swift extension of its tentacles into the safety of darkness.

Gradually, a faint crackling noise becomes loud enough to catch my attention. Typically, my breath is the only noticeable sound while diving, and it tends to fade from consciousness just as the feeling of breath does. Upon becoming conscious of sound again, I fixate on the mechanical sound of air travelling through my regulator and the purge of bubbles as I exhale. I wonder about the source of the crackling and if the others notice it as well. Although we dive together, each of us has isolated experiences defined by thoughts that cannot be shared, questions that remain unasked, and curiosities that disappear before being pointed out. Our spheres of awareness are separate and overlapping in unknown ways.

This inability to express amazement and confusion is readily relieved upon surfacing. Our hanging flashlights illuminate the water a pool blue as we bob on the surface, breaking the night’s silence with our exclamations and questions. Hypotheses for the source of the crackling are pitched, and descriptions of unknown species discussed. To me, it seems my indifference towards a memorable last dive was met with a barrage of novelty, as if to disprove that this ocean and its many ecosystems could ever cease to be novel.”

Photo credits: Abby Rogerson & Neil Davison 

Abby is one of our latest research assistant recruits from the USA. With a bachelor in environmental science, she decided to join Reef Doctor to get hands-on experience and to help her decide if she wants to pursue a master’s degree focused on the social or the scientific side of conservation. In her first instalment, she describes her journey underwater building our newest artificial reef…

“Last Tuesday, five Reef Doctor volunteers/staff and I back-rolled off the dive boat, Ray, and descended about 20 feet to the site of our next artificial reef. At that moment, it was a sandy patch of seafloor littered with limestone chunks, enormous barrel sponges, and sea urchins clustered here and there. Our objective was simple—construct rock bommies in order to create habitat for reef animals—but the preparations leading up to this point have been extensive. Think: planning with community leaders, diving to scout a suitable site, hauling 100 zebu-carts of rock to the beach, blessings to wish the project success, and finally, paddling all that limestone a ways offshore to the buoys demarking the site.

Once we all were positioned underwater with our fins off and booted feet firmly planted on the seafloor, Roberto, the Head Science Officer, signaled to us where to build the first bommie. While the others set off to retrieve the concrete piping we planned to incorporate into the bommie as habitat for large fish, I began collecting limestone. Of course, lifting any amount of weight is easier underwater, but it was almost comical to be able to lift and haul armloads of rock with ease. Soon enough, we had all assumed our roles as collectors or builders and were making progress quickly. With six people stomping about and dropping rocks, the most obvious difficulty to overcome was limited visibility—so limited that at times I could hardly see where my foot was stepping. Although this was a bit unnerving given the urchins in the area, we all managed to keep our feet spine-free. Forty-five minutes into the dive, the first bommie was nearly complete and I had breathed enough air to need to ascend.

After a quick lunch and surface interval (nap) on the boat, we swapped tanks and dropped down again. Hovering above our first finished bommie, we could already see sandperches weaving within its crevices and resting upon the limestone surfaces. We finned a few meters away, and Roberto gave us the ‘okay’ to start constructing there. During the previous dive, I had been mainly focused on keeping my balance and checking my air, as it was my first dive beyond the realm of recreational diving. However, on the second, I came to realize why the others had compared this type of diving with moonwalking. With eight kilogrammes on my weight belt, I was heavy enough to avoid floating away, but light enough to leapfrog and launch myself a couple meters. Then once I was weighted down even more with rocks, it was easiest to bound back to the site on the seafloor. With that strategy, four of us were collecting while the other two were carefully selecting and placing rocks. In order to create desirable habitats, it’s important to position the rocks in a way that creates gaps and tunnels, so that small fish and invertebrates can hide within these shelters. On the contrary, it’s even more important to build the structure sturdy enough to ensure it doesn’t topple when confronted with powerful waves.

Again, I was the first who needed to ascend, so my dive partner, Katharina, and I headed up. A few minutes later, the others finished the second bommie and joined us. With the wind blowing towards us, we made a slow journey back to ReefDoctor. In the coming weeks, we will work to complete the next eight bommies. The finished artificial reef will be named Vato Mahavelo II, after our very first artificial reef located next to the MPA Rose Garden.”

Written by RD volunteer Abby Rogerson

Photo credit: Karin Moehler