Meetings


My Graceful Giant Dream
Deborah McArthur

Some of the best memories in my life have begun with a giant flipper-footed stride off the back of a boat.

Dusk is a thin, orange sliver on the horizon. Refreshing tropical water seeps into my wetsuit. I flip on my light and scan the bottom of the dive site—mostly boulders and urchins.

I release bubbles from my vest and fall like a skydiver—belly first, knees bent with flippers over my back. I pinch my nose and blow out to clear my ears. The clicks echo in my head. I blow nose bubbles into my mask to equalize pressure as I descend.

At thirty feet I hover just above the bottom. Inhaling, I rise; exhaling, I come within inches of the bottom. I look up and watch bubbles shimmy to the surface.

Our seven-person dive team assembles under the boat, blue glow sticks on our tanks to avoid confusion with other groups. Thomas swims to my side, we “okay” one another, and we and the other blues kick toward the main stage.

We arrive at a sandy flat. Dozens of divers are waving lights—halogen, xenon, blue, yellow, and orange, bright and dim, wide and narrow beam. We position ourselves in a giant circle. In the center, blinding strobe lights set in milk crates shine toward the surface. It’s an underwater campfire; silver fish make a glittering column above the lights, resembling ashy smoke.

The red, green, and purple dive groups settle down alongside us. We all wait. The scene has the feel of a secret society meeting; we have come together to show our respect to great beings . . .

Thomas is kneeling beside me, and he gives my hand a squeeze as the first visitor appears: a great flying carpet manta ray, gliding over us. Its width is twice my height. It swims slowly, steering with subtle fin bends.

Another manta swoops into the ring over the milk carton lights, feeding on the plankton smorgasbord. It approaches us with its immense filter-feeding mouth open; both of our heads could easily fit inside.

Thomas turns to me, his smiling cheeks bulging under his mask. I give a bubble giggle and flash him the Hawaii “hang loose” super-cool sign—thumb and pinkie out, middle fingers curled to the palm. With the wrist bent down the hang loose hand looks like a manta, a coincidental realization in this time and place.

Four manta rays now cross one another’s paths in great downward swoops. The rays have distinguishing belly marks: black and grey spots, patches, and blotches on their cream-colored skin. Twenty-two different mantas have been counted coming to this location in one night. Many of them have been given names: Big Bertha, Lefty, Pancho.

The mantas do back somersaults like I used to do in the swimming pool. They arch their backs and flip 1, 2, 3 times with a constant momentum. As one flies over our heads I exhale, thinking my bubbles might pleasantly tickle its tummy. I resist the urge to reach up and stroke it.

The dusty grey eyes of the giants are small compared to their huge bodies. They don’t glance around; their look is distant. Apparently sight is not the strongest of their senses; one has bumped into a milk crate, another bonked a diver in the head.

The show continues with rays crossing over us, flipping and flying like trapeze artists. They are graceful, elegant, and humble creatures. It is an honor to be present in their company and to witness their underwater world.

Our group leader taps us on the shoulder and signals that we must head back to the boat. “Already?” I think. I’m not ready to stop watching. A half an hour has passed in what seems like minutes. We reluctantly follow.

I look over my shoulder as I kick. The milk crate spotlights get dimmer. The shapes of the gentle mantas fade out, dreamlike.



Deborah McArthur lives in Seattle, Washington. This dive took place in Hawaii.