(this was forwarded to via E-mail, I do not know who the divemaster is, perhaps a board member does or can verify the story, but it is such a cool story, that I just had to share it. Mark)
This Magic Moment by Jennifer Anderson
It was like many Maui mornings, the sun rising over Haleakala as we greeted
our divers for the day's charter. As my captain and I explained the dive
procedures, I noticed the wind line moving into Molokini, a small,
crescent-shaped island that harbors a large reef. I slid through the
briefing, then prompted my divers to gear up, careful to do everything right
so the divers would feel confident with me, the dive leader.
The dive went pretty close to how I had described it: The garden eels
performed their underwater ballet, the parrot fish grazed on the coral, and
the ever-elusive male flame wrasse flared their colors to defend their
territory. Near the last level of the dive, two couples in my group signaled
they were going to ascend. As luck would have it, the remaining divers were
two European brothers, who were obviously troubled by the idea of a "woman"
dive master and had ignored me for the entire dive.
The three of us caught the current and drifted along the outside of the
reef, slowly beginning our ascent until, far below, something caught my eye.
After a few moments, I made out the white shoulder patches of a manta ray in
about one hundred and twenty feet of water.
Manta rays are one of my greatest loves, but very little is known about
them. They feed on plankton, which makes them more delicate than an aquarium
can handle. They travel the oceans and are therefore a mystery.
Mantas can be identified by the distinctive pattern on their belly, with no
two rays alike. In 1992, I had been identifying the manta rays that were
seen at Molokini and found that some were known, but many more were sighted
only once, and then gone.
So there I was... a beautiful, very large ray beneath me and my skeptical
divers behind. I reminded myself that I was still trying to win their
confidence, and a bounce to see this manta wouldn't help my case. So I
started calling through my regulator, "Hey, come up and see me!" I had tried
this before to attract the attention of whales and dolphins, who are very
chatty underwater and will come sometimes just to see what the noise is
about. My divers were just as puzzled by my actions, but continued to try to
ignore me.
There was another dive group ahead of us. The leader, who was a friend of
mine and knew me to be fairly sane, stopped to see what I was doing. I kept
calling to the ray, and when she shifted in the water column, I took that as
a sign that she was curious. So I started waving my arms, calling her up to
me.
After a minute, she lifted away from where she had been riding the current
and began to make a wide circular glide until she was closer to me. I kept
watching as she slowly moved back and forth, rising higher, until she was
directly beneath the two Europeans and me. I looked at them and was pleased
to see them smiling. Now they liked me. After all, I could call up a manta
ray!
Looking back to the ray, I realized she was much bigger than what we were
used to around Molokini - a good fifteen feet from wing tip to wing tip, and
not a familiar-looking ray. I had not seen this animal before. There was
something else odd about her. I just couldn't figure out what it was.
Once my brain clicked in and I was able to concentrate, I saw deep V-shaped
marks of her flesh missing from her backside. Other marks ran up and down
her body. At first I thought a boat had hit her. As she came closer, now
with only ten feet separating us, I realized what was wrong.
She had fishing hooks embedded in her head by her eye, with very thick
fishing line running to her tail. She had rolled with the line and was
wrapped head to tail about five or six times. The line had torn into her
body at the back, and those were the V-shaped chunks that were missing.
I felt sick and, for a moment, paralyzed. I knew wild animals in pain would
never tolerate a human to inflict more pain. But I had to do something.
Forgetting about my air, my divers and where I was, I went to the manta. I
moved very slowly and talked to her the whole time, like she was one of the
horses I had grown up with. When I touched her, her whole body quivered,
like my horse would. I put both of my hands on her, then my entire body,
talking to her the whole time. I knew that she could knock me off at any
time with one flick of her great wing.
When she had steadied, I took out the knife that I carry on my inflator hose
and lifted one of the lines. It was tight and difficult to get my finger
under, almost like a guitar string. She shook, which told me to be gentle.
It was obvious that the slightest pressure was painful.
As I cut through the first line, it pulled into her wounds. With one beat of
her mighty wings, she dumped me and bolted away. I figured that she was gone
and was amazed when she turned and came right back to me, gliding under my
body. I went to work. She seemed to know it would hurt, and somehow, she
also knew that I could help. Imagine the intelligence of that creature, to
come for help and to trust!
I cut through one line and into the next until she had all she could take of
me and would move away, only to return in a moment or two. I never chased
her. I would never chase any animal. I never grabbed her. I allowed her to
be in charge, and she always came back.
When all the lines were cut on top, on her next pass, I went under her to
pull the lines through the wounds at the back of her body. The tissue had
started to grow around them, and they were difficult to get loose. I held
myself against her body, with my hand on her lower jaw. She held as
motionless as she could. When it was all-loose, I let her go and watched her
swim in a circle. She could have gone then, and it would have all fallen
away. She came back, and I went back on top of her.
The fishing hooks were still in her. One was barely hanging on, which I
removed easily. The other was buried by her eye at least two inches past the
barb. Carefully, I began to take it out, hoping I wasn't damaging anything.
She did open and close her eye while I worked on her, and finally, it was
out. I held the hooks in one hand, while I gathered the fishing line in the
other hand, my weight on the manta.
I could have stayed there forever! I was totally oblivious to everything but
that moment. I loved this manta. I was so moved that she would allow me to
do this to her. But reality came screaming down on me. With my air running
out, I reluctantly came to my senses and pushed myself away.
At first, she stayed below me. And then, when she realized that she was
free, she came to life like I never would have imagined she could. I thought
she was sick and weak, since her mouth had been tied closed, and she hadn't
been able to feed for however long the lines had been on her. I thought
wrong! With two beats of those powerful wings, she rocketed along the wall
of Molokini and then directly out to sea!
I lost view of her and, remembering my divers, turned to look for them.
Remarkably, we hadn't traveled very far. My divers were right above me and
had witnessed the whole event, thankfully! No one would have believed me
alone. It seemed too amazing to have really happened. But as I looked at the
hooks and line in my hands and felt the torn calluses from her rough skin, I
knew that, yes, it really had happened.
I kicked in the direction of my divers, whose eyes were still wide from the
encounter, only to have them signal me to stop and turn around. Until this
moment, the whole experience had been phenomenal, but I could explain it.
Now, the moment turned magical. I turned and saw her slowly gliding toward
me. With barely an effort, she approached me and stopped, her wing just
touching my head. I looked into her round, dark eye, and she looked deeply
into me. I felt a rush of something that so overpowered me; I have yet to
find the words to describe it, except a warm and loving flow of energy from
her into me.
She stayed with me for a moment. I don't know if it was a second or an hour.
Then, as sweetly as she came back, she lifted her wing over my head and was
gone. A manta thank-you.
I hung in midwater, using the safety-stop excuse, and tried to make sense of
what I had experienced. Eventually, collecting myself, I surfaced and was
greeted by an ecstatic group of divers and a curious captain. They all gave
me time to get my heart started and to begin to breathe.
Sadly, I have not seen her since that day, and I am still looking. For the
longest time, though my wetsuit was tattered and torn, I would not change it
because I thought she wouldn't recognize me. I call to every manta I see,
and they almost always acknowledge me in some way. One day, though, it will
be her. She'll hear me and pause, remembering the giant cleaner that she
trusted to relieve her pain, and she'll come. ---At least that is how it
happens in my dreams.
This Magic Moment by Jennifer Anderson
It was like many Maui mornings, the sun rising over Haleakala as we greeted
our divers for the day's charter. As my captain and I explained the dive
procedures, I noticed the wind line moving into Molokini, a small,
crescent-shaped island that harbors a large reef. I slid through the
briefing, then prompted my divers to gear up, careful to do everything right
so the divers would feel confident with me, the dive leader.
The dive went pretty close to how I had described it: The garden eels
performed their underwater ballet, the parrot fish grazed on the coral, and
the ever-elusive male flame wrasse flared their colors to defend their
territory. Near the last level of the dive, two couples in my group signaled
they were going to ascend. As luck would have it, the remaining divers were
two European brothers, who were obviously troubled by the idea of a "woman"
dive master and had ignored me for the entire dive.
The three of us caught the current and drifted along the outside of the
reef, slowly beginning our ascent until, far below, something caught my eye.
After a few moments, I made out the white shoulder patches of a manta ray in
about one hundred and twenty feet of water.
Manta rays are one of my greatest loves, but very little is known about
them. They feed on plankton, which makes them more delicate than an aquarium
can handle. They travel the oceans and are therefore a mystery.
Mantas can be identified by the distinctive pattern on their belly, with no
two rays alike. In 1992, I had been identifying the manta rays that were
seen at Molokini and found that some were known, but many more were sighted
only once, and then gone.
So there I was... a beautiful, very large ray beneath me and my skeptical
divers behind. I reminded myself that I was still trying to win their
confidence, and a bounce to see this manta wouldn't help my case. So I
started calling through my regulator, "Hey, come up and see me!" I had tried
this before to attract the attention of whales and dolphins, who are very
chatty underwater and will come sometimes just to see what the noise is
about. My divers were just as puzzled by my actions, but continued to try to
ignore me.
There was another dive group ahead of us. The leader, who was a friend of
mine and knew me to be fairly sane, stopped to see what I was doing. I kept
calling to the ray, and when she shifted in the water column, I took that as
a sign that she was curious. So I started waving my arms, calling her up to
me.
After a minute, she lifted away from where she had been riding the current
and began to make a wide circular glide until she was closer to me. I kept
watching as she slowly moved back and forth, rising higher, until she was
directly beneath the two Europeans and me. I looked at them and was pleased
to see them smiling. Now they liked me. After all, I could call up a manta
ray!
Looking back to the ray, I realized she was much bigger than what we were
used to around Molokini - a good fifteen feet from wing tip to wing tip, and
not a familiar-looking ray. I had not seen this animal before. There was
something else odd about her. I just couldn't figure out what it was.
Once my brain clicked in and I was able to concentrate, I saw deep V-shaped
marks of her flesh missing from her backside. Other marks ran up and down
her body. At first I thought a boat had hit her. As she came closer, now
with only ten feet separating us, I realized what was wrong.
She had fishing hooks embedded in her head by her eye, with very thick
fishing line running to her tail. She had rolled with the line and was
wrapped head to tail about five or six times. The line had torn into her
body at the back, and those were the V-shaped chunks that were missing.
I felt sick and, for a moment, paralyzed. I knew wild animals in pain would
never tolerate a human to inflict more pain. But I had to do something.
Forgetting about my air, my divers and where I was, I went to the manta. I
moved very slowly and talked to her the whole time, like she was one of the
horses I had grown up with. When I touched her, her whole body quivered,
like my horse would. I put both of my hands on her, then my entire body,
talking to her the whole time. I knew that she could knock me off at any
time with one flick of her great wing.
When she had steadied, I took out the knife that I carry on my inflator hose
and lifted one of the lines. It was tight and difficult to get my finger
under, almost like a guitar string. She shook, which told me to be gentle.
It was obvious that the slightest pressure was painful.
As I cut through the first line, it pulled into her wounds. With one beat of
her mighty wings, she dumped me and bolted away. I figured that she was gone
and was amazed when she turned and came right back to me, gliding under my
body. I went to work. She seemed to know it would hurt, and somehow, she
also knew that I could help. Imagine the intelligence of that creature, to
come for help and to trust!
I cut through one line and into the next until she had all she could take of
me and would move away, only to return in a moment or two. I never chased
her. I would never chase any animal. I never grabbed her. I allowed her to
be in charge, and she always came back.
When all the lines were cut on top, on her next pass, I went under her to
pull the lines through the wounds at the back of her body. The tissue had
started to grow around them, and they were difficult to get loose. I held
myself against her body, with my hand on her lower jaw. She held as
motionless as she could. When it was all-loose, I let her go and watched her
swim in a circle. She could have gone then, and it would have all fallen
away. She came back, and I went back on top of her.
The fishing hooks were still in her. One was barely hanging on, which I
removed easily. The other was buried by her eye at least two inches past the
barb. Carefully, I began to take it out, hoping I wasn't damaging anything.
She did open and close her eye while I worked on her, and finally, it was
out. I held the hooks in one hand, while I gathered the fishing line in the
other hand, my weight on the manta.
I could have stayed there forever! I was totally oblivious to everything but
that moment. I loved this manta. I was so moved that she would allow me to
do this to her. But reality came screaming down on me. With my air running
out, I reluctantly came to my senses and pushed myself away.
At first, she stayed below me. And then, when she realized that she was
free, she came to life like I never would have imagined she could. I thought
she was sick and weak, since her mouth had been tied closed, and she hadn't
been able to feed for however long the lines had been on her. I thought
wrong! With two beats of those powerful wings, she rocketed along the wall
of Molokini and then directly out to sea!
I lost view of her and, remembering my divers, turned to look for them.
Remarkably, we hadn't traveled very far. My divers were right above me and
had witnessed the whole event, thankfully! No one would have believed me
alone. It seemed too amazing to have really happened. But as I looked at the
hooks and line in my hands and felt the torn calluses from her rough skin, I
knew that, yes, it really had happened.
I kicked in the direction of my divers, whose eyes were still wide from the
encounter, only to have them signal me to stop and turn around. Until this
moment, the whole experience had been phenomenal, but I could explain it.
Now, the moment turned magical. I turned and saw her slowly gliding toward
me. With barely an effort, she approached me and stopped, her wing just
touching my head. I looked into her round, dark eye, and she looked deeply
into me. I felt a rush of something that so overpowered me; I have yet to
find the words to describe it, except a warm and loving flow of energy from
her into me.
She stayed with me for a moment. I don't know if it was a second or an hour.
Then, as sweetly as she came back, she lifted her wing over my head and was
gone. A manta thank-you.
I hung in midwater, using the safety-stop excuse, and tried to make sense of
what I had experienced. Eventually, collecting myself, I surfaced and was
greeted by an ecstatic group of divers and a curious captain. They all gave
me time to get my heart started and to begin to breathe.
Sadly, I have not seen her since that day, and I am still looking. For the
longest time, though my wetsuit was tattered and torn, I would not change it
because I thought she wouldn't recognize me. I call to every manta I see,
and they almost always acknowledge me in some way. One day, though, it will
be her. She'll hear me and pause, remembering the giant cleaner that she
trusted to relieve her pain, and she'll come. ---At least that is how it
happens in my dreams.
