Where Manta Rays Gather

Over the years, I’ve been fortunate enough to experience some truly extraordinary moments in wild places.

I’ve trekked through the dense jungles of Sumatra, witnessing orangutans and gibbons in their natural world. I’ve swum alongside minke whales, whale sharks, and humpbacks across Australia and Indonesia. Watched cuttlefish dance on the Great Barrier Reef. I’ve descended into deep blue water with sharks in South Africa - equal parts fear and reverence. Ive ran alongside bulls in Pamplona.

And now, my journey has led me to Kona, on Hawaii’s Big Island - where the ocean delivers yet another reminder that no matter how much you’ve seen, there is always more waiting beneath the surface.

I came to Kona with the intention of continuing my dive career was an instructor, without fully realizing what that decision would bring.

I'd seen manta rays before - brief, beautiful encounters in Indonesia where they appeared like ghosts in the distance and disappeared just as quickly. But Kona has been different.

Here, the mantas don't pass through.

They arrive.

They Stay.

They fill the space above you, moving with an intimacy and presence that's impossible to prepare for. They circle, they linger, they dance in the light. The experience feels less like an encounter and more like an invitation - one that reshapes what you thought you knew about them.

In Kona the manta ray dive isn't about searching or chasing. There's no long swim, no hoping you're lucky enough to catch a fleeting glimpse. Instead, you descend into darkness and wait - gathered quietly around a pool of light like it's a campfire at the bottom of the ocean.

At, first there's only anticipation.

Then shadows begin to move.

A manta ray appears overhead, impossibly gentle, it's wings gliding through the light as if gravity has lost it's hold. Another follows. And Another. Soon surrounded by ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty - mantas looping, spiraling, barrel rolling above you, so close you can see the delicate marking on their bellies. So close it feels as though they might touch you, teasing the space just above your head.

You don't feel adrenaline in the usual way.

You Feel stillness.

Kneeling on the sand, looking up into the dark, it's impossible not to feel humbled. These animals aren't performing. They're feeding, moving effortlessly through a space we're only borrowing for an hour. Not interrupting - only witnessing.

When the lights fade and the mantas disappear back into the dark, the ocean feels different - softer somehow.

Some dives thrill you

Some challenge you

And some simply stay with you.

The Manta dives of Kona do the last - lingering quietly, long after you've left the water.

-The Anxious Passport