Field Notes: An Attempt at Underwater Dancing

New divers expect diving to be romantic.
Crystal clear water. No current. An inevitable manta sighting.

That’s the theory.

In reality, it’s usually current, questionable buoyancy, and if you’re lucky, a lionfish minding its own business.

It makes a “romantic” dive much to be desired.

At Deep Turbo, we dropped into open blue and descended slowly to about 27 metres.

The first 30 minutes were… fine.

A cuttlefish. Some anemone fish. An eel.

The kind of dive where someone definitely saw a turtle and it wasn’t me.

My personal highlight was not exceeding my no-deco limit and using less air than the rest of the group.

Small wins.

Just over halfway through, someone points up.

Unassumingly. As if it’s just another thing.

It was a group of batfish.

Not one. Not five.

About thirty of them, drifting in the blue.

Impressive, sure, but not yet life-changing.

We did the usual. A few photos. A respectful pause. Then started to move on.

But… they didn’t.

A few broke away and surrounded one of the divers.

Slow, curious, completely unbothered.

Circling her like they were trying to work something out - camera, fins, general existence.

She didn’t know where to look.

Which, naturally, triggered immediate FOMO.

I made the universal diver signal for “please come here” - subtle finger rubbing, mild desperation.

It worked.

Just… not for me.

They went to my buddy instead.

Still worth it.

They came within a foot, hovering, inspecting, clearly unconvinced by anything they were seeing.

Eventually, two peeled off and made their way toward me.

One passed cleanly between my legs.

The other took a very serious interest in my bright white fin.

I stayed still. Filming. Hoping this counted as a moment.

It gave the fin a quick test bite.

Decided against it.

Moved on.

Fair.

But then they came back.

And the moment changed...

I moved to the right.
They followed.

I moved to the left.
They followed.

Somewhere along the line, this turned into a slow, synchronised dance with two fish that looked like they’d been designed in a hurry.

This went on for about 15 minutes.

No rush. No chaos.

Just quiet curiosity going both ways.

Eventually, time called it.

We were pulled upwards for a safety stop, reluctantly rejoining our guide like people being asked to leave the pub early.

Below us, the batfish regrouped, drifting back into something more organised.

Above us, the boat waited - noticeably less interesting.

And that was it.

No drama. No chaos. No mild incidents.

Just a dive that quietly became better than expected.

A rare moment where everything worked.

And, briefly, I was part of a fish choreography I had absolutely no business being involved in.