Once More Unto the Sea
Back Into the Blue After Drowning
I cradled my camera bag against my chest as the wind and rain mocked the cheap fabric of my ten-dollar shelter.
Lying in a hammock strung between two coconut trees on the northern shore of Siargao, I cursed the tarpaulin sheet flapping above my head. It was two feet too short.
The tarp had served me well on my 2,000-kilometre journey from Manila in the north of the Philippines to Mindanao in the south, but it wasn’t built for this. The typhoons that batter the eastern shores are like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
They come growling off the Pacific Ocean, apocalyptic spinning tops with the power to level towns and villages. In 2021, Typhoon Rai’s 200 kilometre per hour winds had brought Siargao to its knees.
I started laughing, imagining one of the coconuts above me dislodging and putting an end to my chaotic night. All those near-misses driving tuk-tuks through Africa, only to succumb to a coconut under the throes of gravity.
Suspended beneath these three-kilo cannonballs, I reflected on the choices that had brought me here. I only had myself to blame.
The previous night, I’d stared at the ceiling of a gloriously dry hotel room next to a sleeping Russian girl. With the droning hum of an air-conditioning unit filling the room, my eyes flicked between the four walls, and that all-too-familiar twist in my stomach returned.
It was the beginning of a knot, tied by the efficient hands of predictability…it was time to take my bum out of the butter.
When morning broke, I said my goodbyes, packed my camping gear, grabbed my speargun, and left the vegan cafes and sushi joints of General Luna behind.
I rode north, passing the sleepy stares of water buffalo wallowing in flooded rice fields, winding through jungle passes and coconut palm plantations until I reached the island’s northernmost tip.
I was greeted by the gentle rustle of palm leaves and the rhythmic pulse of waves breaking on the sand. The twist in my stomach was replaced by a flutter of excitement as I donned my freediving gear, ready to explore a submerged world just a few hundred metres offshore.
The tide was high, meaning a long swim out. My mind wandered as I snorkelled through the shallows.
It’s a full moon tonight… things are going to feel spooky. And I’m going to miss the full moon parties. Didn’t think about that. Biggest party of the month, and you’ll be sitting alone in a hammock. Great timing.
My sulking was interrupted as I glided over a marine cliff that plunged into the murky depths. The shores of the Philippines, exposed to the open ocean, have a haunting beauty. This dead reef stood as a silent testament to the Pacific’s wrath.
I let my arms go limp and focused on my breathing. The pounding of my heart, still racing from kicking through the breakers, began to slow. As my body calmed, I slipped into the meditative state that signalled it was time to start spearfishing.
Through my snorkel, I pulled in slow, steady breaths while my eyes tracked the shadowy figures darting below. I scanned for the unmistakable outline of a snapper or a grouper — my favourites among the reef fish.
Then, I let myself look out into the deep.
It wasn’t likely at this depth, but there was always a chance a monster might appear, riding the ocean currents. A pelagic torpedo of muscle and silver, slicing through the blue to remind the reef’s vibrant residents why they shouldn’t stray too far from home.
I pushed my hands down, flicked my fins toward the sky, and began my descent into the gloom.
The fish scattered as I passed… they’d encountered spear fishermen before. Filipinos are avid spear fishers, with coastal communities deeply intertwined with the sea. During my six months in the Philippines, I’d met many who proudly told me they were “Dumagat,” meaning “from the sea.”
Coming from a farming village in northern England, I was more “from the sheep” than “from the sea.” I was in for a challenge, hunting fish accustomed to dodging Dumagat spears.
At the bottom of the 15-meter drop, I flattened my body against the sand and checked in with myself. Was I feeling the urge to breathe yet?
One memory would always linger on my first dive of a spearing session: drowning in Timor-Leste.
That day, I felt as though I could hold my breath forever. The urge to breathe doesn’t come from a lack of oxygen but from rising carbon dioxide levels. On that morning off Timor’s northern coast I had hyperventilated before a dive, pushing the CO2 levels in my blood unusually low and tricking my body into silence. In this state You can hold your breath right up until a swift and silent end.
A shallow water blackout.
Your brain switches off, and you cease to be.
Six years ago, I’d blacked out during a dive and was saved by my buddy, Jasper. But out here, alone in the Pacific, there would be no second chance.
To my relief, my throat spasmed — a welcome signal that I still needed air. Mimicking an otter, I wriggled between the ruins of what must once have been a spectacular coral reef. A glance at my dive watch showed I’d been down for 80 seconds. Time to head up.
As I rose toward the surface, the unmistakable chug of a Filipino fishing boat pulsed through the water. I scanned the area before breaking the surface, inhaling deeply as I met the smiling faces of a group of young fishermen.
They shouted something to me in the local dialect before continuing on their way. In hindsight, they were probably warning me about the storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
Spearfishing is a funny old thing. The worst thing you can do is desperately try to catch a fish. The sea has a way of humbling those who think it’s simple to enter its domain and claim one of its own.
Early on, I’d fixated on opportunities like a zombie, swimming straight toward snapper and golden trevally as if I were a moth drawn to a flame. Animals don’t take kindly to being approached by the staring, dead eyes of a submerged, hairless ape wielding a pointy stick.
You have to let go of the part of you that needs the fish. It took me a few years, but eventually, the penny dropped: enjoy the freediving experience of silently exploring one of the most beautiful ecosystems on Earth. If the opportunity comes, try to take it.
I spent hours diving along a dead coral ridge, peering into the lifeless caves below. Occasionally, my entire body jolted in shock as a looming shadow swung overhead — a stark reminder that I wasn’t the biggest thing down here. It was always a turtle, but for those first few milliseconds, I saw a razor-toothed beast with bad intentions.
As the sun dipped toward the islands in the west, the underwater world grew darker, and I resigned myself to a dinner of instant noodles with a boiled egg. Still, I decided to push on for one last dive.
By then, I’d been in the sea for three hours, gradually embodying the techniques and tactics I’d picked up while living in Indonesia. Some parts of the seabed may appear lifeless, but they hold potential. I spotted a boulder with a small overhang.
I sank through the water, feeling the small pockets of air in my throat contract and squeak as the pressure increased. The coral formation was deeper than I’d anticipated, but I was calm, my steady heartbeat assuring me I could handle it.
Reef fish love the security that coral provides, and a structure like this — surrounded by sand — was a safe bet for finding life. Sure enough, as I got closer, a dotted mass of smaller fish came into view, invisible from the surface. A few of the more nervous ones darted under the overhang as I stretched out a hand to guide myself along the rock and peer beneath it.
Their startled movements attracted the attention of something far larger: a massive coral grouper.
With my face inches from the opening, it swam out with a confident swagger into the commotion.
When it spotted me, hanging upside down from the walls of its kingdom, it curved its body to face me.
I released my grip on the gnarled lump of dead coral and allowed the lead weights strapped to my waist to lower me toward the grouper’s defiant stare.
As it circled to the right, looking up, I circled to the left, looking down. The adrenaline coursing through my body signalled this was the climax of my day — success or failure.
I slowly maneuvered the point of the spear to where I thought the grouper would swim and pulled the trigger.
The serenity of the moment shattered. The smaller fish vanished into the reef, and the startled grouper shot me an aggrieved look, two meters from where I had aimed.
I watched it glide downward into the abyss and shook my head to snap out of whatever primal trance I’d just been in.
How long have I been down?
Thankfully, time moves slower in that state, and when I glanced at my watch, it told me the whole ordeal had lasted less than five seconds.
But what a five seconds.
I kicked toward the surface, trailing the silver spear behind me, and burst into the air, greeted by a sky made of pink and gold mountains so vast they made the Himalayas look like frosting on a cake.
It felt as though the last rays of light were paying homage to a kingdom of clouds in one final flourish before night. With just my head poking above the water, I wrenched off my mask and stared upward in absolute awe of the world.
It would have been nice to cook that grouper over a campfire and go to bed with a belly full of fish, but that wasn’t why I was here.
I sucked in a huge gulp of air, which pulled my body horizontal, and lay flat on the ocean’s surface, watching the dramatic spectacle above me unfold.
In ten minutes, the light would be gone. The clouds would lose their celestial hue, and I’d return to camp to boil a sad cup of noodles.
I didn’t need to think about that now.
There are times to catch food, tell stories, and knit scarves. And there are times to lie back and look at the sky.
This was why I went spearfishing today.
This piece was edited by
, an epic writer who has helped my writing immensely.