Page 74 - AlertDiver_Winter2013

72 | WINTER 2013
Incredibly, we had stumbled across a pod of four orcas.
After some initial hesitation about getting in the water
(“Is this safe? They’re called ‘killer whales,’ right?”),
lunch was forgotten, and we scrambled to don masks,
fins and snorkels. The captain maneuvered the boat to
allow us to slip into the path of the orcas again and again, but
despite our efforts we never got close enough to the whales
to take any unforgettable images. Dolefully, we headed back
toward the ladder, only to notice a large, shiny disc lying flat
on the water’s surface. We slowly approached it, ultimately
recognizing the bizarre creature as a massive Pacific sunfish.
This was getting a little ridiculous. I sputtered to the surface,
spit out my snorkel and started yelling.
“Mola!”
Unlike the pod of orcas, the surprised mola stayed nearby
for a few precious minutes, providing all of us some prime
photo opportunities before it swam away.
Back on the boat, eight pairs of eyes carefully surveyed
the ocean for any other unusual marine life. (I had my
hopes pinned on a basking shark.) However, the hushed
concentration was loudly interrupted by someone’s stomach
growling in angry protest at the prolonged snorkeling session.
Evidently, it was now truly time for lunch. We headed home at
last, delighted with our fantastic luck.
Just Another Day in Yap?
While the events recounted above are absolutely true, that day
was admittedly quite exceptional. We’ve heard of people seeing
all manner of large marine life here, though. And remarkably,
the manta interaction described at the outset of our tale is
extremely typical of a dive day in Yap.
Yap Island is one of the best places in the world to
view manta rays, which is evidenced by the large number
of divers who travel here year after year. Mantas are
protected throughout the region, inhabiting a sanctuary that
encompasses more than 8,200 square miles. It’s no wonder
there are more than 100 unique mantas here, and new animals
are identified each year.
Yap’s thriving manta ray population is not a recent
development, but it was not always so warmly received.
Yapese fishermen were once wary of the creatures they called
“devilfish,” using tales of the fearsome animals to discourage
their children from misbehaving.
This was the prevalent mindset as recently as 1976, when
Peace Corps volunteer Bill Acker was sent to Yap for a two-
year assignment. Acker quickly became enamored of scuba
diving, noting the large, inquisitive rays that aggregated in
some of the current-swept channels. They were so common,
in fact, that Acker assumed mantas were rather an ordinary
sight everywhere. When he decided to relocate to the islands
permanently to establish Yap’s first scuba operation, Yap
Divers, he therefore downplayed the mantas to visitors. Acker
preferred to take clients to the more remote outer reefs, where
the currents were milder and the visibility was better. This
changed in 1986, when the publisher of Skin Diver Magazine,
Paul Tzimoulis, visited Yap. Tzimoulis’ trip coincided with
ghastly weather that made a visit to the outer reefs impossible.
His consolation dive (imagine that) was the now-famous Mi’L
Channel, where he found himself face-to-face with Yap’s
legendary devilfish. Shortly thereafter, the magazine classified
the site as one of the best in the world. We’re guessing the
resulting influx of manta-mad scuba divers did wonders to
improve the local reputation of the rays.
The cleaning stations located in Mi’L Channel and
Goofnuw Channel are best known for thrilling manta
interactions, but eagle rays, reef sharks, turtles and barracudas
can be spotted there, too. At first glance these sites can be a
bit of a letdown, but don’t be fooled. Divers often descend in
a brisk current and grope their way to a pile of unremarkable
rubble where they hold on for dear life. Then they wait,
staring into the blue, willing the rays to appear. And mantas
nearly always do appear, circling patiently while waiting to
be cleaned by small groups of skilled wrasses. In a single
moment, an uninspiring dive site can be transformed as divers
experience close passes by manta after manta. Photographers
may find themselves having to back up to fit the entire ray
in the frame — they approach that closely. On the rare days