In 1999, I was offered the opportunity to work in Rarotonga in the Cook Islands, a remote island as part of a cluster of small islands in the South Pacific, nine hours flying from New Zealand. As a passionate marine biologist, the chance to study the reefs of the Cook Islands was a dream come true. Little did I know, this journey would be marked by a near-death experience that would forever change my perspective on life and the ocean's power.
I was part of a project with Dr Darren Whitehead from the University of Otago, New Zealand. We were tasked with using GIS (Geographical Information Systems) to plot and document the reefs around Rarotonga. The goal was to inventory species of coral, sea cucumbers, and other marine flora and fauna to help manage fisheries. The Cook Islands are home to 136 species of coral, over 600 species of fish, and 21 species of cetacean (whales and dolphins). It is also home to three threatened species of sea turtles, as well as some tuna species. The now larger marine park called Marae Moana is also home to five species of reef sharks and eleven pelagic shark species.
Our work was crucial in supporting islanders who practiced sustainable harvesting from marine protected areas (MPAs) every few years. These MPAs allowed species to thrive and for populations to overspill into surrounding waters, a vital process for maintaining the island's marine biodiversity and supporting fisheries and livelihoods. Our days were spent meticulously recording the health and diversity of the coral reefs. During low tide, we observed vibrant reef fish, octopuses, lionfish, small cat sharks, and other fascinating marine life trapped in tidal pools.
As the months went on, I built relationships with local spearfishermen, being eager to learn their techniques and perhaps encounter sharks at night in the deep Pacific Ocean. One night, I joined a group of spearfishermen beyond the reef. The moonlight reflected on the dark Pacific waters, creating an otherworldly, yet serene atmosphere. Despite my confidence as a swimmer, snorkeler, and diver, I had no idea how perilous the night would become. As we ventured further, the waves grew larger, reaching heights of 6 to 20 feet. The spearfishermen advised me to dive beneath the waves to avoid their powerful force going beyond the surf zone in deeper water.
When diving with the spearfishermen I noticed a pencil sea urchin and wanted a photo of it. I dived down, settled myself, thought I had got the right angle and began taking photos. Little did I know these photos would nearly cost me my life. While entranced by the beauty of a pencil sea urchin, I lingered too long underwater. Surfacing for air, I realised I had drifted dangerously close to the reef and was in the surf zone — not where you want to be.
"Panic set in as I struggled to determine which way was up. My survival instincts kicked in — I knew if the torch was sinking, I had to move in the opposite direction."
As I broke the water's surface, within nanoseconds a massive wave crashed over me, pushing me down five to six feet further underwater again with no chance for air. Disoriented and desperate for air, I watched my torchlight fade into the depths having dropped it in the impact of the waves, and I was surrounded by a chaotic mass of bubbles, white noise and darkness. Panic set in as I struggled to determine which way was up. My survival instincts kicked in — I knew if the torch was sinking, I had to move in the opposite direction.
I summoned every ounce of strength and propelled myself upward, my body scraping against sharp surrounding sub-massive corals. I reached the surface, gasping for air, my lungs on fire — only to be pummelled by another wave. This time, I could hear the roar of the waves and the crash of water above me. Miraculously, I surfaced again and managed to clamber onto the reef, utterly exhausted, with the waves having pushed me towards the barrier reef shallows. I sat on the reef, waves gently lapping against my body, gasping for air, trying not to hyperventilate and overwhelmed by the sheer will to survive.
Ahead lay a 200 to 300-metre trek across the treacherous reef to the beach. Every step was perilous, the darkness hiding the dangers beneath. Finally reaching the shore, I collapsed, utterly spent. A kind local family helped me get home, where I lived in a converted single-decker bus. That night, I lay awake, fearful of secondary drowning — a condition where ingested water could cause the lungs to fill slowly and result in drowning during sleep.
The next morning, still traumatised but driven by duty, I returned to the reef work with Darren, concealing my ordeal. Despite my fear, I pushed through, driven by my passion for marine ecology and had to get over my new fear of water — not too normal for a marine biologist! In the aftermath, I had numerous deep cuts and bruises, requiring medical treatment. Darren noticed these and took me to the hospital, where I was prescribed large antibiotics. Days later, while taking my medication at Darren's house, he asked about the pills. To my embarrassment, he revealed they were suppositories, not oral tablets, and my difficulty in taking them orally was due to their wrong application! We both laughed, finding humour in the absurdity of the situation.
This harrowing experience taught me invaluable lessons about the ocean's power and the importance of respect for its majesty. The Pacific Ocean, with its isolated islands and vibrant coral reefs, is both a source of life and a force of nature to be reckoned with. Even now, 25 years later, the memory of that night remains vivid. I am grateful to have survived and continue to respect the ocean for both its beauty and its peril.
What this encounter taught me
This harrowing experience taught me invaluable lessons about the ocean's power and the importance of respect for its majesty. Even now, 25 years later, the memory of that night remains vivid. I am grateful to have survived.
