PHOTO PRO
Behind The Lens: Mobula Rays are Diamonds in the Sky – Photos and text by Amos Nachoum, Big Animals Global Expeditions
In the bright summer waters off Baja, the mobula rays gather in ex- traordinary numbers. Hundreds – sometimes thousands – swim to- gether near the sunlit surface, their dark wings rising and falling in quiet rhythm. Seen from below, they scat- ter across the bright water like a constellation – stars pressed into the sea, each ray catching the sunlight as it moves. The longer I spent with them, the more they resembled a sky in motion – a field of stars, but here the light was alive. The rays shifted and glimmered, drifting together, each one shining for a moment before another passed into its place. At first, I approached as most divers would. I swam toward
bubbles rose through the water and startled the rays. They scattered instantly, just as they had before. Even from below, even at a distance, they remained exquisitely sensitive. I spent the next two days adjusting. I rehearsed holding my breath longer and learned to move with even greater care. I slipped into the water slowly, feeling the weight settle against my shoulders, the water cool against my face, the light press- ing down from above. The sound underwater is thin and dis- tant – just the soft hum of the sea, my own heartbeat, the faint clicking of other life somewhere out of sight. I descended gently, turned onto my back, and began to wait. The cold crept in as the minutes passed. My arms and legs tingled with the steady pressure of the water, but I stayed still, watching the surface, my body relaxed, my focus pinned to the sun overhead. I practiced waiting long enough for the rays Each dive was a quiet re- hearsal, a small refinement in breath, distance, or tim- ing. The longer I stayed, the more I could feel the rhythm of the school – the slow, steady pace of their movement, the soft flicker of sunlight as their wings passed between me and the surface. And then, it came together: On one dive, the school passed overhead with perfect spacing, perfect timing. The rays crossed the sun in staggered layers, their dark wings etched cleanly against the white water. The light flickered as their bodies briefly blocked the sun, one after another, like shutters passing in slow motion. For a few seconds, the surface was filled with their shapes – a sky of moving diamonds, gliding silently above me. The rays didn’t scatter. They didn’t change course. I had fi- nally learned how to be there without disturbing them. to drift into the right posi- tion, carefully holding the last of my breath until the moment they crossed the sun, briefly eclipsing its light.
the school from above, aiming to get close. But each time I descended, the rays reacted instantly – diving together, vanishing into deeper water in per- fect coordination. For days, I repeated the same mistake. I collected image after image, but they all showed the same thing: rays beneath me, framed against the sandy bottom or lit by the slanting sun.
The images were fine, but they weren’t the ones I had pic- tured. I wanted to see the rays overhead, silhouetted against the midday sun – as if they were flying across the sky. I tried a new approach. I asked my skipper to position me far ahead of the school, hoping I could wait in their path. But the rays sensed me even at a distance. They turned away be- fore they ever came close. I couldn’t swim fast enough while holding my breath to meet them where I needed to be. That season ended without the image I was looking for. I thought about the problem for a year. When I returned to Baja the next season, I brought a pony scuba tank, a small harness, and a wide fisheye lens. I planned to dive deeper – well below the school’s path – and wait quietly at forty feet, looking up, ready to capture the rays as they crossed above me. On the first dive, I made a new mistake. As I exhaled, my
It wasn’t about chasing. It wasn’t about swim- ming faster. It was about learning to wait prop- erly. Nikon D850, Nikon RS 13mm lens, f- 8, 1/2000 sec. 200 ISO.
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