The Ocean's Dance
- Alonso Rodriguez
- Jun 23
- 4 min read
By Alonso I. Rodríguez de la Parra, explorer and documentarian
"Something as beautiful as this cannot be spoiled by the brief existence of a species like human beings, and though I want to save this place, I realize it is completely the other way around: we must care for the ocean so that it can save us. We are the ones at risk; the ocean will erase us with its waves, or it will push us to keep surfing and living surrounded by its beauty." — Alonso I. Rodríguez de la Parra, explorer and documentarian
In the distance, I watch the rays of light pierce the surface of the water and, among yellows and sky blues, travel down into the depths and lose themselves in a navy blue that then turns into a very unique blue-tinged black. Sitting on the edge of a ledge of the submerged pinnacle of Roca Partida, I'm 32 meters deep, admiring the infinite blue laid out before me, watching how, at my feet (or fins), there is a bottom that seems almost endless. It's the fourth dive of the day, and night draws closer with every passing minute. This time I'm only diving with my friend Ernesto and Nico, since we've had five days of very intense diving and the rest of the group decided to rest. I can't stop thinking that I have this rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean all to myself, because, even though I have company, underwater it's like being alone — no one can speak to you, and within your mind there's only you, free to talk to yourself without interruptions; sounds take on peculiar shapes and it's almost impossible to tell where things are coming from. Submerged, everything feels different.
And although I want to swim and search for life around this rock, I decide not to; it's rare — if ever — that one can sit and relax in the depths, watching the sunset from such a tremendous depth.
It's common to see large aggregations of whitetip sharks in this place; every so often, one or two arrive and approach with curiosity to see what I'm doing. They're used to seeing divers, so they're very confident, and their closeness sets my nerves a little on edge; I'm completely certain they won't bite me or show any hostile behavior. These animals are pure peace, residents of this pinnacle, always offering a peaceful and subtle welcome, moving gently underwater.
The minutes pass — and down here they feel much longer than a normal minute; time moves differently when you're at peace and calm, and that's what the ocean does to me. And in this beautiful wait, something happens that I will never forget, something that filled me with abundant energy and great enthusiasm to keep exploring. I began to hear the sound of a cello in the distance, a submerged cello, that grew more intense with every passing second. Suddenly, a violin appeared in another part of my auditory periphery, and another, and another. I could make out four simultaneous melodies unfolding in harmony. This was not a string quartet — it was a group of humpback whales communicating underwater. It was an indescribable concert, an Anglican choir mixed with Gregorian chants, a section of strings and brass; truly, I couldn't describe what I was hearing. But without a doubt, the best concert I've attended in my entire life. The sounds varied in long crescendos between subtle and loud dynamics, original rhythms, and even percussive patterns; persuasive, because my attention was completely on the sound, on the blue that was slowly darkening, and on the sun's rays that now shone more brightly among reds, oranges, yellows, and blues.
The needle of my air gauge dropped slowly, drawing closer and closer to my reserve; soon it would be time to surface. But the more the seconds advanced, the more the concert kept intensifying, and although the humpback whales were not in my field of vision, I knew they were near, for it was no longer only the songs I heard — I could feel the vibrations in my chest. And in sync with the universe, during one section of this concert, I felt my whole body vibrate, and from one second to the next I found myself surrounded by the most beautiful spectacle I have ever witnessed; diverse fish began to fill the space between the blue and the rays of light, hundreds of whitetip sharks swam around me, passing me on every side — behind my back, at my feet, over my head, at my flanks; I was surrounded by the pure magic of nature. A staged work that not even the best choreographer in the world could have arranged, perfection in every movement of every being that shared the space with me.
Humpback whales — Alonso I. Rodríguez de la Parra
Fortunately, in moments like these I always have my great companion with me: my photo and video camera. I was able to capture many images and clips of this moment, but the scene itself will live only in my memories. And although I wanted to capture it all, it seemed more interesting to live the moment and turn off the camera.
The moment came when my air was running out and I had to begin ascending slowly; I will always remember that seven-minute safety stop I made to make the most of those final moments. At five meters deep, I waited, looking down at the bottom and all around me, bidding farewell on the scene to this magnificent place, promising myself to do everything within me to protect the beauty of the ocean.
Something as beautiful as this cannot be spoiled by the brief existence of a species like human beings, and though I want to save this place, I realize it is completely the other way around: we must care for the ocean so that it can save us. We are the ones at risk; the ocean will erase us with its waves, or it will push us to keep surfing and living surrounded by its beauty.
— Alonso I. Rodríguez de la Parra
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