During the summer of 2022, Central California and the West coast of the United States had experienced its typical weather, which feels akin to the fiery depths of hell on one of those record-breaking 45°C, breezeless days in some areas like California’s capital city, Sacramento. The news covered extreme heat warnings and ocean water temperatures in Southern California rose well above a refreshing level. The negative implications of global climate change were particularly apparent that summer, and I began to worry that there were species of plants and animals that have already or will go extinct during my lifetime. I’ve spent months traversing remote terrestrial regions of Honduras. I am familiar with the hidden beauty of the cloud forests of Costa Rica as well as the desolate views of large swaths of razed trees on bare mountain sides of Panama. But I had never seen a marine reef ecosystem from depths more than 3-4 metres while snorkelling off the coasts of these tropical countries. Earth’s ecosystems are changing, rather, declining in biodiversity and overall health. The average global ocean temperature has increased by about 0.14°C per decade over the past 10 years. The heat of the summer in 2022 created an urgency in me to explore marine diversity and ecosystems at more profound depths, before it’s too late.

As a terrestrial biologist, I learned to scuba dive in the Caribbean Sea, not just as an explorer but to personally bear witness to the urgent plight of marine ecosystems. Guided by an expert diver with over 20 years of experience, we embarked on an odyssey to evaluate our local Caribbean Sea and compare it to the Celebes Sea, which is currently known for its rich marine biodiversity and stunning coral reefs. We discovered distinct environmental challenges and diverging forms of deterioration each of these seas endure. We discovered that both seas suffer from a unique set of environmental stressors, resulting in different types of degradation. Our findings, however, unveiled a stark commonality – while both regions grapple with a unique array of environmental stressors, governments in both regions are failing in their regulatory duties. It quickly became clear that the scope of restoration efforts by individuals and NGOs is limited. The onus falls on governments to enact stringent regulations addressing marine pollution and overfishing. It is imperative for individuals to collectively exert our influence by electing officials and influencing policies. Our responsibility lies in exposing politicians’ financial dealings, utilising social media effectively, and employing every means necessary to ensure our voices are heard.

We arrived in the lush landscape of Tulum, Mexico. My adventure observing and documenting corals began with a discovery scuba dive tour. My friend had wanted to share with me the mesmerising beauty that exists under the water’s surface. With a tank full of air, I jumped into the first dive site on my list, a freshwater cenote. I was excited to submerge, and I gladly let the cold water enter my wetsuit. Yet, as we descended into the depths, leaving the other tourists’ legs kicking above, I was immediately confronted by a haunting sight – the cenote appeared devoid of life. I was confused. Wasn’t it supposed to be full of fish and plants? Instead, a powdery haze of particulate matter veiled the probably, once-pristine water. A solitary, fragile semblance of life clung to existence – a single plant, covered in algae, the sole testament to vitality in this aquatic desolation. The guide relentlessly searched for marine life to show us. It was a desperate attempt to find a flicker of existence. He had done this before. His determination was evident, an endeavour to justify our journey beneath the surface. Despite his unwavering positivity, it was apparent that he too wrestled with the arid emptiness that surrounded us. In this still beautiful, nearly lifeless pool, the vitality of the tourists who converged on this cenote served as a stark contrast. The cenote wasn’t completely devoid, however.

Our guide showed us to a juvenile crocodile that sat at the quiet end of the cenote, and a small flounder laying in the sand. There were some fish that wandered around, none memorable. The cenote teemed with human visitors, their enthusiasm undeterred by the underwater wasteland they were unwittingly exploring. I had seen enough, I came to the Caribbean sea to witness the dense and colorful ecosystems of the documentaries, not an empty pool of water. We left the cenote and ventured into the ocean by boat. My friend was so excited to show me the magical underwater city he floated through over 20 years ago. As my eyes adjusted to the submarine surroundings, I noticed through the clear water, the light sandy bottom and a few purple gorgonians that struggled beneath the weight of encroaching algae, a poignant metaphor for the plight of aquatic organisms. We both expected a spectacle of vibrant coral reefs and their kaleidoscope of inhabitants. But instead encountered a barren seascape that looked more like a desert or the Martian terrain – life, scarce and sporadic.

My heart ached as I realised the striking documentary-style encounter I had hoped for was an echo of the past. The reality before me was an abyss of solitude, a profound emptiness. We returned to Tulum where signs of burgeoning development marred the once-wild jungle. Unfinished concrete structures loomed, juxtaposed against completed high-rise condos, and the population swelled to unsustainable levels, walking amongst discarded glass and plastic bottles lining the streets. Tulum’s growth and humanity’s ever-encroaching presence hinted at a disconcerting hypothesis – that perhaps the burgeoning construction, waste, and human activity bore responsibility for the failing reefs, unnoticed and uncared for. I imagined that my dive into Tulum’s aquatic core mirrored the broader narrative of our times – a tale of wondrous beauty and profound loss, where preservation of these fragile ecosystems becomes an urgent and shared responsibility, lest the irreplaceable be lost forever.

The increase in tourism and development often leads to overcrowding, which can put added pressure on the marine environment. Boat traffic, in particular, can damage corals through anchor drops and physical contact. Urban development can lead to increased nutrient runoff, particularly from sewage and agricultural runoff. Excess nutrients like nitrogen and phosphorus can cause algal blooms, which can smother corals and disrupt the balance of the ecosystem. Land clearing, excavation, and construction are known to runoff into nearby water bodies leading to increased sediment. Sedimentation can smother coral reefs by reducing light penetration and clogging the coral’s feeding mechanisms. Construction sites use concrete, paints, solvents, and fertilisers that are washed into waterways when it rains, eventually reaching the ocean. These chemicals can be toxic to marine life, including corals. Improper disposal of construction waste and household trash can result in plastics and other debris entering the ocean. This debris can physically damage coral reefs and harm marine life.

The irony here is that tourists flock to Tulum and other wild vacation spots around the world to enjoy nature at the very expense of nature itself. Tulum is not the wild, bohemian town that people used to travel long distances to enjoy. The town has expanded to a suburb of condos and restaurants that cater to large numbers of people all year. At some point we as tourists and locals have to ask ourselves if the cost of destroying the associated marine ecosystem is worth the cost of vacationing on a white sand beach. The Yucatan peninsula is known for its intricate network of underground rivers and stunning cenotes. Yet these attractions have been replaced with artificial ‘adventure parks’, transforming the once-primary allure of the region into a diluted imitation of its pristine natural environment.

I spent the following summer in Puerto Rico. As the days of snorkelling at sites on the Northern and Western sides of the island unfolded, my encounters beneath the surface became witness to a nuanced reality. The shallow waters unveiled its inhabitants, hidden sea urchins, the elegant needlefish, and a profusion of yellow and blue, or pink and green reef fish. Yet, a subtle disquiet stirred within my biologist’s brain. The lifeless skeletons of coral, both bleached and bereft of vitality, marred the underwater shoreline. Algae, uninvited and omnipresent, swathed the ocean floor, while errant refuse floated in the swaying sea grass. I wandered along the ocean floor, and the notion of diversity reverberated, but mostly I saw redundancy, a few strong surviving species of urchins, rockfish, and the most resilient reef fish species. I felt the stark scarcity, not the marine abundance I naively expected again, after leaving Mexico.

I advanced to scuba diving and through the cloudy water and algae covered seagrass, I was greeted by the tranquil grace of a green sea turtle, cautious squid, and a skittish stingray. Curious remoras and a few captivating reef denizens flitted through my field of vision. A plump, amethyst sea cucumber added its own unique charm to the underwater death march. Still, the waterworld, while more inviting than my earlier snorkelling adventures, bore the weight of destruction. I knew that change was elusive, and the road to recovery might be a dead end. Steel structures, artificial reefs emerged in front of me, marked by the collective human endeavour to breathe life back into the coral world. An attempt to restore the corals and reef fish that had been lost, an emblem of resilience among adversity. The structures were placed at one of the dive sites in an attempt to grow new corals after the older corals had died off.

Coral reef restoration or ‘coral gardening’ using man-made structures placed underwater encourages the growth of coral reefs and provides habitat for marine life. Structures are made of materials like concrete, steel, or PVC, and are placed in degraded or damaged coral reef areas with the intention of creating a suitable substrate for coral attachment and growth. Coral restoration efforts can involve transplanting coral fragments onto these structures or allowing natural recruitment of coral larvae to colonise them. The goal is to rehabilitate damaged or threatened coral reefs, enhance biodiversity, and improve the overall health of marine ecosystems, and to attract dive tourism while the waters are being polluted by the influx of tourism. Kind of a mitigation strategy. Although this conservation approach doesn’t replace natural reef systems, it is an essential practice given the ongoing destruction that coral reefs face due to climate change, pollution, and habitat destruction.

The Caribbean sea has experienced mass coral die-off events due to warming waters, disease, and pollution. Climate change has been causing rising sea temperatures and has had a devastating impact on coral reefs worldwide because elevated water temperatures cause coral bleaching. Corals have a symbiotic relationship with zooxanthellae algae, which are the source of their nutrients and vivid colours. When corals are stressed by higher temperatures, they expel these algae, leading to coral bleaching. Coral diseases have also become a significant threat to Caribbean coral reefs. These diseases, caused by bacteria or other pathogens, lead to rapid coral mortality, and increased stress from warming waters can make corals more vulnerable to infections. Corals in the Caribbean are susceptible to white band disease, black band disease, and stony coral tissue loss disease which have all caused extensive coral die-offs.

Other factors contributing to declining coral health in the Caribbean include pollution and runoff, overfishing, coastal development, ocean acidification. Not to mention the Deepwater Horizon oil spill, which occurred in 2010 in the Gulf of Mexico, had devastating effects on coral reefs. The oil and chemical dispersants released during the spill had toxic effects on coral colonies, leading to coral tissue damage, decreased growth rates, and increased susceptibility to diseases. The spill had far-reaching consequences that significantly impacted the health of coral ecosystems in the Gulf. A decade and more prior, my friend told me, diving off the coast of the Yucatan Peninsula in Cancun and Playa Del Carmen, cities a few kilometres North of the burgeoning Tulum was awesome. So was Puerto Rico, he described it as a jewel among global diving destinations, but a deluge of human activity and development testified to the ailing state of these once-pristine waters. My gross estimate of reef death was a staggering 90% at some hyper-touristy dive and snorkel sites, according to observable factors such as presence of coral skeletons, algae overgrowth, and lack of vertebrate diversity. I was again shocked, but my friend had witnessed the slow decline long before I had been swimming around the coasts, and he wasn’t surprised. We asked ourselves, are there healthy reefs left? If so, where are they?

The Great Barrier Reef has lost approximately 50% of its coral cover over the past few decades due to coral bleaching caused by rising sea temperatures, so I was not confident that Australia still had healthy reefs to observe. The great barrier reef is also experiencing unusually high algae growth on corals, a coral-algal phase shift related to coral reef degradation. When certain species of macroalgae, overgrow coral reefs, they can outcompete and smother the coral polyps shifting the balance from a healthy coral-dominated ecosystem to an algae-dominated one, ultimately killing the coral. The ‘coral triangle’ however, is an area where nature’s abundance was said to still thrive, according to the internet. Semporna, Malaysia, nestled in the state of Sabah, the North Eastern edge of Borneo, seemed most appropriate for viewing any trace of healthy reef. The Coral Triangle is a vast marine region in Southeast Asia and the Pacific, known as the ‘Amazon of the Seas” due to its extraordinary biodiversity. The part of the Coral Triangle that touches Borneo encompasses the coastal waters of the island and is renowned for its rich and diverse coral reefs, making it a hotspot for marine life.  

We investigated waters around the world in our shared determination to seek solace in living reefs. Sipadan Island, off the eastern fringe of Borneo, showed promises of abundant populations of unique reef fish, sharks, and rays. We packed our backpacks, not forgetting our masks and snorkels and fled for Borneo, where vibrant corals and slow swimming giants were said to still exist. We made the Trek from Puerto Rico through New York, a layover in Abu Dhabi, another in Kuala Lumpur, resting shortly in Kota Kinabalu, before our next flight across the island to the Tawau airport, and finally driving an hour through palm monoculture to Semporna where the last ‘best’ diving on Earth was said to be.   

The morning after arriving in Semporna, an old fishing town, a lady working at the dive shop told me about her experience of witnessing changes over the last ten years or so. She gave me her rendition of what happened with the reefs at Mabul and Sipadan islands. Mabul, once renowned for its vibrant ‘micros’ and ‘macros’, abundant with colourful nudibranchs and reef sharks, is currently experiencing a dreadful decline. But first, Sipadan was in decline. In the wake of burgeoning tourism and the proliferation of water bungalow resorts on Sipadan, the reefs there began to fade. The reefs were in decline due to development, but in 2000 a shocking situation transpired. Filipino criminals abducted 21 tourists and resort workers who were taken hostage from Sipadan Island, holding them captive and demanding a $3 million ransom, leading to a sharp decline in tourism and eventual government intervention to close the resort in 2004 and restrict any access to advanced divers only. Once development was stopped in Sipadan, bungalow tourism moved to Mabul island.

Steps are currently being taken to preserve the natural environment for sustained tourism and Sipadan island is now officially closed for business during the month of November each year to allow for rest and rebalance of the reefs. Officials are trying to close the island for a second month during the spring of each year too, reducing the total number of tourism months to ten per year. Unfortunately, the restoration and tourism regulation that is saving Sipadan has relocated the stress of development to Mabul, where the once healthy reefs are now suffering tourism’s impact. Meanwhile, the resorts on Mabul, the island closer to the mainland, grew in size and demand, creating a direct negative correlation between tourism and reef health.

We dove at three sites around Mabul and Kapalai islands. One site was completely dead, but for the artificial reefs. The artificial reefs brought some corals and animals like pipefish and nudibranchs, but visibility was low due to waste particulates, comparable to Puerto Rico. The Kapalai island site was thriving with diversity of life. Our dive guide, a 26 year old man who had been diving for seven years, and chain smoked, told us that the artificial reefs at this site were constructed over ten years ago. The structures attracted frogfish, resting sea turtles, tiny squid, and a myriad of brilliantly coloured feather stars waving back and forth forming a false garden of Eden. Feather stars, also known as Crinoids, are the most ancient group of echinoderms, these animals have a small body at the base with five arms that fork, forming what looks like luscious, healthy plants. And somehow through 16-20 metres below the surface where other organisms’ bright colours are muted, these shine bright in their fluorescent yellows, reds and greens. Echinoderms were the main characters of the artificial reefs, with brittle stars, chocolate chip sea stars, and granular (chonky) sea stars stealing the show. A sunken ship site brought some coral growth, along with hiding octopi and tiny seahorses. The ship attracted huge groupers and schools of silvery jackfish. Visibility remained relatively low due to the particulate. The reefs were clearly losing the battle against human traffic, but humans were also helping the reefs to stay in existence by constructing artificial reefs for tourism’s sake.

With his advanced diver license, my friend dove at two sites off Sipadan island. He compared his past and present dives recounting how rich in color, but poor in fishes Egypt’s Red Sea was in 2022, a stark contrast to the vivid, chaotic underwater city that was Sipadan. His memories of the South Pacific’s Marshall Islands in 2001 were full of sharks, reef fish, and colossal clams and oysters. Sipadan, however, transcended them all, an abundance of reef fish unmatched in density. His narrative carried a profound message – that ecosystems, when left undisturbed, possess the remarkable ability to rebound with unbridled vigour, something I would hear again and again. Sharks glimpsed from afar, giant schools of batfish, and thriving corals painted a portrait of hope. What he told me about Sipadan left an indelible mark, this time, a testament to the resilience of nature.

I planned our next dive meticulously, in response to seeing the consequences of development and tourism from our initial dive, and from what I had learned from the woman at the first dive centre. A 45-minute motorboat ride away from the mainland brought us to a small, remote island Mataking, and the nearby site Timba-Timba. Here, we sought the elusive promise of pristine reefs, clear water and unclouded visions. There was some tourism there, a stilt bungalow development, but much less than Semporna and Mabul, and it showed in the health of the corals. The natural coral reefs were clean, colourful and full of large animals. 

My final dive in Borneo would be from Selakan island, a government wildlife refuge that required specific permitting to dive there. Although it’s not extremely far from other islands or stilt bungalows in the area, Selakan Island is not a widely known tourist destination, and like many islands in Southeast Asia, it is the home of indigenous communities often referred to as ‘sea nomads’. These communities are known for their traditional, maritime-based lifestyles and are found in various coastal and island regions throughout the region. Many sea nomads live on boats, but others build their homes on stilts above the water, not having access to owning or renting land. A portion of Selakan island was purchased from the natives through a business deal that allowed the new owner to build a humble stilt bungalow with nine rooms. Some of the natives are now employed by the bungalow resort as cooks and cleaners. It rained on the day a transport boat picked us up from mainland Semporna and brought us 30 minutes North East to the remote island. We arrived as the only guests that day, spooking the flying fish that skipped on top of the water to escape our boat as it docked. Our tiny room over the water had a ladder that allowed me to climb down from the balcony into the seaweed village below. I immediately investigated the water around the bungalows by snorkelling.

Trash from the mainland drifted continuously towards the island, and my view was tainted by floating bottles, bags and other single-use waste, all eventually coming to rest along the shoreline. But life below the surface persisted and was abundant. Snorkelling day after day exposed small Areolate groupers (or similar species), a green eel, round tangs, oysters, snails, various reef fishes, gobies, blennies, seaweed, sea grasses, and large flat corals. Each morning hundreds of tiny, transparent ctenophores floated gracefully beneath the bungalow. High tide revealed an impressive underwater world teeming with clams, fish, and miniature lobsters diligently tending to their tiny burrows.

Diving off Selakan Island, I was immersed in a dense thicket of soft corals, hard corals, bubble corals, brain corals, and every kind of coral imaginable, along with the ubiquitous crinoids. The terrain sloped down, and the corals adorned the hillside. Reef fish were present but not in the impressive abundance of Sipadan or Mataking. Selakan is renowned among locals for its stunning micros, and micros we found. My local guide, Nathan, a chain smoking young man in his 20’s, explained that an abundance of worms was a good indicator of healthy reefs. He mentioned his reluctance for night diving due to worms being attracted to the flashlights, swarming hands with their curious antics. I carefully looked out for these underwater sentinels, and indeed, worms were there. A gracefully flying Persian rug flatworm caught my eye, and I mistook a long, purple and white whiteline sea cucumber for a worm, given its uncanny resemblance.

Amidst this thriving ecosystem, a gargantuan moray eel peeked out from a coral hideaway. The reef boasted such vitality that even a family of pygmy seahorses had taken residence within a single sea fan, holding on tightly with their miniature tails. Large, gummy nudibranchs were all over the landscape, including several ‘holy grail’ species in the Phyllodesmium genus, characterised by their large, frilly branched gill appendages. While Nathan and I retrieved a couple of plastic bags from the sea floor, remnants of the many drifting above, the ocean floor and hillside, for the most part, remained pristine and teeming with life. We surfaced on the boat and Nathan had fat white worms suctioned to his wetsuit, again evidence of how healthy the reef was. He carefully flicked them back into the water.

The dense healthy corals I encountered here were apparently there because fish bombing has been outlawed and is heavily prevented by law authorities. At least, that is what Nathan told me. Fish bombing is a highly destructive fishing method that has had a significant impact on Malaysia’s marine ecosystems. Fish bombing involves the use of homemade bombs or dynamite that are detonated underwater. The explosion stuns or kills fish, making them easy to collect, but it also destroys coral reefs and marine habitats. The practice causes extensive damage to coral reefs, which are critical breeding grounds and shelters for fish and invertebrates. The use of explosives for fishing was officially banned in Malaysia through the Fisheries (Prohibited Fishing Gear and Methods) Regulations in 1985. This ban marked a significant step toward curbing fish bombing. To prevent illegal fish bombing, authorities have implemented surveillance and patrols in vulnerable areas. New technologies such as underwater sensors, when triggered, send an alert and dispatch a boat to the area. However, according to Nathan, people continue to bomb and get away with it today.

I hiked the circumference of the island, and just outside of our solar-powered bungalow oasis was a stilt shanty town where natives live. In the forest, I came across a site where there were signs that people had stayed there; food canisters, trash, and some tattered clothing left behind. But what startled me were the giant clam shells, each measuring about ⅔ of a meter in diameter. Surprisingly, we hadn’t encountered these colossal clams at any of the diving sites. While there were plenty of small and medium-sized clams with beautifully coloured interiors in shades of purple, blue, and green with yellow speckles, these enormous clams were conspicuously absent. It dawned on me that the reason for their absence was likely due to native people harvesting and depleting their numbers.

Recalling a few days earlier when we were sitting on our boat during a surface interval at Mabul Island, local families paddled their small canoes toward us, attempting to sell their catches. An elderly man had two magnificently coloured lobsters and a pile of crabs, each displaying colors of the entire visible light spectrum in their shells—speckled and iridescent. These crustaceans were slowly succumbing, barely clinging to life long enough to become someone’s dinner. Children offered tiny clams they had gathered that morning along with smaller marine creatures kept in water bottles. They weren’t just fishing for sustenance; they were fishing to sell their own food source to tourists.

By the time I left Selakan Island, I understood the challenges facing the reefs in the Semporna area. Overfishing was just one of these challenges, and it wasn’t the fault of the natives or the tourists specifically. The insatiable human appetite for animal products transcends cultures. It isn’t reasonable to expect tourists to self-regulate their fish consumption, as they often lack information on sustainable levels. This responsibility falls on the government’s shoulders. The problem of excessive animal consumption extends beyond natives, tourists, and people worldwide. It’s as if some believe animals are an unlimited resource, a notion that has led to restaurants in Semporna filled with tourists devouring massive platters of crustaceans, fish, and mollusks each night, driven by affordability and apparent abundance, often with plates full of uneaten portions being left to waste.

The effectiveness of the fishing bans implemented by the government for both native and other fishermen can vary and depends on factors like enforcement, local community engagement, and ecological data. To determine their success, it’s essential to assess fish population recovery, coral reef restoration, and overall marine ecosystem health. Effective enforcement mechanisms, such as patrols and penalties for violators can ensure compliance. Success also hinges on the cooperation and understanding of local communities and stakeholders. A comprehensive evaluation of these factors is necessary to gauge whether the bans are working as intended.

Most of the tourists are affluent foreigners, while the inhabitants of the Selakan Island stilt shanty town and Semporna live in poverty. I watched a little girl with messy black hair playing on the volcanic rocky beach, her pretend kitchen set crafted from single-use plastic water bottles, cups, cans, and forks. She filled her plastic cupcake tray with rocks while her brothers (or cousins, or neighbours) splashed in the water behind her, naked. The plastic waste that the staff at our bungalow diligently cleaned also accumulated around the shantytown, but with no means to address it, it amassed on the shoreline, possibly for years or even decades. What could they do with it? It wasn’t their trash, and they lacked the resources to dispose of it. So, it remains, posing a dilemma of responsibility and duration. At this point, it has become obvious that the decline in coral reef health extends beyond the development of tourist bungalows. While these establishments had incentives to maintain their properties, the overarching problem lay in the absence of government regulations concerning plastic use and disposal. There is a dearth of infrastructure and education regarding single-use plastics, unlike more affluent countries. The root problem wasn’t tourism but rather governmental negligence toward the citizens of this region. The solution is clear: implementing a ban on the sale and use of single-use plastics, imposing strict regulations on fishing, and allowing free market forces to adapt and innovate to comply with these regulations.

In 2017, Kenya introduced a strict plastic bag ban with heavy fines and prison sentences for violations, significantly reducing plastic bag litter. This move was driven by environmental concerns, as plastic bags caused pollution, drainage blockages, flooding, and harm to wildlife. Similarly, in 2018, Vanuatu banned single-use plastic bags and straws to combat plastic pollution in marine environments, using legal measures and public awareness campaigns for enforcement. These examples demonstrate the potential for other nations, like Malaysia, to address plastic pollution. Curbing excessive marine animal consumption is challenging but achievable through proper regulations, as seen in countries like Japan and the European Union. Government regulation should execute these efforts. In the region of Semporna, Malaysia, the NGO TRACC (Tropical Research and Conservation Centre) has a particular focus on restoring and preserving coral reefs damaged by destructive practices like fish bombing. TRACC conducts research on marine ecosystems, restores coral reefs, and raises awareness about the importance of these fragile environments. Their initiatives not only complement the broader global movement to combat plastic pollution but also address the specific challenges posed by destructive fishing practices, contributing to the protection and restoration of marine life. Marine NGOs around the world are fighting the good fight as well. EarthWatch Australia has undertaken substantial efforts to address the issue of coral reefs being overgrown by algae. EarthWatch volunteer divers scrape excessive algae growth off corals, thereby making a significant positive impact on the health of the Great Barrier Reef. The Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute (STRI) conducts extensive research on coral reefs in the Caribbean ocean. Their work includes studying coral health, biodiversity, and restoration techniques, collaborating with other institutions and agencies, and engaging in educational outreach to raise awareness about coral reef conservation. There are multiple facets to approaching the preservation and restoration of reef ecosystems, with organisations like TRACC, EarthWatch Australia and STRI playing different roles in conservation endeavours.

I started documenting the health conditions of these underwater ecosystems with my own eyes as a personal commitment that stemmed from a need to witness the challenges they face and the beauty they hold. As I continue this journey, I am driven by the realisation that understanding the current state of our reefs is the first step towards effective action. With each dive, I not only capture the fascinating organisms but also the stark realities of warming waters, coral bleaching, pollution, and overfishing. I plan to persist in this endeavour, for it is through observation that a path towards healing and restoration can be forged. As I’ve navigated and described the complex issues of marine conservation across diverse regions like the Caribbean and Borneo, it becomes evident that oceans and reef systems around the world are experiencing assaults that are unique depending on the type of human activity in the area, but our collective efforts are the key to a brighter future for each unique ocean. This starts with being in nature and witnessing our amazing world firsthand, not in an aquarium or zoo, but in the raw wild where we are rooted. As global citizens we must mobilise a collective voice on social media to apply pressure on governments to address plastic pollution and enact meaningful policy changes. Whether it’s through responsible diving practices, eliminating single-use plastic waste, or rejecting the consumption of marine life, each action contributes to the preservation of our fragile ecosystems. The urgency of the situation cannot be overstated.