Myths and Mountains.

Many times, I have thought about the moment I first felt connected to – or with – the ocean. I keep coming to the same conclusion. For me, it was never a specific experience but more of an evolution; a gradual shift through which the ocean transformed from something large and scary to a thing beloved. Because the truth is, the ocean is as scary as it is beautiful. For many, it is out of reach, foreign and oftentimes quite uninviting. Unless you can breathe underwater – or at the very least hold your breath for a significant amount of time – it’s not an easy place to explore; hidden in its own immensity.

For this reason, the ocean carries with it its myths, monsters and fantasies; the kind that are referenced in old maps with images of krakens and mermaids. When you’re a child, these mysteries unfold in your imagination. It is all part of our natural curiosity and that human thirst for discovery and adventure; to chase the myths and the monsters.

But alongside this vastness there was something else that kept the ocean a mystery to me. I grew up in a poor family with less access to the beach than many others. A good two to three hours’ drive from where we lived, the ocean was something that was both expensive and far away. In my childhood, these were barriers that, made it feel extra-planetary.

Instead, my love for the ocean developed in the mountains. They were closer to us and for many years –  as a guide and a climber, building trails in the temperate rainforest – I became devoted to them. I carried out biological assessments and I worked with indigenous communities to protect the rainforest. I met the mountain and I became one with it. It became my space and my temple. And in all that endless exploration of the mountains in Chile, I gradually grew closer and closer to the ocean.

It took me first by the colour green – shades that painted the fjords of Patagonia. As I fell deeper under her spell, I felt the urge to journey deeper beneath her surface. Then I first saw her dolphins; majestic and fast-moving they evoked in me that childlike curiosity: what was it like in the world they lived in? Then came the movie ‘The Big Blue’ and quickly after that – wearing my first fins and mask – I was finally taken from the mountains and cast into the vastness of the ocean. I swam through kelp forests, among corals, and alongside the animals of the sea – untamed and closer than anything I had encountered on land. I was in it and it was in me. I have been devoted to it ever since.

Diving quickly became an obsession. I wanted to see and understand it all and then show others just how beautiful and fantastic it all is. I fell in love with the graceful movement of sharks; millennia of evolution in perfection. I witnessed the vastness of life across a coral reef, encountered the curiosity of the ocean’s gentlest giants, witnessed animals communicating with me, and felt stupid for being unable to understand such intelligent creatures. I have seen centuries’ old migrations. I have witnessed what is beneath the ice. And I have seen us – the chasm in our knowledge and understanding, our misperception of what is at stake, our trash, and our greed. I came face-to-face with my own ignorance of the wildest place on Earth. The wildest place, most likely, within the known universe.

There is so much to learn from the ocean. The way it has shaped life on this little rock. But learning what it has to share will not be possible without empathy, not just for the ocean but for all life, for those around us – plants, animals and humans. Common good, rather than personal gain, must be at the centre of it all. Everyone ultimately wants the same thing: peace, good health and a good life. It’s that simple. We still think of evolution as a competition when really it has always been about cooperation.

I have been lucky enough to meet many of the greats. Masters of their craft, like Sylvia Earl, Doug Tompkin, Sandy Tudhope, my parents, my wife, my kids and many of the planet’s wonderful animals and plants. All of them have lent me their hand, their generosity, their knowledge, their bravery, their insecurities and their fears. And thanks to all of them, I have been armed with a certainty: that all of us can – in our own ways – find our way to the ocean, whether it is near or far from us; a place of mystery or as familiar as an old friend.

There is much work to be done and there is much we need to protect. But what could be more beautiful than creating hope – for ourselves and for others – as we work to create change?