The open ocean is the hardest to visit, the hardest to appreciate, and the hardest to protect. It covers 50% of our planet’s surface and holds 95% of all inhabitable space on Earth. When we consider the ocean to be out of sight and out of mind, no part of it is more hidden than the vast high seas. You may never have been there, but this part of our planet belongs to you. The ocean beyond international borders is a global common, a birthright of all 8 billion human souls. Up until today, the way the open ocean has been utilised has stood in stark contrast to that principle, with its resources serving only a small group of people and nations. We now stand on the precipice of potential change with the first-ever mandate for the protection of the open ocean through the High Seas Treaty.

For the first two decades of my life and career exploring underwater, everything took place in coastal habitats. It never occurred to me to venture out into the open seas. This part of the ocean has been described as a ‘blue desert’ and there is some merit to that title. Whilst coastal zones will typically feature high density of life within a relatively small area, the open ocean is the exact opposite: wildlife here is spread out over seemingly endless tracts of water. Far from our collective mind, it takes time, resources and expertise to find life on the open sea, but for those intrepid enough, the reward can be some of nature’s grandest spectacles, scenes which very few have ever witnessed. For the last few years, I have devoted myself to exploring that open ocean, dedicated to understanding something that had previously been an abstract concept. The pictures for this story are hard-earned, highpoint moments from months spent searching our planet’s biggest space. I hope they will persuade you that there is life in that ‘blue desert’, and that its preservation does matter.

Seabirds are blessed with the vision and stamina to find life beneath the surface of the open ocean. The birds are our allies as we scour the sea: a flock of them flying erratically, close to the water, is the sign we have been waiting for. The boat engine revs up and after hours spent on standby, I race to grab mask, fins and camera. There is no guarantee of what we will see and how long it might last, but it is essential to be ready fast. As we get closer, we see the surface is disturbed, made frothy by the sharp movements of fish below and seabirds attacking from above. “Go,” shouts the captain as he cuts the engine and I slip overboard. My heart pumps with exhilaration and effort as I swim in the direction of the action.