Sailfish

Moving away from the reefs and entering the vastness of the ocean waters opens the door to a different universe, where encounters can be exciting, but also costly, requiring greater physical effort and hours of searching. One of the most iconic species we had always hoped to encounter in this environment was the Atlantic sailfish, or marlin, a swift and nervous predator with whom we awaited a true duel between its agility and our camera. We took up the challenge and went to meet it. This is the story of a few days of exhausting work and fascinating experiences.

Throughout our diving careers, we'd had a few encounters with sailfish, so fleeting or so distant that we'd barely had time to snap our cameras. As expected, these unfinished business can't be forgotten, and we finally decided to organize an expedition focused on these unique animals. The information usually found on where to photograph sailfish almost always leads to Isla Mujeres, off the east coast of the Yucatán Peninsula, and usually mentions a "migration" of these fish, something that didn't quite fit with our understanding. Some contacts in Mexico and further research made two key points clear to us: 1 – Sailfish don't migrate significantly; what migrate are sardines, which, by concentrating in this area, attract sailfish along with birds and other predators between the months of January and March; and 2 – Most schools of sardines aren't found off Isla Mujeres (although we can locate some), but rather require going many miles out to sea.

With all this information, we decided to travel in February, an ideal time for whale sightings, but also for strong winds in the area. Therefore, we opted to base ourselves in the tourist town of Cancún, with its excellent nautical logistics, from where we would depart each day northeast. Other essential elements in the organization were the boat and the guide. The boat needed to have a long range (more than 150 nautical miles / 280 km) and an open cockpit, allowing for maximum comfort and speed in and out of the water. The guide, a key element in any work of this kind, had to be experienced and not only a good tracker, but also someone who perfectly understood a photographer's needs when positioning the boat. All our requirements were perfectly met by Ultima Frontera , who put their logistics and experience 100% at our service.

During the days we spent in Yucatán searching for sailfish, the weather was fairly benign, although on one day, strong winds forced the port authorities to close navigation in the area. On other days, the day began shortly after dawn and lasted seven or eight hours at sea, during which the guide focused on locating sailfish, or groups of birds flying over some kind of school of small fish on which to feed. Sometimes these sailfish turned out to be "false alarms," ​​and we could only continue searching, but on many other occasions, the unmistakable fin or leaping of the sailfish made it clear that we had a chance of finding them. The system was simple: position the boat ahead of the theoretical route the marlin were following, with the sun at our backs, and jump into the water ready to swim with all our might, since the "passage" of the sails might only last a few seconds, but if we were able to keep up with their pace, we might have more opportunities.

Despite having some 5-liter tanks with lightweight equipment, we always opted to do all the snorkeling, as it guaranteed us greater agility and speed in the water, and freediving a few meters when necessary was no problem either. Of course, long, spearfishing-style fins were key to being able to "compete" with these living darters. Another factor in this type of encounter was lighting, as it was unthinkable to rig long arms and two flashes, as we do in traditional dives and working with wide-angle lenses. On this occasion, we only had the option of playing with ambient light if we didn't want to be left behind.

Each day was divided between long waits and sailing, alternating with intense moments of constant entry and exit, frantic finning, and hundreds of shots. We soon learned the different types of encounters: large ball and small ball. If the ball of sardines was large (more than 4-5 m in diameter), they felt strong and did not allow themselves to be easily cornered by the sailfish, so they maintained their course, withstanding the attacks and forcing us to swim at full speed, or simply providing us with very short encounters that required a sequence of intermittent entries and exits with chases with the boat to intercept them. But on the contrary, if the ball of sardines we located was small, then we were guaranteed to have the time of our lives, as the sailfish cornered the sardines, not allowing them to advance, and little by little, attack after attack, they were destroying the entire school. In these types of encounters, more marlin specimens were usually concentrated, with some groups of 20-25 individuals, while in the large balls we did not usually have more than 8-10 specimens.

The first encounters with these well-armed animals were a bit unnerving, as seeing a 50kg animal charging at you at full speed, armed with a 60cm sword, always raised a few questions: Will it be aggressive? Will it be clumsy when there's a sardines between it and me and it can't see me? Will I be able to keep up with it and take a good photo?

But as is often the case with most marine wildlife, after the first encounter you realize there's nothing to fear, and that everything will be easier than you imagined, if you do your part.

It was surprising that despite their high speeds, there was no contact at any time, even though the tangle of sardines and sailfish we were among could sometimes predict otherwise. With other animals like sharks, close encounters while hunting are constant, but these slender swimmers proved to be true masters of pirouettes and precise, accurate navigation, with split-second maneuvers that on more than one occasion chilled our blood. Although in three-quarters of the encounters the interaction lasted less than a minute, the other sightings exceeded all our expectations; Going dozens of miles out to sea guaranteed us to be alone and away from the majority of boats operating in the area, both for sighting and fishing, and the luck of finding small balls allowed us different encounters of almost 30 minutes, exhausting but very fruitful, with dozens of specimens swimming around us and impressive hunts, in which we were occasionally accompanied by some other pelagic species.

At the end of each day, we were exhausted, but it was gratifying, as we made the return journey to port, to see how all the members of the expedition seemed mesmerized by the small screens of their cameras, reviewing the day's results, while a shy smile on their faces betrayed that the hard work had been worth it. We had accepted the grief and were emerging victorious.