Residents of Apo reef inspecting divers

MANILA, Philippines — The chill screaming current blasted me as I heaved my fourth 176-pound block single-handed on top of Calatagan’s artificial reef.

Never before have I manhandled anything heavier than my body weight 60 feet down the sea floor. But this dive, which begun my first live-aboard adventure, was both for service and pleasure.

I was the only woman journalist invited to the EcoRescue Live-Aboard Series meant to train recreational divers to assess threats to local reefs.

And I was grouped with volunteers, who have logged hundreds of dives, to plunge five times a day in cold rough seas for four days straight in Calatagan, Batangas, then Apo Reef and Puerto Galera, Mindoro.

I squinted at my gauge. I was almost out of air. Reluctantly, I pushed off the soupy, dynamite-ravaged bottom dotted with 14 pyramids.

Over the years, divers have laid out more than 20,000  concrete slabs on the rubble, one arm-wrenching block at a time, to form artificial reef pyramids where new corals can build.

Now, corals encrusted the blocks, giant clams have colonized their base and fish found refuge in crevices. Between the gaps, big groupers wedged themselves. Somewhere in the murk, rays and sharks must be hiding out.

In the evening, we sailed Southwest to Mindoro. I retired early after my cabin light mysteriously turned itself off. A diver died here, they said. No matter, I was so exhausted, the drone of the engine combined with the boat’s rocking soon lulled me to sleep.

At dawn, we dropped anchor beside the 35-kilometer expanse of Apo Reef. Cleaved in two lagoons, it was a mini-Tubbataha, home to 400 species of corals and 400 species of fish.

We suited up, gunned for the steep walls of Apo North and back-rolled at the corner where currents meet, hoping to catch the whole food chain in action, from the small fish gorging on plankton to apex predators preying on the fish.

It was as if I’ve hurled myself down a bottomless cliff. Looking up from the abyss, you court vertigo yet you go deeper than you intend to. With the water so clear, the surface seemed deceptively nearer.

A forest of gorgonian fans shadowed an oblong protrusion which turned out to be a sleepy hawksbill turtle. Another hawksbill parked himself on an overhang while a green sea turtle raced to beat us on the corner turn.

No hurry, though. My divemaster paused beside a hanging garden of anemones and beckoned to me. He parted the fringed mouth of the living flower to uncover a semi-transparent glass shrimp with luminous violet patches. A second glass shrimp emerged from the dancing tentacles and peeked at us behind its mate.

In the blue water opposite us, tuna flashed by followed by a lone barracuda. But the sharks are gone. I saw no more than a handful in our two days at Apo Reef.

On top of the walls sprawled coral terraces abloom with tangs, puffers, fusiliers and tunicates. Ahead of us, fellow divers flushed out a huge cuttlefish. Finding himself trapped in a tangle of legs, the cephalopod paused in our midst, mantle rippling, colors pulsing, half lidded eyes bulging before he found a gap and jetted to escape.

At last, towards dusk, we caught a glimpse of cruising blacktip sharks. The night yielded hundreds of sea snakes. They flocked to our stern, mesmerized by the tail lights.

Once out of the water, I fell into a routine. Dash to the shower, peel off the wetsuit so it won’t chafe against my flesh, rinse my gear, put everything in order in my box on the deck, don a fresh swimsuit and clap a shirt over my head so I can gear up fast for the next dive.

Needless to say, I ate like a coolie. We have a good chef on board who fed us nido soup, grilled fish, spicy beef, chicken barbecue and whipped up desserts like mango cream pie and banana crepes in whisky.

On our third day, the sun broke over a pod of dolphins frisking beside the boat. The crew jostled on the starboard, spotting for mantas. They visit Apo Reef in November and December, swimming just below the surface, their great wings unfurling over the waves. But this year, they shunned the too warm waters.

In vain, we searched for the devilfish, plunging down Apo Menor, a deep coral garden swarming with unicorn fish, schooling batfish and more turtles. We combed the slopes of Apo South, finning through thousands of gold and white pyramid butterflies

By noon, we buckled down to business. Marine biologists briefed us how to do the reef check and helped string out one kilometer of yellow line along our survey area at the lip of a drop-off. My dive buddy and I took notes along our sides of the transept.

The current slammed me as I cruised along, counting sweetlips, groupers, parrotfish, snappers and butterfly fish. But I saw no cod, wrasse snappers, moray eel or trumpet tritons although crown-of-thorns starfish, the triton’s favorite dish, hunkered among the corals.

Dodging foot-long spines and cringing at the sight of coral bleaching, I put down the numbers of giant clams, crayfish and urchins on my slate. I wondered why some fish that should be here are absent while the ones present seemed so few.

Only two poorly paid rangers with a single boat between them guard Apo. Poachers know how helpless they are and it’s not surprising that “Muro Ami” — smashing corals to scare the fish out into encircling nets, dynamite blasting and poisoning by cyanide still devastate the reef.

At first glance, nothing seems amiss, except for the lack of sharks and mantas, which should be disturbing enough.

We took a sunset break and docked at Apo Island. Hawksbill flippers have gouged the sand in three sets of tracks. I found they ended in freshly covered pits beyond the tide line and prayed the turtle eggs beneath will hatch unmolested.

Endangered Nicobar Pigeons as big as chickens also nest here. The few survivors brood only a single egg per year. Other visitors include egrets, herons, cormorants and plovers.

The heart of the island cups a lagoon where mangroves have flourished over a hundred years. On one side, a lighthouse looks out into the vast empty South China Sea.

As twilight turned the waters to the deepest sapphire, we drifted down the North Wall. It was as if the sky has transposed itself into the sea, suspending us into a blue tableau. I was lulled for a moment until the current grabbed us and sent us flying in the darkening void. Still, I held back from turning on my light.

When my dive master eventually spotlighted the sea wall, tiers of table top corals have sprouted countless antennas and stalked eyes – foraging shrimps, tiger lobsters and hermit crabs. A conch crawled over the rocks as an eagle ray winged past. A white tip shark nosed above us, but still, no mantas.

Before I knew it, we were back on the dive boat. The beacon of Apo Reef’s lighthouse receded behind us as we steamed for Puerto Galera.

Daybreak found us descending at Sabang Point. Surgeon fish and hungry batfish pursued me as soon as I hit the water. But I could hardly see my buddy. In the cold murk, my fellow divers moved like wraiths spewing bubble pillars.

I touched down a sandy bottom carpeted with sea plumes and stared at the brown wisps twined around their shafts. The five-inch spiny seahorses stared right back.

As I moved closer, a pipefish slithered among the plumes. I followed its progress until it ducked into a shoal of poisonous striped catfish.

Straight ahead loomed the hull of a sunken Vietnamese boat that harbors solefish and weird-looking frog fish. From the neighboring wreck of a 40-foot steel yacht poured out schools of candy-striped, venomous lionfish. Spines bristling, they regarded me with fearless nonchalance and refused to give right of way.

Our final dive was a reef check at Monkey Beach. I spent a great deal of time hugging the bottom though. The current engulfed us one moment then slackened a bit before renewing its onslaught and sending us tumbling in a mad heap.

My bubble trail scattered schools of grunts, butterfly fish and Moorish Idols. Feisty clown fish the color of fire darted before my mask as I crawled over their host anemones. Groping for handholds on the rocks, my fingers brushed the gluey feathers of crinoid stars and the pulsing floret mouths of soft corals. It was hazardous business but well worth it.

Even today, I still catch myself shifting to reef check mode when I dive. But I know I have to do more.

Coral reefs are dying everywhere. ReefCheck International findings showed that Philippine reefs are among the worst damaged. If we don’t act, global warming will finish off what destructive fishing, deforestation, urban sprawl and pollution has begun.

While I live, I can only revel in the beauty of the reefs, hoping they survive the ravages of man – their worst foe and their best guardian.