My Week in the Yucatán Yucatán Marine Site - Tortuga Escondida🐢

Akumal: The Daunting Deep

The bus from Homgerio was about five hours long, and once again, aircon was the bane of my new life — freezing cold!

Honestly, as a Scot, you’d think I’d be a chameleon to sudden drastic temperature changes, but that could not be further from the truth.

We finally rolled up to a large “gas station” / service station. I thought we were stopping for a quick break, but nope — we had actually arrived. The wait was over.

And then we met James Muir… a Scottish surname! Belter. But then he spoke — and I swear this isn’t meant in a bad way — he sounded exactly like Bear Grylls and looked a bit like a younger surfer version.

(P.S. I know you’ll read this, James. Sorry in advance!)

As we unloaded the bus, it hit me: my next adventure was about to begin. I took a moment to collect my thoughts. The week prior had left an unbelievable mark on my life. I’m not someone who usually deals with emotions outwardly, but I already missed that camp.

“Right guys, let’s load up the bags first. Most of you get in the minibus, the rest in the car with me,” said James.

Here we go — it’s starting.

We loaded the bags into a 2001 Ford Ranger that looked like it had survived WWI. The leaf springs and bodywork were a testament to its sheer willpower to live on.

Best of all, we were loading gear worth thousands into the truck bed… with no tailgate. Instead, a rope was strung across to secure everything. My inner redneck loved it.

The driver, Hymie, was an utter joy to get to know.

I climbed into the car with the others, watching all our gear rattle away on that rickety little truck. It reminded me of that Still Game scene when the box truck rolls down the road on fire.

The drive was less than ten minutes, and then we pulled up to our new “camp.”

Honestly? It was a villa compared to what we’d just lived in — no more wet mudslides. Three stories tall, emerald green, and covered in incredible artwork left by past visitors.

And the pièce de résistance? A pool.

A. Bloody. Pool.

We weren’t even unpacked or briefed on safety before I was in it.

The sleeping arrangements were more hostel-style — eight metal bunk beds with firm mattresses. We settled in quickly and got ready for lunch.

This was a big moment. The running joke about rice and beans had already been made, but James gathered us proudly and announced the menu was “vast” and included pancakes.

Pancakes!

I’d been on a bit of a health kick before Mexico, but between the diet and the heat, I’d already lost about 4kg. The thought of a stack of pancakes had me gaining it back instantly.

Lunch arrived.

Rice and beans.

Pancakes, it turned out, were breakfast-only.

The rest of the day was spent naturally by the pool and tackling laundry. I won’t go into detail about the smell inside our bags, but a mix of sweat, jungle humidity, and adventure leaves a scent you don’t soon forget.

Running water and detergent felt like luxury.

Meeting the Akumal team was a treat: a group of enthusiastic, good-looking scientists ready to take on the world.

There was Annabel, Katharina (Kat) — “Mommy” (I’ll explain later) — Miguel, the self-proclaimed Portuguese president, and Emily, the turtle doctor.

Each one would bring something different to my story.

That night, we slept easily… but warm.

36°C is too warm.

We tossed and turned all night like a metal train wreck, trying to find the coolest position.

I longed for the jungle frogs.

Day Two – Akumal

Some pre-existing context: I’ve wanted to dive for years. It’s been on the bucket list for as long as I can remember. Add in my well-known obsession with whales and marine wildlife, and this part of the trip could not have been better suited to me and my dreams.

That morning — pancakes! And not just any pancakes. They were amazing, and that sweet taste of maple syrup set me up perfectly for the day ahead.

We loaded into the minibuses and headed to the Akumal Dive Center a Caribbean coastal dive spot looking out over the eastern ocean, fine sand underfoot, and lush palm trees overhead. There was a bit of hustle and bustle, tanks and BCDs being hauled out and checked. My first enclosed dive was only an hour away.

The time flew by as I soaked in the smells, the heat, and the atmosphere Akumal had to offer. It was a solid 40°C, and I was loving it.

We met our dive instructor, Araceli — the best kind of person to have in that role. Calm, clear, and leaving no room for “silly” questions… because you simply didn’t have any by the time they were done explaining.

Araceli walked us through how the kit worked, then showed us how to assemble everything. Soon, we were ready to hit the water.

At the shoreline, we waded through sargassum moss the most rancid, decaying smell you can imagine. Unfortunately, this algae has become a major issue across the Americas, clogging up coastlines. It might seem like harmless organic matter, but for turtles it’s a disaster blocking nesting beaches and outcompeting their food sources.

But then, we were in the water. And I was ecstatic.

Getting in with all the gear on is surreal. That first moment you go under, your breath controlled by an alien-looking apparatus, your weight gone despite carrying an extra 20kg on your back… it’s magic.

We started in the shallows, about six feet deep — shallow enough to stand, but we stayed kneeling to practise. Hand signals, recovering your regulator, clearing your mask… all basic skills, but requiring full concentration. And yes, the sea grass cut into your knees. Not blood-deep, but paper-cut itchy.

Our group passed the enclosed session easily, so after fixing a few small gear issues (shoe sizes and strap adjustments), we headed out on The Fishing Machine.

As an avid fisherman, I took this as destiny. A beautiful, purpose-built skiff — perfect for our first open-ocean trip. Ten minutes later, we’d left the snorkelers behind and were over the deep blue.

And it was exactly that. Looking over the edge, nothing but royal blue stretching forever, flashes of light dancing through like a Rotterdam light show.

I couldn’t help but get giddy. My first real dive. No idea what I’d see, but trusting my training. The anticipation was killing me — and my brain was firing off the most ridiculous thoughts: Is my weight belt okay? Will I look cool? Am I breathing right? Should I pass wind now or in the water? You know that feeling before an exam? That.

Belt on. BCD snug. Tank open. Checks complete.

We edged to the side of the boat — right hand covering mask and regulator, left arm across the chest.

“One…”

I never heard “two” or “three.” I just let go.

A rush of pressure. Then — weightless. Floating in the ocean, legs dangling, instinctively treading water until I remembered my BCD had air in it. Chill, you dafty. Just breathe.

I glanced at Araceli. They gave the OK sign, then a thumbs-down.

We began our descent into the royal blue bathwater of the unknown.

As I descended for the first time, my mind raced with “what ifs.” It was that same uneasy feeling you get when you think you’ve left the stove on—an odd cocktail of nerves, excitement, and hyper-focus. I found myself staring at the instructor, reluctant to look down at first. But eventually, I did.

And then it appeared—an underwater landscape slowly forming beneath me, like chaotic architecture piecing itself together.

We hit the sandy bottom, paused, and watched as the small clouds we’d stirred settled, revealing life everywhere. Tiny fish darted in and out of view, schools glimmering in the light. At 13 meters, though, we had tasks to complete before the fun could really begin.

Staying on the bottom as a new diver is harder than it sounds—each breath sends you subtly rising and falling. But we handled it. One by one, we performed the drills, and everyone looked calm and collected. I was budded with my best mate Andrew, and watching him work through the tasks gave me a moment of pure joy. There’s something special about seeing someone you care about thriving right beside you.

Once the exercises were done, we swam the reef. It was magic—rays gliding effortlessly, wrasse weaving through coral, the reef itself alive and majestic. The water was clear, warm, and I felt weightless. Exactly where I wanted to be. At peace with nature.

We ascend that dive slow and content in knowing that at the end of this adventure I would become a diver.

Day Two – The Giants of Akumal

Our schedule was the same as the day before: breakfast, bus to the site, a practice dive, then open water.

This time, though, we had to set up our own gear. I felt surprisingly comfortable with it—almost proud. There’s something empowering about strapping into equipment you’ve secured yourself. It gave me a sense of ownership over the dive that nothing else had.

Today’s enclosed tasks were buddy-based: air sharing, escorting a diver, that kind of thing. Daunting, yes—but also very cool.

Climbing back into the boat for our open water dive, I already knew what to expect beneath the surface. That anticipation, mixed with reflection on how lucky I was to be here, was overwhelming. We lined up at the edge of the boat, waiting for the signal. Then—just before the instructor’s count finished—a wave rocked the hull, and Andrew lost his balance. Straight into the deep blue!

I should have been more worried, but honestly, the sight of my best mate tumbling over like a slow-motion stunt was hilarious. He was fine—mask on, regulator in, and trying hard not to laugh himself. We all followed him in, dropping one after the other into the sea.

At the bottom, we quickly finished our tasks and were released to explore. And we timed it perfectly.

Rounding the reef, we saw them—giants, drifting with the current. At first, I thought they were no bigger than dinner plates. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Green turtles, three to four feet long, ancient and majestic. The very species we’d come here to observe. A beautiful reminder of why we were here—and a sobering one too, knowing they’re endangered.

Then came the stingray. Effortless, wings rippling like silk in the current, gliding past within arm’s reach. I thought nothing could top that moment.

But then we saw it.

A two-and-a-half-meter nurse shark. At first, we just hovered in awe, taking in its size and graceful movement. Then we noticed something strange. It wasn’t swimming normally—it was rubbing against the reef, mouth open, coral chunks drifting from its gills. Was it feeding? Scratching?

No.

It had a massive fishing hook lodged in its jaw. The poor creature was desperately trying to dislodge it.

Araceli moved closer, hoping to help, but naturally, the shark swam off before we could intervene. For several long minutes, though, we’d shared its company—an unforgettable encounter, but also a gut-wrenching reminder of humanity’s impact on this fragile paradise.

As a fisherman myself, it hit hard. I’ve always kept a rule: never catch what you won’t eat. Sharks and large predators aren’t on my list. But for many, they’re prized trophies. And this—this was the result when it goes wrong.

The rest of the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about that shark.