Forty feet.
I look up and down, up and down; the breathing starts to come a little faster.

Thirty feet.
I frantically press the shutter again and again—nothing. The display on my GoPro Hero 7 is frozen, stuck on a screen from about five minutes ago. Meanwhile, a 16-foot giant Pacific manta ray is making a beeline straight toward me. I look back down at the camera. There’s only one button—how hard can this be?

Twenty feet.
I’m nearly in panic mode now, jamming the button to restart the camera in time to document this experience. Nothing works. I keep swiveling my head back and forth to confirm what I already know is true—I’m due for an unforgettable manta encounter. These giant fish have blessed almost every diver aboard Socorro Aggressor with an up-close flyby, and it’s my turn. But if I can’t get this camera to work, how will I document it? How will I commit this moment to memory?

Fifteen feet.
I give in. I drop the camera, letting its lanyard slide to my wrist, take a deep breath and lookup.

Five feet.
The manta slowly flaps its pectoral fins, soaring above me as I finally reciprocate its energy and breathe easy. It passes, just a few feet above my head, with well-fed remoras stretching nearly 2 feet in length suctioned on for dear life. I watch it fly away, off into the blue, leaving me with a memory that’s clearer than any 4K video clip could ever be.

Spring Fever

I could have used that clarity five days earlier. I found myself in a cramped corner of Terminal 3 at LAX—a little slice of hell—straining to hear an announcement at my gate. I nervously refreshed the Delta app over and over, looking to see if my bags had been loaded onto the plane. With Socorro Aggressor departing out of San Jose del Cabo the next day, I wanted to be sure I’d arrive with all my dive gear.

It was a Saturday, Day 1 of spring break for most universities in the United States. I was sandwiched by two groups of excited coeds headed for Cabo San Lucas. About six young women to my right interrupted discussion of getting margs ASAP to sing in unison, “Baby! Why don’t you just meet me in the middle?” at the top of their lungs, while wearing matching tank tops that read “Cabo vs. Everyone.”

I struggled to listen closely to the gate attendant’s announcement. They had oversold the flight by 10 spots and were offering $1,000 in credit to anyone who could take the next day’s departure. I had a sneaking suspicion this group was not going to volunteer away a day of spring break. I rolled my eyes and prayed I wouldn’t get kicked off the flight.

Heading into this eight-night excursion around Mexico’s Revillagigedo Islands, I was burned out. Routine travel nuisances were getting to me. I needed a break.

“I really like to be in revilla because you lose the signal. If you have signal, you always think to check the phone; and while you’re checking the phone, a whale could be jumping.”

Digital Detox

It takes 2.5 hours to get to San Jose del Cabo from Dallas or LA, and just another hour or two on the water to break free of cellular service. For the North American diver, this might be the quickest way to get off the grid. We’re soon surrounded by the open Pacific Ocean as we make the 240-mile, 30-hour journey to San Benedicto Island from the southwest tip of Mexico’s Baja California Sur peninsula.

I turn my phone off, stuff it in my backpack and head to Aggressor’s top deck for some peace and quiet. We’re not far from the coast before everyone is drawn to the sun deck—humpback whales breach about a hundred yards from the yacht, and minutes later mobula rays burst through the water’s surface like popcorn, a not-so-subtle precursor for the frenetic life we’re traveling to see.

“In the new age of internet and Wi-Fi, I really like to be in Revilla because you lose the signal,” says cruise manager Arturo Revuelta, who’s been diving these ­remote volcanic islands for more than a decade. “For eight days, that gives you the opportunity to enjoy the trip. If you have the signal, you always think to check the phone; and while you’re checking the phone, a whale could be jumping.

“Underwater, it’s beautiful. But above the water, you have the ­opportunity to watch the sunset, the sunrise, the clouds, the volcanic islands. You have the  opportunity to really observe, which in the internet age is rare.”

I furrow my brow and think: When was the last time I watched some clouds?

Revuelta’s sentiments might sound idealistic or old-fashioned, but they’re needed now more than ever.

I was first introduced to a troubling concept in a 2017 60 Minutes segment titled “Brain Hacking.” Our smartphones are designed like slot machines, as Tristan Harris, co-founder of the Center for Humane Technology, explains it.

Each time we check them, we’re pulling the lever, hoping to be rewarded in the form of a new text message, Instagram follow or Facebook like. Every app we use is designed to increase this positive stimulation, feeding our digital addiction and eventual dependency. It’s not just millennials who feel this: A 2016 Nielsen study found that Generation X—now ages 40 to 54—spent the most time on social media per week on average.

The only pop-up out here is a devil ray, and there are certainly no emojis—but divers are conditioned much in the same way. We do our research, and ­expect a certain result. Pulling the lever with ­every back roll or giant-stride, we anticipate a reward in the form of a turtle or rare macro creature. We stack the deck, feeding sharks and noting where stationary creatures make their homes to guarantee seminatural encounters.

“We hit all sevens on our second dive of the week. five manta rays encircle our group, putting each of us in a tough position— which way to look?”

We’ve come to expect the high of an incredible dive with every tank. But in the open ocean, nothing’s guaranteed.

Revillagigedos is an oasis of sorts in the middle of the eastern Pacific. Its four islands—Socorro, San Benedicto, Roca Partida and Clarión—sit at the convergence of the cool California Current flowing from the north and the warmer North Equatorial Current, creating an ideal spot for nutrients to rise from the deep and attract passing pelagics. This makes Revilla a hotspot for manta rays, humpback whales, whale sharks, dolphins, hammerheads, Galapagos sharks—nearly every variety of hungry traveler.

Going All In

We hope for the best with each dive. But out here, the house is on your side.

We hit all sevens on our second dive of the week, a dip in El Cañon, one of two sites off San Benedicto. Five manta rays encircle our group, putting each of us in a tough position—which way to look? Galapagos and whitetip reef sharks buzz around a rocky outcrop, calmly finning within a couple of feet in front, and giving me a pleasant scare as they swim right up from behind.

On a later dive at El Cañon, two scalloped hammerheads swing by for a ­visit. These sharks seem skittish, reminding me of advice from our divemaster Bailey Garton: “It’s important not to chase them. We have to be sneaky and hope they come to us.” They do just that (“The closest I’ve ever seen them come!” Garton says), taking a sharp turn and giving one diver a golden photo op, eventually passing by and back into the blue abyss.

But sometimes we’re forced to fold. The topography of these volcanic islands—Socorro, a shield volcano, last erupted in 1993—makes for a dramatic backdrop for big animals. But there’s little fish life and no coral reef to hold our attention between chance encounters. Divemasters aren’t able to simply let the mantas out of their pens. The idea is to hang out and wait for amazing to happen.

With social media highlight reels distilling a week’s worth of action into a five-minute video, expectations can be lofty.

Truth is, you’re unlikely to see a humpback underwater—although we spot them breaching at the surface on a daily basis—or a school of hammerheads up close; others onboard see them from afar. Sometimes we explore, see a few whitetip sharks resting, endemic Clarion angelfish, jacks and maybe a lobster, and ascend to refill the tanks, dry off and get ready to be dealt our next hand.

In some corners of the world, conditions and the season allow experienced guides to pretty much predict what will unfold underwater. Not here.

“When you put your head in the water, that’s when you know how it will be. Not before,” Revuelta says. “That feeling of having a new dive in a place you’ve always been is why we’re still coming here.”

And he still gets excited about those occasions when we’re dealt a full house.

After exploring San Benedicto’s two sites, El Cañon and El Boiler, we make the trek to Socorro to dive Punta Tosca and Cabo Pearce. High wind and waves make it difficult to reach the famed Roca Partida. The crew is forced to decide, after lengthy discussion with the group: make the crossing and risk limited, if any, dives at Roca, or head back to San Benedicto for a sure thing? We opt for the guarantee, and are paid back handsomely.

I back-roll in at El Cañon and the ­result is dizzying: In all, we count four mantas, three hammerheads, at least five Galapagos sharks and a dozen whitetips. ­Everyone drifts through the site with their head on a swivel. I turn every minute or so on a whim to make sure a manta or maybe even a mermaid isn’t gliding behind—this works at least once, with a 15-foot manta effortlessly slicing through the water nearly unnoticed.

We reach a rocky outcrop where we’ve reliably found sharks to finish the dive, and settle in for an absolute show, with mantas, hammerheads and Galapagos sharks right, left and center.

In a week where the weather resulted in limited range and less-than-stellar visibility, this dive made its mark on Revuelta.

“This put me back to when I got here 11 years ago,” he says. “You go down and in one dive you can see what most people need 20, 30 dives to see. Times when you can put in one frame so many things together, when you get to the point that you don’t know where to look—that’s it. That’s why I’m still here. For those moments.”

My own remarkable moment is quite the opposite: Revilla reveals its ­magic in the form of one animal taking up the entire frame. A dive at Cabo Pearce is starting to wind down when I turn around to see a gang of three dolphins swimming directly toward our group. It’s our second encounter with dolphins this week, and I’m brimming with excitement as they playfully swim closer and closer and—oh, are they really getting this close?

A dolphin swims about 10 inches away, and I lock eyes with the undeniably intelligent creature. Looking at my footage, still in disbelief at my luck, I hear the dolphin clicking as it looks straight at me.

This is why we dive. Once you hit the jackpot, you’re hooked for life.

Reality Bites

The 30-hour trek back to the mainland is a time to enjoy friendships made throughout the week. Smiles fill the dining room as many of the 25 divers—representing Austria, Japan, Mexico, Spain and more—sit in groups and reflect on the week that was.

To the right, Swiss millennials compare notes from their travels in Indonesia with a German couple twice their age. Behind me, newlyweds from Mexico break out in side-splitting fits while they try pungent snacks offered by our Japanese companions—vacuum-sealed fish liver, anyone? 

I join my newfound pals from Zurich, Silvan Gomes and Denis Fischer, as we look back on the week. Separate shared moments with dolphins top our lists.

“They’re special. They’re not like other sea life,” Fischer says.

“You can interact with them. They realize you are alive,” Gomes chimes in.

Soon enough, we make out the faint outline of Baja in the distance. We’ll be back shortly, drawing closer to the coast—and the nearest cell tower.

Fischer posits a novel idea: How about a hotel or resort that jams your signal, so those in need of a digital detox can escape? After a week off the grid, we agree it would be a good business.

But cell service starts to appear; I look over as the pair checks the flood of incoming messages it brings.

I sit back and enjoy the last few moments, grateful for the chance to interact with others in a genuine way, and experience so many special moments in one of the world’s remote outposts. I sigh, give in and reach into my pocket. “Hello, old friend. Glad to have you back—but we need to set some boundaries.”

What It Takes

Diving in the Revillagigedos is world-class, but unique. Thorough pretrip research will go a long way toward ensuring you have the right gear, skills and expectations for the experience.

Level of Diving All diving is conducted from one of three tenders, with negative entries sometimes required. The diving in the Revillagigedo Islands is only available via liveaboard, and is considered intermediate to advanced, with nitrox certification recommended.

“Divers need to be good at buoyancy control because the bottom is deep; make a few dives right before you come to get comfortable,” says cruise manager Arturo Revuelta. “And bring a good pair of fins.”

We reached a maximum depth of 80 to 95 feet on most dives. The current was mild to moderate overall, but could reach high levels and shift quickly. Divers should be comfortable kicking against and ascending in current and deploying an SMB.

Aggressor provides a Nautilus Lifeline for every buddy pair and conducts diving in three groups for maximum safety.

Park Rules
Because the archipelago is a national park and UNESCO World Heritage Site, certain protective measures are in place.

Night diving, solo diving and diving in the blue are not offered for safety reasons. Also, reef hooks, knives, dive lights not connected to cameras and gloves are not permitted. Be sure to read Aggressor’s Know Before You Go guide to fully cover the rules.

Socorro Aggressor visits four dive sites off Socorro Island, two off San Benedicto and one-off Roca Partida. In order to manage the number of divers on each site, liveaboards coordinate the timing of their dives. Because of this, if there are several boats at a site, it may limit the number of dives per day to three. The park has a set limit on the number of liveaboards that can visit, but flexibility is key in these parts.

Need To Know

Dive Conditions
Socorro Aggressor visits the Revillagigedo Islands November through May. January through March, water temperatures are cooler, averaging 72 to 74°F. All other months, temps rise to 75 to 80°F. Visibility ranges from 60 feet on poor days to 100-plus feet on good days.

Whale sharks are more common from April through November, and humpback whales are more frequent January to April.

A 5 mm full suit with hood or 7 mm full suit is recommended in the cooler months, with repetitive deep dives bringing the chill.

Travel Tip
The yacht departs from San Jose del Cabo, Cabo San Lucas’ more sophisticated neighbor. If you arrive a day early, take some time to stroll through the charming square, Plaza Mijares. From here, you can walk to shop, eat, visit local art galleries and see the picturesque Mission of San Jose del Cabo Church, which was established in 1730.

Operator
Socorro Aggressor (aggressor.com) was built in 2005 and operated as Cassiopeia in the Red Sea. It was refurbished and relocated to the Revillagigedos in 2017, and began operation as Socorro Aggressor in 2018.

The yacht is 135 feet long with a 27-foot beam, accommodating up to 26 passengers. There are five master staterooms and eight deluxe staterooms, a spacious dining room, indoor lounge area with an entertainment center, outdoor lounge area and a sun deck with a 360-degree view. Each stateroom offers a private head, shower and climate control.

The 11-person crew routinely handles a diverse set of divers, performing each dive briefing in multiple languages—English, Spanish and Japanese—so guests feel informed and comfortable with each dive.

The divemasters do a good job avoiding accidental run-ins between groups with 26 divers on one site, and the tender captains are willing to wait patiently and let divers hop in to snorkel if a humpback whale or pod of dolphins appear during a tender ride.