From the Zodiac, the island in front of us looks like little more than a jellied smear, but as we approach – the sun blazing overhead and the sea as vivid as blue-green glass held to the light – the land mass appears to shimmer, then fracture into tiny little pieces, which rise slowly up and disperse into the air.
I blink. Squint. My jaw falls open. It’s not the island that’s moving, it’s tens of thousands of seabirds billowing upwards: brown boobies, red-chested frigates, sooty terns and squalling noddies, swooping and soaring and filling every inch of expansive blue, like a Sunday night David Attenborough special.
“On your right!” Our guide, Dr Frederique Oliver, excitedly points to the water. We peer over the side of the boat as a tiger shark powers stealthily by. “And here. Manta ray.” She gestures to the left. A dark shadow swoops along with wings as slow and as gentle as a
