Catch Me if You Can I'm not Leo DiCaprio, but I'm still going to travel the world.

“But I don’t want to,” my friend groans as I shove flippers and a snorkel into her crossed arms. She’s been complaining about this moment for the past week, but I am resolute: we will go diving.
Steph, my best friend, is scared of fish. Moreover, she’s convinced that too much time underwater will have health repercussions. Despite the torrent of information I have unloaded on her about scuba diving and its guaranteed safety, she’s stubborn. I have dragged her to Utila, the lesser-known of the Bay Islands, with promises of paradise and relaxation. Now, standing on the moist planks of the dock at the Utila Dive Lodge, she is hesitant about donning the equipment, but I convince her to strap on the bulky (and not at all flattering) wet-suit and jump in to the adventure. Literally.
The tanks are strapped to our backs, oxygen travelling along the thick tubes and permeating through our regulators. We take a big step and jump into clear water. We swim for about five or six minutes, away from the resort and into deeper ocean. As we sink down to sandy bottom, I can hear Steph’s whimpers. She taps my back and signals that she wants to go back. We’re about to turn around when we first see her.
There she is, in the all-consuming blue, her wings fluttering noiselessly. She has a dotted back and a long, pointed tail. The eagle ray is probably ten feet wide. I look to Steph, worried that she’s freaking out. I've never seen a ray so big.
The ray continues on in her sweet, slow motion. Here, sixty feet under the sea, it’s quiet.
Steph chases after the ray, and we find ourselves directly above one of Utila’s enormous coral heads. Stray rays of light bounce off carmine brain-corals, their colored polyps fluttering in the gentle current. Sea fans the size of modest trees wave at us, as if beckoning into this little paradise. There are violet anemones hidden in the crevices of the reef, little squids poking their heads at us, inquiring as to our presence. I spy a grouper, lurking menacingly in a cave, and my better judgment decides not to point it out to Steph. Entire schools of marine life swirl around us; there’s a group of bar jacks dancing near our masks, French grunts and green parrot fishes waltzing near the sand, a majestic angel fish two-stepping to the rhythm of the waves.
A few hours later we’re sitting on the dock, observing a lone barracuda skirting near the algae.
“So I signed us up for the afternoon dive,” Steph says to me, in the wake of the island heat.