Divemaster Drama: The Great Dragon Fruit Fiasco

My Morning Routine (Not Relevant)

During my divemaster internship, I had a diligent morning routine. I woke up at 4:30 AM to practice yoga under an open-air covered area outside our dorm room bungalow. My audience? Every local dog in the area, snoozing peacefully on the daybed.

One particularly tragic-looking dog stood out. He was sickly, possibly feral, and I swear no one else even knew he existed. At first, he’d bolt whenever I showed up, but over time, we developed a silent understanding—he could stay, and I wouldn’t shoo him off. This was ironic, considering I used to be terrified of dogs as a kid. Even after my family adopted Pablo, it took me months to get comfortable. To this day, I wouldn’t call myself an animal person, but for some reason, stray dogs seem to treat me like their messiah. I do not encourage this. I merely acknowledge it.

After yoga, I’d tiptoe back inside, get my swimsuit and sunscreen on, then head to the staff kitchen—an establishment that would send most people into a full-body shudder. Mice? Check. Gigantic bugs? Double check. But hey, character building, right? I’d slice up my fruit (with my handy personal knife, because I came prepared), make my coffee with a tin filter cup and a handheld milk frother (yes, I brought that from the U.S.), and enjoy breakfast before prepping my dive gear.

Enter the Red Dragon Fruit of Doom

This particular day, everything started out normally. It was near the end of my internship, and I was leading dives. Our two sites: Manta Point (a well-loved manta ray cleaning station) and Rabbit Hole (a mysterious site I’d never visited before, tucked under a rock outcropping with a swim-through, the name was giving me Alice in Wonderland vibes, obviously). We had a marine biologist instructor on board, eager to collect fish survey data, so our first 30 minutes of each dive were dedicated to science.

We decided to hit Manta Point first due to rough conditions at Rabbit Hole. The dive was a success, and during our surface interval, I ate my usual snack—lots of vibrant red dragon fruit. Important detail.

As we approached Rabbit Hole, the waves had not let up. Slowly, my stomach started to feel uneasy and not quite right. Another intern was already crumpled in a miserable heap, and I felt for him, but I was also rapidly spiraling. As I started the dive briefing, nausea slammed into me, and I had to inform my instructor that things were not looking good. He stared at me in horror, but I assured him I could do the dive. He just said to gear up and get in the water quickly. Fantastic advice. Truly.

As I geared up and fastened my releases on my BCD, I felt the blood drain from my face. Clammy. Weak. I staggered up, flung myself to the boat’s edge, and projectile vomited the most horrifyingly red chunks you have ever seen into the ocean. My instructor? Absolutely. Traumatized. The whole boat? Shook.

Through gulps of air, I kept insisting, “I got this! I can still do the dive!” My instructor, still reeling from the crime scene unfolding before him, was dubious. But as soon as the heaving stopped, I geared up and jumped into the water—because that’s what heroes do. Unsurprisingly, the nausea disappeared.

Chaos at Rabbit Hole

Now, just as I was recovering, the other intern—the one who had been sick the entire boat ride—began his own projectile episode off the side of the boat. He then debated whether or not to dive. Our instructor, already dead inside, convinced him to go for it, so we all descended together like a team of barely-functioning warriors.

Despite the absolute trainwreck of a beginning, we completed the dive, fish survey included. You’d think I learned my lesson about eating red dragon fruit before a bumpy boat ride.

I did not.

But honestly? Worth it for the drama.