The bedazzling Red Sea and a futile search for dugongs

Wildlife enthusiasts would trade anything to encounter elusive species in their natural habitat, and the cute and cuddly marine mammal dugong is no exception.

A quick Google search on "Dugong hotspots in Egypt" revealed that they are commonly found in the Marsa Alam region of the Red Sea.

Roots Red Sea, the dive camp, appeared to be only 14 kilometres north of the town of Quseer, neatly placed between Hurghada and Marsa Alam — two of the most popular dugong sites in the Red Sea.

So, when I was selected for a residential field course in Egypt, I became super-excited, as an opportunity to observe wild dugongs in their natural habitat would be nothing short of a spectacle for the whole cohort of 28 budding marine biologists from the University of Glasgow.

Being one of the many ambitious photographers on the course, capturing these magnificent animals through my lens would be a dream come true.

Despite the seagrass making it impossible to see, everyone involved was on the lookout for potential dugong sightings, while those with underwater cameras had their trigger finger ready on the shutter button, like an old Texan outlaw prepared for a Mexican standoff. But the elusive dugong was nowhere to be seen.

Dugongs are from the sirenian family of marine mammals. They have flukes and flippers like dolphins and whales, but are very chubby and somewhat sluggish. The face looks blunt and squarish, somewhat bovine-like.

Dugongs are also listed as "vulnerable" on the IUCN Red List. It is no wonder that dugongs, unlike their extant close relatives, manatees, are shy and elusive animals.

Unfortunately for us, with the almost US Marine Corps-like formation of some 20 snorkelers we had, even the extremely human-friendly and cuddly manatee would have probably cut loose.

For thousands of years, dugongs and manatees, particularly their very roundish tail-fluke, have evoked the imagination of the mythical half-fish, half-human mermaids.

Dugongs and Egypt

Eastern Egypt, famous worldwide for pyramids, mummies, and antiquities, grazes 1,500 kilometres of the Red Sea coast.

A biodiversity hotspot and haven for divers and marine life enthusiasts, the Red Sea is home to a large number of species, from corals to sharks to octopuses, among many others.

Dugongs mostly inhabit and hang out around shallow coastal waters and seagrass beds, as it serves as their main food source.

We were scheduled for a seagrass survey session on Saturday, 11 November 2023.

We were 16 students that day, as the rest had already visited the day before. Accounts of their experience, despite the disappointment of no dugong sightings, greatly elevated our anticipation.

We split into three groups, each led by a staff member. There were two additional staff: one in front of all the groups, acting as a guide, and another at the very back, acting as a shepherd corralling in lost snorkelers.

We were in for an approximately 1.5 kilometre length of snorkelling, one-way, through dense seagrass beds, parts in which the visibility was limited to only the bubbles formed from the fin-kicks of the snorkeler in front.

It was a long and arduous journey, requiring extreme perseverance; every bit of which was paid back tenfold.

Having hurt my toes on a sharp rock while attempting and successfully butchering flamenco dancing the night before, I was in for an even rougher time with the Red Sea salt burning my cuts throughout the snorkel.

The first part of the snorkel through the seagrass bed was done in intervals, stopping at points to test our identification skills of various species of native seagrass like Thalassodendron ciliatum and Halophila stipulacea, among others.

Despite the seagrass making it impossible to see, everyone involved was on the lookout for potential dugong sightings, while those with underwater cameras had their trigger finger ready on the shutter button, like an old Texan outlaw prepared for a Mexican standoff.

The environment started to gradually change, transitioning from dense seagrass beds to sparse ones, populated with holes and crevices distributed sporadically. Corals started to appear little by little, starting from Porites boulders to Acropora colonies. I suddenly felt a tap on my calf from my dive-buddy.

He pointed towards a head peeking out of one of those small crevices. And there it was, a Geometric Moray peeking out with its mouth open! I attempted to align my GoPro with the beautiful ashen serpentine fish, only to have it retract its head back at lightning speed to torment me.

I took solace in the fact that Mike Rutherford, the curator of Zoology and Anatomy leading our group, would have surely photographed the eel. Knowing him, I was confident that he would gladly share the photos he had captured in his advanced Olympus TG. But I envied his reflexes.

The destination was as magical as indicated by the cohort of the previous day, and then some more. The view hit us like a sudden gust of wind, as we ventured into the open waters and turned towards the reef.

It was almost like those enchanting moments you experience in sci-fi and fantasy movies, akin to the revelation of the Na'vi homeland in Avatar 2; except this was very real. The reef crest had an almost 90-degree steep drop-off. A literal cliff of corals, teeming with life.

From Anemone Fish guarding their prized Bubble-tip Anemone homes, to pairs of Threadfin Butterfly Fish taking turns foraging, the reef had it all. The entire experience was already the best part of the excursion so far, only to get even better in the next few moments.

In between experiencing the reef and its surrounding areas looking at Conch Shells and exploring Porites gardens, we would occasionally go above water, appreciating the endless blue open ocean. It was then that I suddenly noticed something zooming past my dive buddy's head; he too felt it fly past him.

It was not one, but several flying fish gliding past where we were! Everyone with a camera tried their utmost best to capture this moment, but the fish were no less quick underwater. The entire group was left in awe, with one experience of the day topping the next in an exponential fashion.

It was soon time to undertake the long snorkel back to shore again, but the disinclination to head back was not due to the physical strain we would endure, but the pain of leaving such a magical place so soon.

A shrinking world

With the awareness about the world we have today, it would not be wishful thinking to expect us to change our attitude towards the world. However, unchecked destruction of natural habitats still continues.

We must hold ourselves responsible for the protection of the last remaining wild places on Earth, coexist in harmony with wildlife and wild places, and prevent the tragedy that had befallen the Steller's sea cow — a close relative of dugongs that had been hunted to extinction in 1768, roughly 30 years after discovery by the Europeans.

Our failure to witness a dugong can be attributed to many reasons, including season and site, among other stochastic variables.

However, the fact remains that their numbers in the wild, like countless other wild animals across the globe, are dwindling, and I wish that reality was different.

I wish for the Red Sea biodiversity, and these elusive dugongs to not only exist, but thrive for eternity.