Swimming with tens of thousands of mobulas in Baja California Sur has become a must on every diver’s wishlist worldwide. Ironically, it involves an activity often underestimated by many of us: snorkeling. Divers, who usually measure themselves in meters of depth and minutes of decompression, find ourselves longing to float on the ocean’s surface like we did as children, surrounded by thousands of these creatures swimming below us—perhaps feeding, mating, or socializing. In the end, the reason doesn’t really matter. We want to do it for the same reason we first dipped our heads into the sea: because it makes us feel part of it.

Many scientists have studied the Mobula munkiana for years. The smallest of its kind, it’s also the most social, sparking as many mysteries as individuals in its migrating groups—thousands. Why do mobulas leap out of the water? Why do they crash back down with that characteristic sound? Are they playing? Reproducing? Pregnant? Over my years as a guide on these safaris, I was asked these questions daily. To paraphrase my colleague and marine biologist, Dr. Marta Palacios: “We don’t know.” It’s challenging to scientifically explain many of the behaviors that guides and researchers frequently observe—behaviors we secretly form imaginary theories about. But the truth is, these are questions that could only be answered by asking the mobulas themselves. And that’s part of what makes them so fascinating to us.

Anthropocentrists often argue that humans are the only species capable of cooperating in large groups due to communication, shared beliefs, and culture. But the first time I witnessed a group of 10,000 mobulas moving in formation, exhibiting distinct yet cohesive behaviors, I realized how little we truly understand about the world.

I’ll never forget a phrase I heard from an Italian scientist who studied these marvelous creatures and had the chance to swim with them in Baja California Sur. He said: “I was part of the world, and I couldn’t see the end of it.” There is nothing more hypnotic than floating on the surface, watching what they do, how they move, or simply observing how light bounces off their thousands of backs like the bottom of a shimmering pool. In that silence—despite the surface, despite us humans—this experience becomes a portal back to our most primal condition as animals of this planet. Everything else disappears: emails, deadlines, reels, TikTok, that call you need to make, or that important meeting. Nothing exists but what your eyes are witnessing, and no matter how much I try to explain it, I can never fully convey what it feels like. It is simply healing.

I’ve spent hundreds of hours surrounded by mobulas, observing and analyzing them during their migration months in the Gulf of California or the Sea of Cortez. When people ask me the best time to swim with them, I rely on my own empirical experience, which has no more scientific backing than my observations.

We know the largest groups are typically found in La Ventana (south of La Paz) from April to July, the species’ reproductive season. During this time, mobulas gather in massive groups, and if you’re lucky, you might witness their so-called vortex mating displays—giant tornados of mobulas where groups of three or four individuals dive and surface in rotation. It’s a spectacle reminiscent of a teenager-filled nightclub. In my experience, the best time to observe larger groups is between late May and late June.

However, planning a trip during a full moon is a recipe for disappointment. During these nights, the abundance of light means the mobulas carry out their activities at night, becoming shy and elusive during the day. If you do manage to find a group, they’re likely diving so deep that they’re almost impossible to spot from the surface. And you might wonder: why not grab a tank and dive down to see them? The Mobula munkiana is prey, not a predator, making it cautious, skittish, and highly sensitive to noise. It would take mere seconds for them to vanish completely, and the same would happen if someone attempted to free dive to them.

One of the main reasons mobulas move in groups is for protection against predators like orcas and sharks. Acting like predators ourselves would yield the same result: their escape. Worse yet, it could interfere with their ability to reproduce—the very reason they are gathered in this specific part of the Gulf of California.

Swimming with mobulas is much more than an encounter with marine life; it is a connection to our essence. It reminds us that millions of years ago, we were also marine animals. It reconnects us to a world we often neglect while immersed in screens. Their beauty and mystery astound us but also remind us of our responsibility as observers. Respecting their habitat means learning to coexist, letting go of our instinct to dominate. And that’s what this experience is all about—making peace with the notion that the ocean is not ours to own.

Every leap and formation in the water awakens us from the illusion that we understand the world we inhabit. Watching them from the surface, in silence, is a profound reminder of our connection to nature and our duty to protect it. These small, unassuming beings remind us that the ocean is not just a home to be cared for but a place where the soul finds its freedom. Swimming with them, even for a moment, allows us to become part of a world where, for an instant, we are eternal.