"See da birss? Waaayle shaahrk." Alberto, our captain slowed a bit, but the cloud of sea birds that lingered over a spot off of starboard returned to the skies and dispersed like a scene out of Moby Dick. It is a hit–or–miss affair, but thanks to the rich feeding grounds where the island rests on the edge of the continental shelf, Utila, one of the Bay Islands of Honduras, is an excellent place to see the biggest fish in the world. We spent the rest of the ride back to port hanging on tightly as Alberto gave his large boat a rush through the rising waves. He was a proud captain, and boasted of his achievements during the peak of Hurricane Mitch back in '98, when he successfully moved two of the lodge's boats from the dangerous dock area to the lagoon that dips into the swampy middle of the island.

My friends Paul and Lynn were there to get their PADI certification for scuba diving; I just came for the budget diving. As dive prices in Belize and Cozumel rise due to steady popularity with tourists, Utila remains the backpack diver's best option for what is essentially the same reef system. Packages bring each dive down to about $13, and the PADI open–water courses range from $140 to $160 in the off season. We arrived by ferry after a tangle of chicken buses from Guatemala along the northern coast of Honduras. Utila is rather small, and as we approached on the boat the first thing to breach the horizon was a hill on the east end, giving the impression for a long time that perhaps that was all there was. The rest of the land is low to the water, and I wondered how the place had survived Mitch. Off the dock, the footwear–optional main street runs along the bay in either direction and is a constant flow of ATVs, bicycles and pedestrians. After some very serious pondering, we went left.

We split a nice triple with screens, fans, and even cable for $5 per person, and signed on with the Bay Island College of Diving, right next door. It was late September, the beginning of low season, so Paul and Lynn had a dive instructor to themselves. We started immediately, but then a storm front passed through for the first couple days and left the normally amazing visibility a disturbing brew of murkiness. But when the sun came out in earnest and the winds died, Utila once again became the idyllic Caribbean island. The weight of the sun and humidity leaves everyone listless by early afternoon, fanning themselves in the shade, drinking cold Cokes.

After a day out of the water, we couldn't wait to get back in. The lingering boil of the passing storm left waves high, and we kept to the sheltered south shore at Spotted Bay. I had heard the north shore was better, but the coral in the south was as colorful as any I've ever seen. Sea fans, pillar coral, sponges, exotic twists of purples, pinks, and greens, the eerie sci–fi presence of massive brain coral–a pristine octopus' garden, still not overrun and picked at by tourism. In my ears, beyond the gurgle of my bubble trail, was the crackle of shrimp and the eternal chewing of the parrotfish, patiently making beach out of the reef as they pecked away unblinkingly. A sea turtle passed below me and snuck under the edge of the reef 20 feet down. For a moment I kidded myself I'd outwait it, though the duration of my entire tank probably wouldn't match even one of its breaths.

The 45 minutes of bottom time passes quickly when there is so much to look at, and we spent our surface interval docked at one of the cays, where I quickly changed my mind about the disgust I had for the word fishburger. We went in again at Stingray Point, a popular site on the way back from points farther out. And so passed the days, two dives in the morning, hammocks or two more dives in the afternoon, depending on motivation. Utila still lacks the plush, all–inclusive resorts that have blossomed on Roatán and are the norm along Belize and Mexico, and for this reason there is a backpacker atmosphere to the community. Other than diving and snorkeling, there is little else to do but eat and exchange dive stories. Upon completion of classes we headed over to the Tropical Café for a lobster dinner that cost $10, and then lay out under the stars on the dark dock of Coco Loco, listening to a bizarre blend of international music and drinking $1 Cuba Libres. Our divemasters, Sigi, Dave, and Tim, were never reluctant to join us for dinner or a beer or four. They were down–to–earth and didn't tend to break into I–swam–with–more–sharks–than–you–did competitions. We sat out under shooting stars, dangling our feet over the water lit by bulbs below the boardwalk. The music would be the only movement as we'd suddenly become part of the dock, wondering aloud what that other stuff in life was all about when there was this. Tim perked up, "I went out with the Dutch girls today." "Aah, the Dutch girls," was the knowing response from all the men, nodding to ourselves. Anyone who stays more than a couple of days will have seen most of the faces on the island. Names and reputations are established quickly. Our waitress–who seemed awfully familiar with Dave the divemaster – one night lamented the lack of privacy. "If I wanna sleeep weed a mahn, i's my bi'ness, ya knohw?" We just shrugged, smiled, and nodded a lot, sometimes not understanding a word of the round island English.

My last dive was the morning before my departure. As I would be hopping a $50 flight to San Pedro Sula, I had to give myself ample surface time before boarding a plane. In the street, I grabbed a 35–cent baleada (a tortilla with black beans, marinated onions, and cheese) and headed for the boat. We were told we'd be doing a wall dive on the north side of the island.

I hit the water. Below me the blue abyss fell away, dizzying and exhilarating. Passing above my companions, I temporarily found myself in everyone else's bubble trails, engulfed in a cloud of silver that passed before my mask like some magical snowfall in reverse and tangled through the coral and sea fans up the wall. Someone banged their tank to call our attention and a dark shape slowly emerged from the infinite azure before us. With a sublime grace that reminded us all we were not in our own element, a spotted eagle ray flexed its wings and slipped silently overhead, trailing its long tail like a compass point. As it melted back into the sea, I promised myself an eventual return to Utila.

Honduras Diving, the Lowdown
Utila has a reputation for being the cheapest dive site in the Western hemisphere, if not the world. Roatán, another Bay Island close to the east of Utila, is pushing to compete with Utila's prices. Thailand and the Philippines, growing in popularity, offer PADI courses that average about $240. Some divers claim Mozambique is affordable, but the obvious proximity of Utila eliminates high travel costs.

Dive–course prices in the U.S. are not always so high. There are the occasional offers farther inland as low as $180 for open water certification. Generally, however, this means a swimming pool and a muddy lake. In coastal areas like Florida or California, prices average from $265 to $350. Some prefer to do their classroom work at a dive shop back home and then finish the open–water dive portion abroad. With the proper paperwork from your instructor, most dive shops will pick up where your instruction left off at a reduced price.

There are several organizations of diving standards and instruction recognized internationally, including:

• PADI (Professional Association of Diving Instructors) has programs designed for all levels of divers and enjoys the largest market share.
• NAUI (National Association of Underwater Instructors) is more comprehensive academically and perhaps is for more serious divers who may be considering a career in diving.
• TDI (Technical Diving International), as the name suggests, is technically oriented and focuses on using oxygen–enriched air for extended bottom time.