Guardians of the coral reef

The reef’s symphony hums through me—butterflyfish flicker like shards of sunlight, wrasse dart between coral spires, parrotfish grind stone into sand. This harmony feels eternal, yet beneath the rhythm lies a tremor: engines growl beyond the drop-off, plastic wrappers drift like jellyfish, and the water carries the metallic sting of runoff. I glide past brain coral, its ridges rough with centuries of memory, and wonder how many more monsoons it will endure before bleaching turns its hues to bone.

The choir falters. Anemones clutch their arms tighter; trevally scatter at shadows that aren’t theirs. I’ve seen the silence creep in—nets raking the ocean floor, tourists snapping branches for souvenirs, the sea itself warming until polyps gasp. My hand brushes a clownfish’s home, its tendrils trembling as if sensing the storm to come. The reef still sings, but its voice grows thin.