Fakarava’s south pass is more than a name on a map. Divers speak of it like a rite of passage. In this remote corridor, the current runs wild and the sharks run the show. Welcome to French Polynesia’s Wall of Sharks, where hundreds of grey reef sharks glide through the blue like they own it. Which, of course, they do.
I’ve encountered plenty of sharks across more than 170 dives: scores of reef sharks in Belize, a few hulking tigers in the Bahamas, a dozen hammerheads 35m down in Sudan’s Red Sea. I think I’m ready for a predator-dominated reef, for the kind of drama that comes with countless teeth. Apex predators are rare, toothy and large enough to spike your heart rate.
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Turns out, I’m not quite ready for this. There’s good reason for the site’s unreal reputation: formerly known as Tumakohua, the South Pass holds the densest known population of grey reef sharks on the planet. Anything from 600 to 900 cram into an atoll gap 200m wide, drifting on the currents. These tides twist ‘normal’ topsy-turvy, creating an inverted trophic pyramid where predators outnumber prey.
During spawning season, more than 18,000 groupers pour through the pass in a veritable tidal buffet. But during the rest of the year, the tide delivers dinner in the form of parrotfish, surgeonfish and anything else swept into range – an oceanic Uber Eats.
We descend into a sprawling hard coral reef where visibility stretches to 45m – “a bit murky”, our guide recalls later with a shrug. Murky. Sure. Sharks instantly materialise. One. Two. I quickly lose count. They’re everywhere. Above, below, slicing through the blue like silent torpedoes.
We drift into a billowing cloud of scad, a flashing, swirling shroud of silver that holds formation as sharks drift through. No chase. No frenzy. Just the slow, surreal precision of animals that have mastered the flow.
Time falls apart. Four minutes pass according to my GoPro but I’m barely conscious of it. A Napoleon wrasse ghosts by, large as a labrador. Its eye lingers on me. Not curious. Not concerned. Just aware.
Dive two drops us straight into the middle of this cartilage cloud. ‘Murky’ no more, limitless visibility ushers me into a gully thick with sharks packed fin to fin, facing into the current like statues.
I, meanwhile, am struggling. I grab a rock for stability before being whipped downstream the moment I let go. The sharks don’t move. They hover precisely where tidal currents collide on the reef’s upward slope. This resulting updraft allows them to ride along with barely a flick of effort, trimming their energy use by a critical 10 to 15 per cent. It’s the hunting equivalent of holding the high ground.
We stop three times along the slope. Each spot is more crowded than the last. By the final hold, it’s like swimming inside a snow globe (if snow had teeth and perfect spatial awareness). At first, it feels chaotic. Then it clicks. The sharks are rotating through the current like cyclists sharing the wind load. Scientists call it shuttling behaviour, a slow-motion relay optimised to save energy in a high-flow world.
By dive three, the pace has shifted. The current softens. Visibility dims. The reef is still full of sharks but quieter now, as if the curtain has come down. We drift through like we’re watching the end credits roll.
And that feels right. Because this reef – pulsing with current, brimming with predators – isn’t putting on a show. It’s functioning. No fishing. No broken links in the chain. Just ancient balance.
We ascend slowly. I glance back, just once, to see if any shark is watching. Of course they’re not. They’re busy. The tide is about to turn. Dinner’s served.
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Top image: grey reef sharks. Credit: Alexandra Gillespie