7 Adrenaline-Pumping Water Adventures in the Mamanuca Islands, Fiji

The locals call it Nakoro Nakalou—the Village of the Gods—and standing before the infamous Cloud Break, I understood why. This legendary left-hand reef break, about 2.5 kilometers from Tavarua Island, has humbled professional surfers for decades.

I'm no pro—far from it. The last time I'd been on a surfboard was during a brief stint in San Diego in the '90s when I was researching coastal Mexican cuisine. But María, ever the adventurer, had booked us a private coaching session through our resort.

'Tranquilo, Donald,' our instructor Seru laughed as I gripped my soft-top surfboard with white knuckles. 'We start small today.'

Thankfully, the Mamanuca archipelago offers waves for every level. While Cloud Break loomed in the distance like some mythological beast, we began in the gentler waters near Namotu Island. The warm Pacific embraced us like an old friend, and by afternoon, I'd managed to stand up on several modest waves, each ride bringing back the rush of youth.

What struck me most was how surfing here differs from California or even Spain's northern coast. The water's perfect temperature—no wetsuit needed—and crystalline clarity meant I could spot tropical fish darting beneath my board during wipeouts. There's something profoundly connecting about riding waves above a living coral ecosystem.

Later, watching the professionals tackle Cloud Break from the safety of our boat, cold Fiji Gold beer in hand, I felt a deep appreciation for this intersection of human courage and natural power—not unlike the bold flavors that have defined my culinary career.

If music has movements, then diving the site known as 'The Supermarket' is Fiji's grandest underwater symphony. Located near Mana Island, this dive site earned its peculiar name from the feeding sessions that draw dozens of reef sharks into an elegant, swirling dance.

'In my kitchen, I orchestrate flavors,' I told our divemaster Vili as we prepared our gear. 'Here, you orchestrate encounters with sharks.'

He smiled knowingly, helping María adjust her dive computer, a luxury we'd splurged on before this trip. 'Chef, today you taste adventure, yes?'

Descending into the blue, I felt the familiar pressure equalization in my ears—a sensation not unlike the altitude adjustments when I'd traveled through the Andes researching Peruvian-Spanish fusion years ago. But here, at 18 meters deep, the world transformed into something otherworldly.

The feeding itself wasn't the blood-frenzy that shark documentaries might lead you to expect. Rather, it was controlled, almost ceremonial. Blacktip reef sharks, sleek and purposeful, moved with the precision of well-trained kitchen staff during a Saturday night rush. Whitetip reef sharks patrolled the periphery, while the occasional bull shark—the executive chef of this underwater brigade—made commanding appearances that quickened my pulse.

What surprised me most was the musicality of it all. The bubbles from our regulators, the distant clicking of unseen marine life, the soft woosh of shark tails—it created an ambient soundtrack to this ballet of predators. I found myself mentally composing a dish that might capture this experience: perhaps something with the sharp citrus notes of yuzu cutting through rich, dark flavors of a reduced stock, unexpected yet harmonious.

When we surfaced an hour later, María and I exchanged wordless glances that said everything. Some experiences transcend language, whether it's the perfect bite of food or swimming among creatures that have remained unchanged for millions of years.

The Spanish sailors who first navigated these waters in the 16th century understood something fundamental about the South Pacific: here, the wind tells stories. As a student of colonial culinary history, I've always been fascinated by how these maritime routes shaped the global exchange of ingredients. But standing on Mana Island's windward beach, kite harness secured around my waist, I was about to experience these historic trade winds in a far more immediate way.

'You have good balance from your chef days, yes?' asked Temo, our kitesurfing instructor, as he demonstrated the control bar technique. 'Kitchen, kitesurf—both need balance!'

He wasn't wrong. The years of navigating busy kitchens had given me a center of gravity that served me surprisingly well as I learned to harness the wind's power. María, watching from shore, captured video of my ungraceful first attempts—footage that our adult children back in Texas would surely find hilarious.

By our third day of lessons, something clicked. The kite above me became less an adversary and more a partner. The sensation of gliding across the water's surface, powered only by wind that had traveled thousands of miles across open ocean, was intoxicating. We progressed to 'island hopping'—kitesurfing from Mana to nearby uninhabited sandbars and back again.

During one particularly magical afternoon session, we kitesurfed alongside a pod of spinner dolphins. Their playful leaps seemed to mirror our own joy, a cross-species celebration of movement and freedom. The Fijian sun, lower now in the western sky, cast everything in a golden light that reminded me of the saffron-infused broths I'd perfected back in my restaurant days.

'¡Qué maravilla!' María called as we returned to shore, salt-crusted and exhausted. That night, over a dinner of kokoda (Fijian ceviche) that rivaled any I'd made professionally, we agreed that kitesurfing had given us a perspective on the Mamanucas that few tourists experience—a bird's-eye view combined with the intimate connection to the water below.

In Fijian culture, manta rays are considered messengers between our world and the spirit realm. When our resort's marine biologist mentioned a chance to swim with these creatures near the channel between Navini and Tokoriki islands, I felt drawn to the experience in a way that transcended typical tourist curiosity.

'The mantas here can reach up to four meters across,' explained Lani, our guide, as our small boat cut through the morning mist. 'But they're gentle giants—plankton eaters with no stinger.'

We anchored in what seemed like unremarkable waters, but Lani assured us we were at a 'cleaning station'—a coral bommie where smaller fish remove parasites from larger marine creatures, including mantas. Within minutes of entering the water, dark shadows appeared in the distance.

Nothing prepares you for your first manta encounter. These creatures move with a grace that defies their massive size, their wing-like pectoral fins undulating in a rhythm that feels ancient and knowing. As they approached, I instinctively reached for María's hand, both of us suspended in silent awe.

The mantas performed barrel rolls beneath us, their white undersides flashing as they filtered plankton from the water. Their movements reminded me of the flamenco dancers in Valencia—powerful yet precise, each motion carrying cultural memory and purpose.

I've spent decades studying how food connects us to tradition, but watching these creatures—virtually unchanged for millions of years—I felt a different kind of connection to the past. My underwater camera captured images, but no photograph could convey the profound sense of being acknowledged by these intelligent beings as they swooped within inches of us.

Afterward, back on the boat, no one spoke for several minutes. The experience had rendered words inadequate. Lani finally broke the silence: 'In Fiji, we say that if a manta ray chooses to swim with you, good fortune will follow.'

Whether or not the legend holds true, I can attest that something fundamental shifts when you share the water with these magnificent creatures. It's a humbling reminder of our small place in the grand tapestry of life—a lesson I've also found at the heart of every authentic culinary tradition I've studied.

There's something delightfully contradictory about exploring a pristine paradise on a machine that breaks the tropical silence with its mechanical roar. Yet, as María and I mounted our jet skis at Musket Cove Resort's marina, I couldn't deny the childlike excitement bubbling up within me.

'Chef Donald, you ready for some speed?' grinned Josaia, our guide, revving his engine playfully.

'En mi cocina, siempre rápido,' I replied. 'In my kitchen, always fast!'

Our 'Jet Ski Safari' promised visits to five islands in a single day—a water-based road trip through some of the Mamanucas' most spectacular scenery. As we accelerated away from the resort, the sensation was exhilarating—salt spray in my face, the vibration of the engine, and that peculiar feeling of hovering just above the water's surface rather than cutting through it.

Our first stop was Monuriki Island, where Tom Hanks filmed 'Cast Away.' Pulling our jet skis onto the pristine beach, I marveled at how a place so embedded in popular culture could still feel undiscovered. The coconut palms swayed in the trade winds as Josaia prepared fresh fruit on a portable cutting board—a chef's presentation that earned my professional approval.

Throughout the day, we island-hopped across waters that shifted from turquoise to indigo and back again. At Yanuya Island, we met with village elders and participated in a brief kava ceremony—a cultural touchstone that reminded me of how beverages, like food, serve as cultural ambassadors across time.

The waterproof dry bag I'd brought proved invaluable, keeping our valuables safe during the occasional wave-jumping that Josaia encouraged. 'Not bad for an old chef!' he laughed as I landed particularly dramatically, sending water spraying in all directions.

The perspective from a jet ski is unique—you're close enough to the water to feel intimately connected to it, yet moving fast enough to cover distances that would take hours by boat. We circumnavigated entire islands, explored hidden coves inaccessible to larger vessels, and at one point, cut our engines completely to float in silence as a sea turtle surfaced nearby, regarding us with ancient eyes.

As the afternoon waned and we made our way back to Musket Cove, I reflected on how this modern adventure had given us insights into the archipelago's geography that early explorers would have spent weeks discovering. There's a certain privilege in that—one that comes with responsibility to protect these waters for generations to come.

The first time I saw a Sea Bob—a handheld underwater propulsion device that looks like something from a James Bond film—I was skeptical. At sixty-one, I've developed a healthy wariness of gadgets that promise to revolutionize experiences. But María, ever the early adopter, had already booked our underwater 'flight' before I could voice my reservations.

'Trust me, cariño,' she said, squeezing my hand as we walked down to Castaway Island's activity center. 'You'll feel like Superman.'

After a brief training session on the beach with our instructor Mere, we waded into the lagoon, devices in hand. The Sea Bob is remarkably intuitive—squeeze the trigger and you accelerate, release it to slow down. Simple depth controls allow you to dive or rise with minimal effort.

My first underwater 'flight' was nothing short of revelatory. Without the constraints of scuba gear or the limitations of breath when snorkeling, I found myself moving through Castaway's house reef with unprecedented freedom. The Sea Bob pulled me effortlessly through the water, allowing me to cover distances and depths that would have been exhausting otherwise.

We followed Mere through underwater archways, over expanses of staghorn coral, and alongside dropoffs where the reef gave way to deeper blue. Schools of chromis parted before us like living curtains, while curious batfish approached to investigate these strange new creatures invading their domain.

What struck me most was how the experience changed my relationship with the underwater world. Rather than being a visitor—face down at the surface or encumbered by tanks—I moved more like a marine creature myself. There was a fluidity, an integration that felt almost transformative.

At one point, we cut our engines and drifted in a coral garden as Mere pointed out a perfectly camouflaged octopus. In the silence, watching this master of disguise shift patterns across its skin, I thought about the parallels to cooking—how the best dishes often involve transformation and revelation, the unveiling of flavors that were always present but hidden.

Later, comparing notes with María over sunset cocktails, we agreed that the Sea Bob experience had given us a new perspective on marine exploration. 'It's like the difference between walking through a market and dancing through it,' I offered, trying to articulate the sensation.

She nodded, understanding perfectly. 'Next time, we bring the underwater action camera to capture it,' she said, already planning ahead. As always, mi esposa thinks of everything.

Throughout my culinary career, I've often told young chefs that understanding a dish requires seeing it from multiple angles—considering texture, aroma, temperature, and presentation simultaneously. Perhaps that's why parasailing above the Mamanuca archipelago felt strangely familiar despite being utterly new: it offered a comprehensive perspective impossible to grasp from sea level.

'It's completely safe, Mr. Sanchez,' assured Tomasi, our parasailing operator at Plantation Island Resort, as he secured our harnesses. 'Just like floating on air.'

María and I opted for tandem flight, strapped side-by-side in a seated position. As the boat accelerated and our parachute caught the wind, we lifted off with surprising gentleness—no stomach-dropping sensation, just a gradual ascension until we dangled approximately 100 meters above the Fijian waters.

The silence was the first surprise. Once aloft, the boat engine's roar faded, replaced by nothing but wind and occasional bursts of our own laughter. The second revelation was the color palette below us—a masterpiece of blues I'd never imagined existed, from pale turquoise over sand flats to deep cobalt above channels, all framed by the white lace of breaking waves on outer reefs.

'¡Mira los colores!' María gasped, squeezing my hand as we soared higher. 'It's like God's own palette!'

From our aerial vantage, the interconnectedness of the ecosystem became strikingly apparent. Channels cut through reefs like veins, mangroves fringed certain shorelines like protective embraces, and the tidal patterns created visible currents that swirled between islands. I found myself thinking of how these same waterways had guided ancient Polynesian navigators and later European explorers, shaping the cultural exchanges that fascinate me professionally.

We spotted a manta ray's dark shadow against a sandy bottom, a small reef shark patrolling its territory, and most dramatically, a pod of dolphins cutting through the water with purposeful grace. The polarized sunglasses I'd brought specifically for this trip proved invaluable, cutting glare and enhancing visibility of the marine life below.

Our fifteen minutes aloft passed all too quickly, and soon Tomasi was reeling us back toward the boat with practiced precision. As our feet touched down on the deck, I realized I was grinning like a schoolboy.

'You look twenty years younger,' María laughed, adjusting her windblown hair.

'I feel it,' I replied truthfully. There's something about seeing a place from above that contextualizes your own smallness while simultaneously expanding your understanding—a paradoxical gift that, like the best culinary experiences, leaves you both satisfied and hungry for more.