Dana vs The Deep: A Czech Mermaid’s First Snorkelling Showdown

The sea around Phú Quốc glimmered like liquid glass, calm and endless, as if inviting us in. We’d booked the Luxury Speedboat Trip with John’s Tours — four islands, fifteen travellers, and one brilliant guide named Zoe who managed to keep everyone smiling, floating, and fed while piloting a day of sunshine and sea.

For Dana, this was no ordinary outing. It was her first ever snorkelling experience. From the moment we left the harbour, she listed every aquatic disaster that could possibly occur. “What if a fish bites me? What if something swims under me? What if the big ones attack?” By the time we reached Xuong Island, she looked ready for battle rather than relaxation.

Then came the jump.

With one deep breath and a heroic squeal, she leapt from the back of the boat and into the warm, jade-green water. A moment later she surfaced, sputtering but smiling, mask slightly crooked, looking more victorious than nervous. “I did it!” she shouted, her voice muffled by the snorkel. And just like that, the adventure began.

The first world that unfolded beneath her was alive and mesmerising. Clouds of black-and-silver striped Sergeant Major fish (Abudefduf vaigiensis) darted around us, curious but cautious. Dana reached out, tentatively, and they scattered instantly. “They’re scared of me!” she laughed through her snorkel, sounding half-relieved, half-offended.

Next came the yellow-and-white butterflyfish (Chaetodon auriga), delicate creatures that moved like floating ribbons, weaving in and out of the coral. A single electric blue damselfish (Chrysiptera cyanea) zipped past - the only one of its kind we saw all day - flashing like a sapphire in sunlight.

Below us sprawled a coral garden of impossible shapes and colours. There were bright green staghorn corals (Acropora cervicornis) that looked like moose antlers, soft mushroom corals (Fungia fungites) sitting upside down like pastel plates, and even a volcano-shaped mound with a wide hole at its centre, home to darting little wrasse (Thalassoma lunare) that flitted in and out like commuters in a coral city.

At Buom Island, the water turned a deeper shade of turquoise, warm as a bath and clear as glass. Then came the real showstopper — the rainbow fish, a magnificent parrotfish (Scarus psittacus), its scales gleaming turquoise and gold, with flashes of pink and orange that looked almost painted on. It glided lazily across the coral, nibbling with its beak-like mouth, scraping at algae and leaving trails of pale sand behind. Dana floated above it, mesmerised. “It looks like someone coloured it in with highlighters,” she said through her snorkel. I took a deep breath, dived down, and glided near the coral, feeling weightless, the sounds of the world replaced by the quiet crackle of the reef. When I surfaced, Dana was floating above me, clapping through her snorkel like a proud coach.

“Show-off!” she called, when I reached her.

“Research purposes,” I replied.

She laughed — or tried to, because laughter and snorkels are not a good mix.

Eventually, we swam back toward the boat, our bodies light and sun-drenched. That’s when Dana faced her next challenge: the ladder. It was short, wobbly, and designed by someone with the legs of a flamingo. But she was determined. With a few strong kicks and a triumphant grunt, she hauled herself up, dripping, exhilarated, and glowing with pride.

Zoe, ever the wonder woman, caught the moment on the drone. The camera rose higher and higher, showing us waving from the deck — tiny dots against an endless expanse of turquoise sea and green islands. It looked like paradise, and for a moment, it truly was.

But beneath that beauty, something darker stirred. We saw people touching coral, feeding fish, and at one point I found myself face-to-face with a drifting blue plastic bag that moved like a ghostly jellyfish. It was sobering — a reminder that this fragile paradise needs protecting before it becomes another underwater landfill.

Back on the boat, Dana collapsed onto the seat, her hair wild, her grin wide. “You see?” she said, “no fish attacked me!”

“Maybe they took one look and thought you’d win,” I said.

She chuckled, still breathless. “Next time,” she added, “I’ll swim deeper.”

And that’s how the Czech mermaid was born — one brave leap, one bright blue fish, and one ladder conquered in style.