Once it’s passed Hugh turns back towards me. Slowly, he points at his chest, then his eyes, then towards the staghorn coral where the butterfly wrasse were. Then he flashes a thumbs-up, pats me on the back and swims away.

There’s no longer any doubt in my mind that Hugh saw them too. I found the butterfly wrasse. I did it! My relief is so euphoric that I start to swim away from the coral. I’m ready to be back on the boat, speeding towards Cairns. The sooner I can tell Millie, the better.

But something tugs at my thoughts, and I remember I need a picture, which I’m not confident I have. My excitement ebbs. I turn back to the coral, watching and waiting for the butterfly wrasse to return. After a few beats, I notice the movement of other divers around me, but I don’t look away. Come on, I think. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this desperate. Please – just one fish. There’s no way that the picture I took earlier will turn out, the fish darted away too quickly. I just need one clear picture, I think. I feel so frustrated that tears start to form at the edges of my eyes.

I press my fingers down on the top of my goggles and blow forcefully out of my nose to clear my mask of water. I keep watching the coral. I focus on the millions of polyps dotting its surface like pores. I can’t bear to think about the photograph on my camera that is undoubtedly blurry and completely unhelpful. Angelfish and cardinalfish and grunt swim by me. There are striped fish and spotted fish and neon fish and rainbow fish. There are no butterfly wrasse.

Miguel hovers nearby for long enough that I think he’s spotted something, but just when I turn to see, he swims away. Eventually, I hear the familiar clang of a carabiner on Vanessa’s oxygen tank. This time she’s actually calling us back. I feel a pit of desperation in my stomach that is so heavy I feel like I will sink to the bottom and never come up again. I have failed Millie. No one will take my word as gospel truth that an entire fish species is still alive. Especially since I’m not even a marine biologist.

I let myself cry.

I don’t stop crying until I am on the boat, my BCD shucked off, my weight belt littered on the floor, and my mask placed back in the communal equipment bucket. I feel silly crying in public without a snorkel to hide my tears, so I sniffle and head straight for the cabin to shower, hoping I can quell my tears by the time I’m done getting cleaned up.