The Gulf of Mexico in July is hot and humid, though its severity is lessened by the jubilant water. The tour group I was in maneuvered methodically along a lucious reef, but I was anxious to explore on my own. As soon as our guide uttered the words “free swim”, I was gone—back to an alluring cave-like hole, and back to those strange, iridescent indigo fish I’d seen earlier.

I’d been swimming in other places before, but none were outside Canada, and none had the same feeling you get in a reef. In a place like Georgian Bay, it’s all hunky dory if you’re just in it for the waves or the scenery, but the Gulf is different. It has fish that come in colours, as opposed to shades, its vegetation is vibrant enough to actually compete with the fish, and it doesn’t feel like just a beach. In other places, the beach is a thing to do: you ask people “do you want to go to the beach?”, and they understand it to mean “Yay! Swimming!” or “Yay! I have the perfect bikini!”. In the reef, it’s not quite the same. The reef is an experience, it has such a colossal amount of stuff that it’s an entirely different world. There are so many other living things—big and bright ones—you’re no longer partaking in fun activity, it’s a cultural experience, the way a trip to Asia or Europe would be. The fish might act shy or skittish, or they might be open to foreigners and come right up to those very tasty looking things on the end of your feet. It all depends. But I think it’s worth it either way.