The Film

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When we first set out to document Terry's journey, I didn't fully grasp what we were stepping into. As the director, I settled in for a 10 day voyage with my small crew aboard the Sea Venture, eager to begin filming but unsure of what we might capture. We were here to tell a story—Terry's story—but within the first few hours of filming him, it became clear this was something far deeper.

Terry spoke about Willy, his friend the giant manta ray, with a kind of reverence I hadn't expected. He didn't just describe encounters; he described a relationship—one built over years. It was without spoken human words, but at every turn developed into a deepening trust. It was as though the two of them had developed a private language, one that transcended anything I'd ever seen between human and animal. At times, I found myself questioning if I could even comprehend it.

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Two days into the voyage, we awoke for our arrival at San Benedicto Island. Nothing prepared me for that moment. The island rose from the sea like a fortress from another world—harsh, jagged, and utterly inhospitable to human life. I felt like I was stepping into the world of an old adventure film, something out of King Kong.

When Terry's wife, Dawn, turned to him and asked, “Did you ever think you'd see this place again?”—he crumbled. Tears welled in his eyes as he whispered, “I'm home.” In that instant, I understood just how much this island meant to him.

At the South Anchorage, the crew prepared to dive. Terry was calm, focused. He rattled off names—Chevy, Rosy, Tippy, and Finger—manta rays he had known during the 19 years he dove these waters. To him, they were old friends.

The sea was clear, the light dancing below the surface. Sharks circled lazily near the boat. Then, with cameras rolling, Terry plunged in.

Twenty minutes into the dive, I was floating through an alien world of light and coral, trying to keep track of everything, when something shifted. The familiar crackle of shrimp in the water seemed to fade, and then—two enormous black forms materialized from the blue.

Giant Pacific mantas.

They were unlike anything I'd ever seen—ancient, majestic beings moving with impossible grace. As they drew near, everything else fell away. My mind sharpened into a single point of focus.

And then it happened.

Terry, with his yellow gloves stretched out, swam slowly toward one of them. He started waving. And then… the manta ray stopped. It stopped, turned in the water, and looked directly at him.

What happened next… you'll have to see to believe.

Fortunately, our incredible underwater cinematographer, Johnny Friday, was there to capture it all. That night, reviewing the footage under the dim lights of the galley, I realized we had witnessed something profound. Something rare and deeply moving.

This wasn't just a documentary. It was a window into a friendship that defied explanation—a story that would change how people see the ocean, and the creatures who call it home.

I couldn't wait to get back to the editing room. We had a film to make and it was going to be pure magic.

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