Coral Reefs in Peril: Diving, Photography, and the Fight to Save Them

I live in Iceland, a unique and special place with incredible scenery and topography. The diving here is equally unique, with special species such as wolffish, incredible ice diving, and even the world’s first dive sites like the hydrothermal vents of North Iceland. But it’s also a tough place to stay motivated to dive. Water temperatures are rarely above 7 °C (45 °F) anywhere on the island, even in summer, and ocean visibility can often be poor. To keep my passion for diving alive, I dream of the tropical seas—particularly coral reefs. The bounty and life of those waters are like nothing else; a healthy coral reef is truly the Hollywood blockbuster of the dive world.

I’ve been fortunate to spend the better part of the past 12 years diving the world’s most iconic coral reef systems—photographing, studying, and simply being awestruck by them. From the incredible hard corals of Raja Ampat to the walls of the Red Sea and the fading giants of the Caribbean, coral reefs have shaped my work, my expeditions, and my photography. But the simple truth is this: the reefs are changing, and not slowly. In some cases, they are disappearing right before our eyes. For those of us who dive, photograph, obsess over, and dream of coral reefs, this isn’t just a change in scenery—it could mark the end of the pinnacle of diving.

Over the past two years, the fourth global coral bleaching event—the most widespread and severe ever recorded—has swept across 84% of the world’s coral reefs. Just take a second to think about that: eighty-four percent. Nearly every coral system that divers know and love, from the Pacific to the Atlantic, has been affected. Global coral cover has already declined by more than 50% since the 1950s, and the rate of degradation is accelerating. For photographers like myself, who rely on vibrant coral to bring color, composition, and storytelling into our work, this isn’t just sad—it’s disorienting. A location I photographed five years ago might now be unrecognizable: bleached, barren, and lifeless. The creative energy that coral reefs provide is disappearing with them.

One of the most fascinating places to dive is the Red Sea—a lush reef system and, for all my time diving, by far the best within a single direct flight from Europe. Both the north and south of the Red Sea have provided millions of divers with mind-blowing experiences. But over the past 12 months, reports have been coming in from many divers I know that the Red Sea has also begun to succumb to coral bleaching, especially in the south.

Once thought to be more resilient to bleaching due to its unique genetics and higher thermal tolerance, the Red Sea now shows clear signs of stress. Coral cover has decreased by around 14% over the last decade.

The Red Sea still contains species that can tolerate warmer temperatures, thanks in part to unique strains of zooxanthellae, but they are increasingly undermined by local pressures: desalination outflows, wastewater discharge, unchecked tourism, and sedimentation from coastal construction. I remember diving Daedalus Reef eight years ago and being overwhelmed by the diversity of hard and soft coral—the endless palette of color, the drama of it all. Yet now I see the images from friends who have dived there recently, and in those photos are long swathes of bone-white skeletons. For a wide-angle photographer, it is heartbreaking. The structure is still there, but the vibrancy and life have gone.

Then there’s Raja Ampat. For now, it remains the crown jewel of coral reef diving. Home to over 600 species of hard coral and more than 1,700 reef fish species, its reefs still deliver the kind of raw biodiversity that will blow your mind. I’ve had shoots there that felt like underwater festivals—schools of baitfish as far as the eye could see, spiraling batfish, pygmy seahorses clinging to sea fans, and coral gardens so perfect they looked artificial. I always tell people that Raja Ampat has the best corals on Earth—the only issue is you have to move all the fish out of the way before you can see them.

But even in Raja, the alarm bells are starting to ring. One of the most visible and immediate threats is the crown-of-thorns starfish outbreak, driven by increased nutrients entering the water from human settlements. These predators can destroy large swaths of coral in just weeks. Local dive guides and conservationists have resorted to injecting them with vinegar to curb the spread—a valiant but exhausting effort.

Part of the reason Raja Ampat’s reefs were so well preserved for so long was the lack of human settlement. But as the dive industry has exploded there, so have the number of settlements and liveaboards. It’s an irony that the very quality that made Raja famous—its pristine nature—has now attracted the kind of human presence that threatens it.

There have been reports from Raja of bleaching during the most recent season, and now, as we approach the new Raja season, it will be interesting—if sobering—to see how things have changed yet again. Raja Ampat used to be the best place in the world to capture images of healthy coral reefs. But last year, the most memorable and most powerful storytelling photos from the region were not of its beauty, but of its bleaching. The tide has turned.

Photographing in Raja today feels like a race against time. The reefs are still magnificent, but how long will that last? Photographers have shifted their focus—not only to capture the beauty, but also to document what might soon be gone. Every dive feels like it could be the last time you see that particular coral bommie or that densely packed wall of color in such healthy condition

In the Caribbean, however, the shift began many years ago—and it has been brutal. Florida’s coral reefs have lost over 90% of their hard coral cover. In the wider Caribbean, more than 50% of reef structure has disappeared since the 1970s. White band disease has decimated key reef-building species like staghorn coral (Acropora cervicornis) and elkhorn coral (Acropora palmata).

Bonaire was hailed for years as a conservation success story, yet even it is now starting to buckle under the combined weight of warming waters, coral disease, and human pressure. Other islands—Jamaica, Roatán, and parts of the Bahamas—are in even worse condition, with many reef systems now functionally dead.

I recently dived in Cuba, once famous for some of the most impressive reefs in the Caribbean, and it was a depressing sight. The reefs were largely dead, with fields of dead gorgonians whose branches were overgrown with algae. There was no color, no life. And this was supposed to be the pinnacle of Caribbean coral reef diving.

Local people told me that the collapse happened two years ago, when sustained water temperatures above 30 °C (86 °F) largely wiped out the area.

What makes the Caribbean particularly tragic is that it was the training ground for generations of divers. It’s where many people had their first taste of reef life, took their first underwater photos, and caught their first glimpse of that alien, colorful world. That world is no longer there.

Adding to this crisis is the dramatic increase in diver traffic worldwide. Dive tourism has grown year after year, with millions of new divers certified annually—especially through entry-level programs. While growth is a positive sign for the industry, it also brings more fin kicks, more sunscreen runoff, more careless buoyancy, and more strain on already fragile reefs. I’ve been on boats recently where a single coral head sees dozens of divers each day, many crowding around the same cleaning station or subject. I’ve watched photographers rest their strobes on living coral, divers grab at sea fans to steady themselves, and groups bottlenecking at swim-throughs, stirring up sand and stress. The ocean can handle a lot, but not this level of pressure.

We have to acknowledge that divers are both witnesses to—and contributors to—the problem. The more popular a site becomes, the faster it degrades unless it is managed with extreme care. Marine parks with limited daily permits, strong local enforcement, and diver education programs are vital, yet still not the norm. And as more people take up underwater photography—particularly with the proliferation of compact systems and smartphone housings—the temptation to get closer, stay longer, and chase the shot increases. Photography, which should be a tool for advocacy, can sometimes become a weapon of wear if practiced irresponsibly.

What does all of this mean for the future of coral reef diving? In simple terms: it’s going to get harder. The places we love will continue to decline unless massive changes are made—not only in marine management, but also in global climate policy.

Some reefs, like those in the northern Red Sea or certain pockets of Raja Ampat, may hang on as climate refuges. They could become the Galápagos of coral diving—rare and tightly regulated. Others, especially in the Caribbean, may transition into something entirely different: artificial reefs, wreck diving sites, or simply training grounds. The very concept of “reef diving” could change dramatically within our lifetimes.

For photographers, this means a shift in approach. We’ll have to move from simply capturing beauty to telling stories of resilience, loss, and conservation. We’ll need to document the scars as much as the spectacles. I—and many other shooters—have started incorporating more wide-angle shots that show damaged bleached sections, crown-of-thorns infestations, and fishless reefs alongside the beauty. It’s not about being negative; it’s about being honest. Our images can inform and inspire action, but only if they reflect reality.

Despite everything, the ocean’s resilience still impresses me. I’ve seen coral fragments regrow, fish return to protected areas, and community-led marine reserves turn things around. There is a future for coral reef diving, but it will require a different mindset. We can no longer afford to treat reefs as infinite resources. They are living systems that need breathing space, protection, and our help.

If you’re a diver reading this, ask yourself where your next dive trip dollars are going. Are they supporting local conservation? Are they aligned with ethical operators? If you’re a photographer, ask yourself whether your pursuit of the perfect shot is coming at the reef’s expense. Are your fins off the bottom? Is your light disturbing sensitive marine life? Are your images contributing to education—or just consumption?

The future of coral reef diving is still being written. Whether it becomes a story of irreversible loss or resilient rebirth depends on what we choose to do. The reef doesn’t need sympathy. It needs action. As divers, photographers, and citizens of a warming world, it’s our responsibility to document, report, and inform the public about the reality of what’s happening to coral reefs across the globe.