 The Distance Between Consumption and Consequence A few days ago, during a boat trip in Mayotte, an unexpected conversation brought me back several decades. On board was a philosophy teacher. Between discussions about coral reefs, ocean temperatures and the state of the lagoon, she suddenly brought me back to memories from high school that I thought I had left far behind : Rousseau, Voltaire, progress, nature… and an old question humanity seems to have been asking itself for centuries without ever truly answering. What is progress? On my way home, another image resurfaced in my mind. A scene from Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps. A journalist asks the richest man in the world what his limit is. The answer comes instantly: “More.” Always more. More growth. More comfort. More consumption. More speed. More status. But can a civilization built around the idea of endless “more” truly continue forever on a finite planet  Rousseau versus Voltaire In many ways, our modern world feels like a contemporary confrontation between Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Voltaire. Voltaire deeply believed in human progress. In science, reason and knowledge as tools capable of improving society and freeing humanity from ignorance. And it would be difficult to say he was wrong. Never before has humanity possessed such technological power, scientific understanding and access to information. We can monitor oceans from space. Predict climatic events. Measure sea surface temperatures in real time. Understand the mechanisms behind coral bleaching and global warming. But Rousseau saw another danger. The possibility that humanity could slowly disconnect itself from the living world. A society where material comfort, social recognition and the constant search for status would gradually replace what truly matters. Looking at modern life today, it is difficult not to see how relevant his concerns still feel. Consumption is no longer merely economic. It has become deeply tied to identity. We no longer simply buy objects. We buy an image of ourselves. A sense of belonging. Social validation. Social media, marketing and the attention economy have transformed human desire into a permanent engine of growth. Perhaps this is the real contradiction of our era: collectively, we understand the ecological dangers approaching us, yet socially we continue accelerating in the opposite direction.  Meanwhile, the ocean keeps warming For a long time, the consequences of our lifestyles remained distant and invisible to most people. But today, the oceans are beginning to tell another story. Scientists have observed repeated global records in ocean temperatures over recent years. Even more concerning, several climate models now suggest that a new El Niño event could develop in the coming months, potentially shaping the year 2027 with intensified marine heatwaves and climatic instability. In the past, El Niño represented a temporary peak within a relatively stable system. Today, the baseline itself appears to have changed. And this is precisely what worries climate scientists: a future El Niño occurring while the oceans are already abnormally warm could amplify marine heat stress across the planet. For coral reefs, the implications are enormous. Corals can sometimes survive a crisis. A heatwave. A cyclone. A bleaching event. But what they endure less and less is the absence of recovery time. Each new thermal anomaly strikes ecosystems that often have not yet recovered from the previous one. In Mayotte, reefs still bear the scars of the 2024 bleaching event and the passage of Cyclone Chido. And now, outbreaks of Acanthaster planci are adding another layer of pressure onto already weakened ecosystems. Beneath the surface, agents from the Parc naturel marin de Mayotte inject vinegar into these starfish in an attempt to limit the damage. A discreet battle. Almost silent. While thousands of kilometers away, the world continues consuming, producing and accelerating as if coral reefs were nothing more than distant tropical postcards disconnected from everyday life.  Economic time versus the time of life Modern society operates through speed:
Perhaps this is one of the greatest contradictions of our time: we have created a civilization capable of moving endlessly faster, without truly accepting that nature itself operates within biological limits. The issue may not be progress itself, but a model of progress that forgot the planet also needs time to breathe, recover and régénération  Rediscovering something essential When human beings suffer, they often try to fill the emptiness. Some lose themselves in alcohol, drugs, excess, endless consumption or the constant search for external validation. Others, almost instinctively, turn toward the sea, the mountains or the forests. As if beneath centuries of modernity, something inside us still recognizes nature as a form of grounding impossible to replace. I often feel it at sea. I gear up. I descend to ten meters. And suddenly, a group of offshore bottlenose dolphins emerges from the blue. At that moment, nothing from the modern world truly exists anymore. No status. No algorithms. No consumption. Only the presence of life itself. Amother dolphin slowly approaches with her calf. Her gaze locks onto mine. She almost studies me. Looks through me. As if, within the silence of the ocean, something is trying to understand who I really am beneath human appearances. For a few seconds, I experience the strange sensation that she perceives something deeper : my presence, my intention, perhaps even a part of what we call a soul. And then comes acceptance. A suspended moment where two living beings recognize each other within the same living world. And in moments like these, something becomes obvious: nature is not separate from humanity. It may simply be the place we drifted away from without ever completely ceasing to need it. Perhaps Rousseau understood this long before us : despite all the artifices of progress, human beings remain profoundly connected to the living world. Because in the middle of the ocean, humanity briefly stops trying to possess the world. And simply becomes part of it again.  When “more” becomes “less”
We built a civilization around the belief that more would always mean better. More comfort. More speed. More consumption. More social status. But somewhere along the way, more quietly became less. Less silence. Less human connection. Less connection to the living world. In our endless pursuit of comfort, accumulation and recognition, have we slowly lost the ability to see the extraordinary gift nature still offers us? At sea, far from notifications, algorithms and the permanent noise of modern life, human interactions become strangely simple again. Honest. Direct. Real. As if, detached for a few hours from the artificial rhythm of consumption, people naturally reconnect with something essential. Perhaps this is what Rousseau feared long before climate change existed : not only that society would disconnect itself from nature, but that it would eventually disconnect from itself. And perhaps coral reefs are simply the first visible witnesses of that separation. When the Animal Still Has the Right to Say No  The current was brutal that morning. Suspended in the blue, I kicked hard just to hold my position as a reef manta ray emerged from the haze. My objective was simple: obtain an identification photograph for the database of Manta Trust. But the manta kept its distance. Every time I tried to close the gap, she adjusted her trajectory. Not in panic. Not aggressively. Simply with a form of silent clarity. Today, I was not welcome. A few seconds later, she vanished into the milky turbulence of the current until her silhouette dissolved completely into the ocean. No photograph. No identification shot. Only absence.  When I lifted my head above the surface, two boats were observing the scene nearby. I could already feel the invisible gaze that now surrounds almost every interaction between humans and wild animals. Some perhaps envied my presence in the water. Others may have questioned it. Was this still observation? Field work? Conservation? Or simply another intrusion into a world that does not belong to us? A few months earlier, a documentary aired by Arte reignited public emotion around the last captive orcas of Marineland. Filmed by drone inside empty pools invaded by algae and silence, the images deeply shocked audiences. For decades, marine parks had sold the story of a magical connection between humans and the wild. Today, that narrative no longer works. And yet, I grew up with that fascination too. Like many children of my generation, I was raised on Flipper, on the imagery of marine parks and dolphins interacting with humans. Back then, we saw magic. I plead guilty too. As an adult living in Antibes, I visited Marineland without truly questioning what existed behind the pools and performances. At the time, I still knew very little about the marine world. Like many others, I was simply fascinated by these majestic animals evolving in direct contact with humans.  Then things slowly began to change. One day, a colleague told me about the documentary Blackfish and the growing controversy surrounding marine parks. I still remember my response: “At the rate things are going, maybe one day these captive animals will become the last witnesses of a planet humanity failed to protect.” Like remnants of a lost world. Looking back, that sentence reveals the mindset of an era in transition. We were beginning to understand the suffering linked to captivity, while simultaneously discovering another fear entirely: the fear of losing the wild itself. Our perspective has changed. What we accepted yesterday is no longer accepted today. And this evolution goes far beyond captivity alone. Even in human relationships, behaviors once normalized are now viewed differently. Our relationship with nature seems to be following the same path. Little by little, we are redefining the very notion of consent in our interactions with the living world.  But where should the line be drawn? Because at sea, reality is often far more nuanced than social media debates suggest. In Mayotte, the Bertrand brothers of SeaBlue Safari have spent nearly thirty years observing marine mammals. Mathias recently explained to me that the real problem does not necessarily come from professionals following strict interaction guidelines, but rather from the growing number of casual recreational boaters chasing “the perfect moment” for social media. Experience changes everything. Over time, some operators learn to read animals almost instinctively. They know when entering the water creates stress. They know when it is time to stop. Just yesterday, off the coast of Mayotte, a group of spinner dolphins appeared near the boat accompanied by newborn calves. The young dolphins were still swimming clumsily beside their mothers, in that fragile stage of life where they are simply learning how to survive. Nobody entered the water. Not out of frustration. Not out of lack of interest. But precisely because these animals were learning how to live. The boat remained at a distance. The engine idling softly. Then someone quietly said: “Today, we leave them alone.” No debate. No performance. No content to produce. Just the simple acceptance that some moments perhaps do not need to be turned into images. Because despite what we sometimes want to believe, animals communicate very clearly with us. A disturbed dolphin moves away. A manta ray keeps its distance. A stressed animal changes its behavior. The ocean rarely lies.  The real issue is that wildlife encounters have now become a global emotional industry. In the past, observing large wild animals required time and experience. Today, anyone can produce their own “wild encounter” using action cameras, drones or selfie sticks. As the Arte documentary accurately stated: “The action camera has replaced the harpoon.” We no longer capture bodies. We capture images. And the boundary between awareness, fascination and consumption of wildlife is becoming increasingly blurred. The paradox is that the very images capable of protecting wildlife can also increase pressure on it. For years, photographers in La Réunion created extraordinary images of humpback whales. These photographs inspired admiration and created a genuine emotional connection with the marine world. But they also created desire. People no longer wanted simply to look at whales. They wanted to enter the frame themselves. With social media, wildlife encounters gradually became experiences to live and share. More boats arrived. More swimmers entered the water. Until the marine park authorities in La Réunion were forced to impose much stricter rules to reduce pressure on the animals. Some photographers became frustrated by these restrictions. And yet, the situation reveals a deeper irony: the same imagery that helped people fall in love with whales also contributed — indirectly — to making these encounters more crowded and harder to regulate. Images create awareness. But they also create attraction.  And sometimes, attraction itself becomes a threat. Media figures such as Ocean Ramsey perfectly embody this modern ambiguity. For some, she helps transform public perception of sharks and contributes to their protection. For others, she turns conservation into permanent spectacle, where the animal becomes part of a personal visual performance. The truth probably lies somewhere in between. Because images have also changed the world. Without films, photographers or documentaries, how many people would ever have developed empathy for whales, dolphins or sharks? Organizations such as SeaLegacy or The Nature Conservancy understand this perfectly: powerful imagery can transform public perception and reconnect people emotionally to the living world. And paradoxically, it is those same images that now push society to question our right to approach wild animals in the first place. There is also another uncomfortable reality behind these debates. Modern society sometimes places enormous moral attention on visible interactions between humans and wildlife — a swimmer near a whale, a drone above an orca — while remaining strangely disconnected from the far larger environmental pressures we collectively normalize every day. Plastic waste. Coastal urbanization. Overconsumption. Invisible pollution. The slow destruction of natural habitats.  The irony is difficult to ignore. Many people who would morally condemn a photographer entering the water with a marine animal also continue, often unconsciously, participating in lifestyles that have a far greater impact on oceans and ecosystems. This does not mean wildlife interactions should escape ethical questioning. But perhaps conservation becomes dangerous when it focuses only on visible symbols while ignoring the much deeper systems quietly destroying the natural world itself. Wildlife photography is therefore entering an uncomfortable new territory — one where photographers must question not only the final image, but also the way it was obtained. Did the animal have a choice? Could it leave? Did we respect its refusal? That morning, in the current, the manta ray gave me a very simple answer. She left. And perhaps the true challenge of modern wildlife photography begins precisely there: accepting that the wild still has the right to say no. As I write these lines, I suddenly think again about the child I once was. The one who grew up with Flipper, the orcas of Marineland and that naive fascination for an ocean world I did not yet understand.  I also think about another figure from my childhood: Michael Jackson.
And for reasons I cannot fully explain, one song suddenly comes back to me: Man in the Mirror. Because beneath all these debates about captivity, drones, social media, photographers and tourism, perhaps there is a much simpler — and far more uncomfortable — question: Before judging others, are we truly capable of looking honestly at ourselves? So perhaps the real question is no longer: “What are others doing for the planet?” But rather: “What am I personally willing to change to protect the planet?” A form of personal responsibility. Almost a reflection inspired by John F. Kennedy: “Ask not what your country can do for you…” Because in the end, everything may indeed begin there. With the man in the mirror. In Mayotte, the quiet battle against crown-of-thorns starfish has begun  In late April, agents from the Parc naturel marin de Mayotte carried out a series of interventions across several lagoon sites to limit the spread of one of the Indo-Pacific’s most feared coral predators: the Acanthaster planci. Around Choizil, reefs already weakened by the 2024 coral bleaching event and the passage of Cyclone Chido showed fresh feeding scars and unusually high concentrations of adult individuals. Another layer of pressure on coral ecosystems already struggling to recover. During the first intervention on April 29, park agents treated 86 crown-of-thorns starfish. A second mission on May 5 confirmed the effectiveness of the protocol, with numerous dead individuals found on site. Additional treatments were also conducted around Choizil, the northern white sand islet and Plage du Préfet. Behind these discreet underwater operations lies one of the most complex ecological phenomena affecting coral reefs across the Indo-Pacific.  A predator hidden beneath the reef The crown-of-thorns starfish is not an invasive species in Mayotte. It naturally occurs throughout the Indian Ocean and has always been part of reef ecosystems.Yet biologically, it is unlike almost any other starfish. With more than twenty arms and a diameter sometimes exceeding 70 centimeters, adult individuals are covered in long venomous spines capable of inflicting extremely painful wounds. Beneath its almost prehistoric appearance hides a highly efficient coral predator. Its feeding strategy is both fascinating and unsettling. The animal extrudes its stomach directly onto living coral colonies, digesting the tissue externally before absorbing it. What remains behind is a stark white coral skeleton — a ghostly scar across the reef. At low densities, this predation is part of the natural balance of coral ecosystems. By feeding on dominant coral species, crown-of-thorns starfish can even contribute to reef diversity and renewal. The problem begins when populations suddenly explode.  A biological machine built for proliferation The crown-of-thorns starfish possesses an extraordinary reproductive capacity. A single female can release tens of millions of eggs during a spawning season. The larvae then drift within the plankton before eventually settling onto reefs. Under normal ecological conditions, the vast majority of these larvae never survive to adulthood. Many are consumed by fish and invertebrates or dispersed by currents. But when environmental conditions shift, survival rates can rise dramatically. Scientists believe nutrient-rich waters may play a major role. Runoff, erosion, organic pollution and increased nutrient input can stimulate phytoplankton growth — the primary food source for crown-of-thorns larvae. More plankton can mean more larval survival. The result can be devastating: within only a few years, entire reef systems may become overwhelmed by thousands of coral-eating starfish.  Why don’t predators stop them? It is one of the great paradoxes of the crown-of-thorns outbreak phenomenon.How can such a destructive species proliferate within ecosystems filled with predators? Part of the answer lies in the animal’s own defenses. Juveniles remain vulnerable, but adults quickly become a living fortress. Their long venomous spines deter most predators, making mature individuals extremely difficult — and dangerous — to consume. One of the few known natural predators is the Charonia tritonis, a large carnivorous sea snail capable of feeding on starfish despite their defenses. Yet giant tritons have themselves become increasingly rare across many Indo-Pacific reefs, partly because of shell collecting. Several fish species may also prey on juveniles or small individuals, including the Balistoides viridescens, the Pseudobalistes flavimarginatus and possibly the iconic Cheilinus undulatus. But even healthy predator populations often struggle to control outbreaks once numbers begin to rise. When predator pressure decreases while environmental conditions favor larval survival, crown-of-thorns populations can rapidly spiral out of control.  Reefs already under pressure For years, coral reefs across the Indian Ocean have been increasingly affected by marine heatwaves and mass bleaching events linked to rising ocean temperatures. In 2024, large sections of Mayotte’s lagoon suffered severe bleaching. Then came Cyclone Chido, adding physical destruction to already weakened reef systems. Within this context, crown-of-thorns outbreaks become more than a simple ecological imbalance. They represent an additional stress imposed on ecosystems already pushed close to their limits. Park agents observed recently consumed coral colonies on several sites, confirming that active predation is ongoing. The goal of the interventions is therefore not to eradicate the species, but to locally reduce outbreak intensity and give damaged reefs a chance to recover.  A delicate underwater operation To control the outbreaks, divers inject vinegar directly into the starfish. The method is relatively inexpensive, easy to deploy and considered to have limited environmental impact compared to other chemical protocols. Death usually occurs within a few hours.Yet the operation remains delicate. Divers must handle highly venomous animals while working above fragile coral structures, often in difficult underwater conditions. Monitoring also requires repeated visits to assess mortality and track the evolution of local populations. These interventions are less about eliminating a species than attempting to buy time for the reef itself.  Predator of coral… or symptom of a reef under stress?
The crown-of-thorns starfish is often portrayed as the villain of coral reefs. But reality is more complicated. This species did not suddenly appear in Mayotte. It has always been part of the lagoon’s ecosystem. What is changing today are the ecological balances surrounding it. Reefs weakened by marine heatwaves. Cyclones growing more intense. Declining water quality. Fewer natural predators. Ecosystems struggling to recover after repeated disturbances. In that sense, the crown-of-thorns starfish may be less the root cause of reef decline than the visible symptom of reefs already under severe pressure. Beneath the surface, marine park agents are trying to contain the immediate damage. But behind every starfish injected with vinegar lies a far larger question: how long can coral reefs continue resisting the combined pressures of climate change and human impact? 
The buoys drift away, the lagoon opens.
The engine barely hums before the shoreline slips behind us. On board, the air still carries the weight of heat, but ahead, the horizon turns liquid, almost unreal. I’m with Seablue Safari, guided by Mathias, a pilot who knows these waters the way one knows a familiar path. We’ve barely left the coast when he begins to explain. Here, nothing is accidental. Mayotte’s lagoon is not simply a sheltered body of water. It is a slow construction, born from fire, shaped by coral, and carved by currents. To understand it, you have to go back long before the mantas, long before the dolphins — back to the very origin of the island. A landscape that began forming millions of years ago, with its present contours gradually taking shape around 3 to 4 million years ago. 
Origins: an island born from fire
Long before it became a lagoon, Mayotte was a volcano. Located in the Comoros archipelago, the island formed through volcanic activity estimated between 8 and 10 million years ago. Like many tropical islands, it was later colonized by corals — organisms capable of building, generation after generation, vast living structures. Around the island, corals progressively formed a barrier reef. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the volcanic mass began to subside. The corals, however, continued to grow upward toward the light, maintaining their position near the surface. This mechanism — first described in the 19th century by Charles Darwin — explains the formation of tropical lagoons: a sinking island, a rising reef, and between them, a protected body of water. In Mayotte, this process created one of the largest enclosed lagoons in the world. 
A lagoon is not a lake
At first glance, the lagoon may appear calm, almost still. But that impression is deceptive. A lagoon is a living system, constantly in motion. Protected by a barrier reef, it remains connected to the open ocean through openings known as passes. These passes allow:
Without them, the lagoon would stagnate. With them, it breathes. 
The S Pass — a defining feature of Mayotte
Among these openings, some have become iconic. One of them is the famous S Pass. From above, it traces a sinuous curve through the reef barrier. Below the surface, it acts as a channel where water masses rush in, accelerate, slow down, and mix. Its shape is no accident. While currents and erosion play a major role in carving the pass, its trajectory may also be influenced by an older structure. During periods when sea levels were lower, parts of what is now submerged were exposed, shaped by relief and freshwater flows. An ancient valley, gradually flooded as sea levels rose, may have guided the formation of this channel. Since then, ocean currents have taken over, widening, sculpting, and maintaining this passage, which has become essential to the lagoon’s circulation. These areas concentrate life: fish, predators, plankton. They are corridors of movement — but also zones of encounter. 
How passes are formed
Passes are not simple gaps in the reef. They are zones where energy concentrates. They form where:
Over time, these zones widen, deepen, and become permanent channels. 
A volcano still active beneath the sea
But Mayotte’s geological story does not end there. In 2018, a new underwater volcano was discovered several dozen kilometers east of the island, at a depth of more than 3,000 meters. A recent formation, born from intense activity, reminding us that the region remains geologically active. This volcano did not shape the present lagoon — it is far too recent — but it highlights an essential reality: Mayotte is not a static landscape. It is a territory still in motion. 
A fragile balance
Today, Mayotte’s lagoon is an exceptional ecosystem. Seagrass beds, coral reefs, sandy areas and passes form a complex network where each element plays a role. But this balance is fragile. Human pressure, pollution, overfishing, and climate change all have the potential to disrupt exchanges, alter balances, and weaken the system. Passes, in particular, are critical zones. They concentrate life — but also impact.
Between story and reality
The engine cuts. Silence settles. Around us, the lagoon appears still, almost frozen. This is where Mathias chose to tell his story. Not the one about mantas or dolphins, but the deeper one — of a landscape shaped over millions of years. He speaks of another feature of Mayotte’s lagoon: its double barrier reef, a rare structure on a global scale, parts of which have collapsed over time, revealing a system as complex as it is fragile. In recent years, political ambition has grown: to have the lagoon recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. On paper, such recognition could offer additional protection to this unique ecosystem. But for Mathias, who has navigated these waters for more than thirty years, reality is more nuanced. Over time, he has watched the lagoon change. Construction spreading. Waste accumulating. Wastewater finding its way into the sea. And more recently, additional human impacts placing further pressure on an already fragile system. Without raising his voice, he speaks of a gap. Between announcements and reality. Between image and ground truth. In this context, some see a strong signal. He sees a risk: that recognition becomes a showcase, without always being matched by the means needed to protect what it claims to preserve. The engine starts again, softly. The boat glides over water of unreal clarity. Around us, the lagoon remains what it has always been: a space of life, balance, and raw beauty. So Mathias takes us further. To observe. To understand. To experience. While it is still possible. Because some wonders are not meant to be admired. They are meant to be protected. 
The engine starts again, softly.
The boat glides over water of unreal clarity. Around us, the lagoon remains what it has always been: a space of life, balance, and raw beauty. So Mathias takes us further. To observe. To understand. To experience. While it is still possible. Because some wonders are not meant to be admired. They are meant to be protected. Mayotte Lagoon: Key FactsIs Mayotte one of the largest lagoons in the world?Yes. Mayotte is widely described as one of the largest enclosed coral lagoons in the world, with estimates often ranging from more than 1,000 km² to around 1,500 km² depending on the source and measurement method. Its reef system is also remarkable because it includes a rare double barrier reef. What are some of the world’s largest lagoon systems?The world’s largest lagoon systems include New Caledonia’s lagoon, Lagoa dos Patos in Brazil, Mar Menor in Spain, Laguna Madre in Mexico and the United States, and Mayotte’s enclosed coral lagoon. These systems are difficult to rank precisely because some are coastal lagoons, others are coral reef lagoons, and their measured surface areas vary by definition. Why is Mayotte’s lagoon so deep?Mayotte’s lagoon is unusually deep because it formed around an ancient volcanic island that gradually subsided while coral reefs continued to grow upward toward the light. This long geological process created a wide and deep protected lagoon between the island and the outer reef barrier. Why are reef passes important in Mayotte?Reef passes are essential because they connect the lagoon to the open ocean. They allow water renewal, nutrient exchange, larval dispersal, and the movement of marine life. In Mayotte, passes such as the S Pass are also biodiversity hotspots where currents concentrate life. What makes Mayotte’s lagoon fragile?Mayotte’s lagoon is vulnerable because its ecological balance depends on water quality, healthy coral reefs, seagrass beds, and functioning reef passes. Pollution, wastewater, plastic waste, coastal construction, overfishing, climate change, and extreme weather events can all weaken this balance. |
Serge Melesan
Underwater & Fine Art Ocean Photographer Specialist in Fine Art Ocean Photography. Published in Oceanographic Magazine & Earth.org. National Geographic Traveller – Portfolio Winner (2023). Archives
Mai 2026
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