Cage Diving with Great White Sharks in South Africa: A Dream Come True

A great white shark cruising False Bay

Face to Face with a Dream (and 300 Million Years of Evolution)

It’s hard to describe the moment you slide off the back of a boat and into the myth. Harder still when that myth has teeth the size of piano keys and a resume stamped by evolution itself—apex predator. Evolution has had millions of years of trial and error and hasn’t improved on its design.

You drop into the water and the world hushes. The surface above dims. The ocean pulls at you with cold fingers. You duck below, eyes wide, staring into the blue—you would be holding your breath even if you weren’t under water.

A jellyfish floats nearby, trailing its ghostly ribbons, but you don't flinch. There is only the waiting.

You are still holding your breath, and . . . yikes, it is time to breathe! Head up, Breath. Breath. Breath. DEEEEP breath, and then back below the surface.

And there it is.

It wasn’t there, and then it was. Like it waited for the moment you blinked. Like it stepped through some invisible curtain. Like an aquatic Weeping Angel needing you to look away for just a moment.

A perfect gray torpedo, silent and sovereign, sliding past the cage like you weren’t even there. Not menacing. Not curious. Just… present. A master of its element.

You don’t feel fear. You don’t need courage. You’re so far beneath its notice you may as well not even be there. You are smaller than small, and that somehow makes the moment even grander. It glides by, absolute and indifferent, and then—like that—it’s gone again.

You pop your head back up and come to grips that you just saw, with your own eyes, a great white shark.

Why I Hate Orcas

We had planned to dive with great white sharks in Gansbaai. It’s the world capital of cage diving with great white sharks, and I had come ready—mentally, physically, spiritually. I had read the brochures. I had watched the documentaries. I had stood in front of the mirror and told myself I was brave. I had booked a tour with White Shark Projects.

But I was not prepared for what actually happened.

We arrived in Gansbaai excited and ready to go. We were so excited we mentioned to the woman at the front desk as we checked into our hotel that we were in town to swim with the sharks. She got awkward and told us we needed to call the tour operator. So we did: all dives were canceled.

Apparently, an orca had killed a great white shark in the bay a few days earlier. What I didn’t know—what I now know in exquisite detail—is that when an orca does that, the dying shark’s body releases a chemical cocktail that basically says, in shark-speak: "Run!"

And they do. Every great white in the vicinity vanishes like a magician’s trick. One minute the sea is full of apex(?) predators; the next, it’s just kelp and seagulls and a bunch of tourists blinking at the horizon. The sharks had left. All of them. Gone. Fled the bay as if they’d heard the theme music from Jaws in reverse.

There was a strange poetry in it. My dream, undone not by bad weather or a scheduling error, but by a silent war between titans, waged far below the surface. The kind of thing that humbles you. The kind of thing that reminds you nature does not run on our itinerary.

And the kind of thing that experienced travelers know never to just accept. Time for plan B.

A Real Hope in False Bay

A flurry of phone calls later, and we kinda- sorta- had a new plan. While the great whites had been scarce all across the southern tip of South Africa, we found a tour operator, Apex Shark Expeditions, that ran trips into False Bay out of Cape Town that had seen sharks that day.

All we needed to do was leave Gansbaai around 3AM the next morning so we could make the drive through Cape Town, south into the Cape Peninsula to Simonstown where we would find a boat leaving around 6:30.

We would have a chance to see the great white sharks of False Bay.

The Great Whites of False Bay

False Bay has long been the stuff of legend. Not just because it’s beautiful—though it is, with its brooding blue waters and mist-smeared mountains—but because it’s one of the only places on Earth where great white sharks breach. Not just surface. Breach. Full airborne torpedoes, 2,000 pounds of prehistoric muscle launching from the sea in pursuit of a sea lion snack. It’s not a metaphor. It’s physics. Violent, spectacular physics.

Out in the middle of the bay sits Seal Island, a slab of rock covered in barking, bickering Cape fur seals, as well as the odd penguin here and there. It’s basically an all-you-can-eat buffet with flippers. To reach their offshore fishing grounds, the sea lions have to swim through an open stretch of water known as “The Gauntlet”—a natural corridor of doom where the sharks lie in wait.

This is the scene I had grown up watching on Shark Week. Year after year, I’d see the same slow-motion clips: a seal darting across the surface, a shadow rising below, then suddenly—sky, teeth, and spray. The same clip, over and over. And now, here I was. On the same waters.

Watching the same species in the same gap in the sea. But this time it wasn’t narrated by a dramatic voiceover. It was real.

It was one of those moments when the boundary between dream and memory collapses. The world feels mythic. And you realize: sometimes the wild things you watched on TV when you were ten grow up right along with you—and if you’re lucky, you get to meet them.

Into the Cage

The sea seemed determined to shake us loose. The boat pitched and rolled with theatrical force, turning even the simplest task—like walking—into a test of balance and grip. Everyone moved slowly, hands clutching railings, benches, strangers—anything solid.

When we reached the center of the passage where the sharks were known to patrol, it was go time. There were ten of us onboard, divided into two groups of five. My wife and I were in the first group, so we suited up: thick wetsuits, booties, hoods, masks—no snorkels. There would be no leisurely floating here.

I made my way to the stern, where the cage hung just off the back of the boat. Carefully, I descended the ladder into the cold, churning waters of False Bay.

I ducked my head below the surface and stared into the blue… waiting.

Poetic odes to my favorite animal aside, it was a genuine relief when the first shark appeared. We’d paid about $250 USD per person for the chance to maybe, if the stars aligned, see a great white shark. Even one swim-by would have justified it.

But we didn’t just get one.

During the thirty minutes I spent in the water, two great whites came by the cage—a big one, and a really big one. One even took the bait, grabbing the lure and thrashing with stunning force. The water around the cage exploded with motion. It was awe-inspiring, not terrifying.

A great white shark goes for the lure in False Bay

I’ve been in the water with sharks many times before, but I’d wondered if great whites would be different—if I’d feel fear. But as often happens when something incredible is unfolding in front of you, I forgot to be afraid. All I felt was wonder.

When our time was up, group one surfaced and group two climbed down. I hadn’t even managed to peel off my booties before one of the women in group two was already back up the ladder. She’d seen the shark, it was cold, and that was enough for her. A perfect glimpse. Box checked.

There was now a free spot in the cage.

I looked at the captain and asked if I could go back in. He smiled and said, “Go for it.”

So back in I went.

Not long after, another member of group two tapped out, and to my delight, my wife reappeared beside me in the cage. The two of us ended up spending almost a full hour in the water together, watching those giants cruise past.

It was so magical that we barely noticed one of the other passengers losing their battle with the sea’s rhythm and leaning over the side of the boat to vomit—repeatedly—into the water. Right next to the cage.

We tried not to think about it. Eyes forward. Focus on the sharks.

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In the end, the cold faded. The pitching boat, the nausea, the missed dives, the jellyfish—none of it mattered. I had come hoping to see the animal that had captured my imagination since boyhood, and I saw it. Not just once, but again and again, cutting through the blue with the silent power of something that owes nothing to us. To be in the water with great white sharks was more than a thrill—it was a kind of quiet fulfillment. Because travel, a long-held dream made had become real. A gift of presence. And yes, maybe a little chum. But mostly, wonder.

Post Script

Recently, likely as a result of both nets to protect swimmers and orca predation, great white sharks have basically disappeared from False Bay. The absence of the sharks is sending shockwaves through the entire ecosystem. It will likely be some time before we understand the full impact of the tragic disappearance of these beautiful animals.