A couple of years ago, I helped a special effects artist on a Netflix series called Medusa. There was a scene where a finger gets cut off underwater. Fake blood, real water, prosthetic arm, all of it. I helped test and operate the prosthetic.

You know where we filmed the underwater scene?

Not in the ocean.

Not in a tank at sea level.

A swimming pool in Bogotá.

Which means I was 15 feet underwater at 8,600 feet above sea level.

And the next day, I got sick.

From a pool.

A swimming pool.

Welcome to diving in Colombia, where even the pools come with altitude.

That’s actually the perfect introduction to this whole subject, because Colombia is like that. It never just gives you the normal version of anything. It gives you the version with an extra twist. The version you didn’t expect. The version that makes you stop halfway through and go, “Wait, this country does what?”

And that brings me to scuba diving.

A viewer named Brian wrote to me recently. He’s been diving for 30 years, lives in Florida, and is considering retiring to Colombia. His question was simple and completely fair: what’s the diving actually like here? Where do you go? What’s the infrastructure like? Is Colombia a serious diving country or just a country that happens to have water near it?

And I had to admit something mildly embarrassing.

I’m a certified diver. SSI. Nitrox too. I’ve lived in Colombia for about six years.

And I have never gone scuba diving here.

Not once.

Which is ridiculous, because diving has been tied to my Colombia story almost from the beginning.

So this article is me doing two things at once: answering Brian’s question properly, and finally forcing myself to plan my own first dive in Colombia like the adult I keep pretending to be.

Because if I’ve been here this long and still haven’t gone, that’s no longer a scheduling issue. That’s just negligence with fins.

Let me back up.

The first time I ever came to Bogotá was in 2017. I was flying in from Bonaire, where I had been scuba diving with a friend. Before leaving Bonaire, I picked up a scuba tank wrong and badly split a fingernail. Not a little crack. A full-on, “this is now a problem” split.

So I land in Bogotá, I’m walking around Chapinero Alto with my friend Trent, and he sees a manicurist and tells me to go get the nail fixed.

Now, I’m an American man. At that point in my life, the phrase “go get a manicure” sounded less like advice and more like a misunderstanding of my identity.

Trent, who had apparently evolved further than I had, tells me he’d gone with his wife before and that I needed to get over myself.

So I go in. They fix the nail.

And that was my first manicure ever.

Which means a scuba injury in Bonaire led directly to me becoming a guy who now happily gets pedicures in Colombia and thinks a sanding block on the heel might be one of humanity’s great overlooked inventions.

That is not where I thought this story was going when I first split that fingernail.

But travel changes you.

That’s the point.

For context, I’m not brand new to this.

I’m SSI certified and Nitrox certified. I’ve dived in Bonaire, Curaçao, Turks and Caicos, St. Martin, St. Barts, the Canary Islands, and even the Black Sea. Before COVID, I hosted and executive produced a travel show on Amazon Prime called Places to Go. We filmed diving in Curaçao. We filmed diving in Bonaire. We filmed in San Andrés, Colombia too — but somehow, incredibly, didn’t dive there.

That’s part of how this happened.

I was always in Colombia working, filming, moving, building, not really stopping long enough to do the thing properly. I kept telling myself I’d come back and dive later.

Then COVID hit. Then five years disappeared. Then suddenly I was the guy explaining Colombia to other people while still not having done one of the things I actually wanted to do here.

So let’s fix that.

Most Americans do not think of Colombia as a scuba destination.

They think of Cozumel.

They think of Cancun.

They think of the Florida Keys.

They think of Belize, maybe Roatán if they know what they’re doing.

Colombia is usually not in the first sentence.

It should be.

Because Colombia has two completely different coasts, two very different diving personalities, and one of the most underrated strategic positions in the entire hemisphere for a diver who wants range.

To understand Colombian diving, you have to split the country into two realities:

The Caribbean side — easier access, warmer water, reefs, wrecks, certification, more recreational diving.

The Pacific side — more remote, more serious, more advanced, bigger pelagic life, less polished, more commitment.

And then there are the islands, which are their own story entirely.

If you ask where most diving in Colombia actually happens, the answer is probably Santa Marta and Taganga.

Taganga is this small fishing village on the Caribbean coast near Tayrona National Park that became famous for one reason: it is one of the cheapest places in the world to get certified.

A full PADI Open Water course there can run around 1 million Colombian pesos, which depending on exchange rate lands somewhere in the $250–$300 USD range.

For comparison, try getting certified in the U.S. or in one of the more branded Caribbean hubs and see how fast that number doubles or triples.

That affordability matters.

The diving there is solid: reefs, some wrecks, decent visibility, warm Caribbean conditions, and an established enough operator network that you’re not pioneering anything. Is it Bonaire? No. Is it the Red Sea? Also no. But is it real diving, good value, and a perfectly sensible place to start? Absolutely.

In fact, this is probably where I’ll do my first Colombian dive later this year.

It makes too much sense not to.

Then there’s San Andrés and Providencia, which are Colombian islands in the Caribbean that are geographically much closer to Nicaragua than to Bogotá.

And this is where the diving story gets more interesting.

San Andrés is home to part of the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve, which includes one of the largest reef systems in the wider Caribbean. Providencia, the quieter and less developed sibling, has a reputation among people who actually dive here as one of the best dive spots in the entire Colombian system.

This is the version of Colombia most Americans don’t know exists.

English is common there.

The culture feels more Afro-Caribbean than Andean.

The water is that kind of blue that looks fake in photos and annoyingly real in person.

A good friend of mine got his wife certified in Providencia and swears by it. I filmed in San Andrés for Places to Go and somehow didn’t dive, which in retrospect feels like a moral failure.

This is the sort of place where Colombia stops being “surprisingly decent for diving” and starts becoming “why is nobody talking about this more?”

Now we get to Malpelo.

Malpelo is not casual diving.

Malpelo is not “I got open water certified last month and I’m feeling adventurous.”

Malpelo is not “let’s rent fins and see what happens.”

Malpelo is a tiny rock island in the Pacific, about 500 kilometers off Colombia’s western coast, and it is one of the most famous serious dive sites in the world.

This is the stuff advanced divers care about:

hammerheads, silky sharks, whale sharks, open-ocean conditions, liveaboards, exposure, commitment, weather, current, and the sort of bragging rights that make other divers become temporarily quieter when you mention it.

You don’t day-trip Malpelo.

You go by liveaboard, usually out of Buenaventura, and it is a multi-day, expensive, serious operation. Think $3,000 to $5,000+ depending on the trip and outfitter.

This is not where most expats in Colombia start.

This is where people fly in because Colombia exists.

If Brian — or any 30-year diver thinking about retirement here — wants the single biggest reason Colombia belongs in the conversation, Malpelo is that reason.

Then there’s the Pacific coast — especially Bahía Solano and Nuquí.

This is a completely different mood from Caribbean diving.

Visibility tends to be lower.

The conditions can be rougher.

The logistics are more complicated.

The infrastructure is thinner.

But what you get in exchange is experience.

This is humpback whale country in season. This is wild Pacific energy. This is the side of Colombia where the dive trip starts feeling less like resort recreation and more like proper expedition travel.

If you’ve done the polished Caribbean circuit ten times already and want something that feels less commercial and more raw, the Pacific coast is probably where Colombia starts making emotional sense as a dive country.

Then there are places like Capurganá and Sapzurro, near the Panama border.

Tiny Caribbean villages.

Boat access.

Less mainstream.

Much less talked about.

This is hidden-gem territory.

These are the kinds of places where the diving may not have the global brand recognition of bigger names, but the experience can feel more personal, more intimate, and much less inflated by tourism machinery.

If you like the idea of discovering somewhere rather than arriving somewhere already fully processed for you, these towns deserve a look.

Let me save some people time here.

Cartagena is worth visiting.

Cartagena is not the strongest reason to dive Colombia.

You can absolutely dive around Cartagena and the Rosario Islands. It’s fine. It works. It’s beginner-friendly. There are operators. The water can be lovely. If you’re already there and want a dive day, great.

But if you are a serious diver choosing where to base yourself, you don’t move to Colombia for Cartagena diving.

You move to Colombia for what Cartagena connects you to.

Different thing.

This is where things get more practical.

If you’re American or European and used to dive-heavy destinations with wall-to-wall operators and seamless service infrastructure, here’s the honest answer:

Colombia is not Bonaire.

Bonaire is built around diving. Colombia is a country that contains diving.

That means the infrastructure is workable, but it’s not as universally deep.

PADI is the dominant certification agency in most Colombian dive centers. SSI is generally recognized and accepted for guided dives, so if you’re SSI like me, you’re fine. But if you want additional training or specialty work, you may find more options on the PADI side simply because the instructor base is larger.

Nitrox is available at major operations — Santa Marta, San Andrés, Malpelo liveaboards, and the better-equipped larger centers. But in smaller Pacific or more remote locations, you shouldn’t assume. Call ahead.

As for gear servicing, Colombia has enough support in the main dive hubs to manage routine things, but it is not the kind of country where every city has a perfect regulator service pipeline and instant spare-parts availability. If you are a serious diver moving here long-term, the smart play is simple: bring your own primary gear, keep it maintained properly, and don’t expect the same service ecosystem you’d find in dedicated global dive centers.

That’s not a dealbreaker. It’s just planning.

Because this is Colombia, there is also a dive site nobody outside the country really talks about:

Guatapé.

Yes, that Guatapé — the mountain reservoir outside Medellín with the giant rock, boats, and those postcard views.

You can dive there.

And what you’re diving is not just freshwater. It’s history.

The reservoir was created when the government flooded the old town of El Peñol. So underwater, there are foundations, structures, and traces of a place that no longer exists. It’s eerie, atmospheric, and very different from a tropical reef dive.

And just to make it more Colombian, Guatapé also sits at around 6,200 feet above sea level.

So now we’re back to altitude diving.

This is not where you go for hammerheads or Caribbean visibility. This is where you go because the phrase “diving a flooded town in the mountains of Colombia” is so weirdly compelling that you can’t ignore it.

Also, if you’re doing altitude diving and you’re experienced, you already know what matters: tables, computer settings, gas management, conservative planning. If you’re newer, this is where you need an operator who knows what they’re doing.

Because in Colombia, even the inland dive site comes with extra homework.

And then there’s the thing you can’t recreationally dive but absolutely need to know about if you care about underwater Colombia.

Off the coast of Cartagena lies the wreck of the San José, a Spanish galleon sunk in 1708 and believed to hold one of the most valuable shipwreck cargoes on the planet — by some estimates $17 to $20 billion in gold, silver, and emeralds.

Read that again.

A multi-billion-dollar treasure wreck.

In Colombian waters.

Still in legal dispute.

Still being recovered piece by piece.

Colombia says it’s theirs.

Spain says it’s theirs.

Indigenous groups argue the wealth was extracted from their ancestors.

An American salvage company says they found it first decades ago.

This is not diving. This is underwater geopolitics.

And no, nobody reading this is suiting up and dropping to it recreationally. The wreck sits around 600 meters deep, which is well beyond anything remotely normal for divers. That’s submersible territory, not “let me check my air and see how I feel.”

Still, the fact that this exists says something about Colombia.

This country doesn’t just have reefs and wrecks. It has underwater history on a scale most places would build an entire national identity around.

Now here’s the part that surprised me most as I worked through Brian’s question:

Colombia might be one of the best dive home bases in the entire Americas.

Not necessarily because every single dive inside Colombia is world-leading.

But because of where Colombia sits.

Look at the map and everything changes.

From Colombia, you are remarkably well positioned for:

Most American divers still think in terms of Florida as the launch point.

But if you actually live in Colombia, especially Bogotá, the geometry starts working in your favor in a way most people don’t realize.

That matters.

And then you stack the cost-of-living arbitrage on top of it.

Because if your monthly life costs less, you don’t just “save money.” You unlock more trips. More tanks. More weekends away. More flights to places that used to feel like annual goals instead of realistic options.

That’s the part people miss.

Colombia is not just a diving country.

It’s a diver’s platform.

Probably Santa Marta.

That feels like the right opening move. Practical, accessible, proven, and honestly a little overdue.

Then I’d like to do San Andrés or Providencia properly.

And if the scuba gods are especially generous and my schedule starts acting like it respects me, maybe one day I work my way toward Malpelo the way serious divers do: slowly, properly, with full respect for the fact that the ocean does not care about enthusiasm.

But the bigger point is this:

A viewer asked me about diving in Colombia, and in the process I realized something I probably should have admitted sooner.

I don’t just need to answer this question.

I need to fix my own blind spot.

Because Colombia has been sitting here this whole time as a legitimate dive country, a strategic dive base, and a weirdly fascinating underwater story machine — and I’ve been living above all of it, making excuses.

That ends this year.

And when I do my first Colombian dive, I’ll bring you with me.