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Friday, February 25, 2005

Water and Me.

Paul Stookey once said that "swimming is staying alive when I'm in the water." That pretty much describes my feelings on the matter. I like looking at water, boating on water, fishing in water, wading in water and drinking water. I like waterfalls, ice cubes, water hoses, bottled water and water-under-the-bridge. But put me in a situation where my feet can't easily touch the bottom and I feel just as comfortable as if you'd thrown me screaming from an airplane without a parachute. Except in the water, the view isn't nearly as pretty.

This was brought home to me with clarity on the non-whale-watching trip Sue, Justin and I took a couple weeks ago during my visit. It was billed as a chance to watch whales cavort in the wild ocean; see and maybe swim with dolphins and turtles; and snorkel at a coral reef. We got up bright and early to get to the boat at 6:45 a.m. We boarded the 42 foot catamaran and were fitted with snorkel, mask and flippers by the captain's assistant, then began our journey out of the harbor.

The sun was just rising behind the mountains looking, as Susan put it, "like God's high-beams". The water was wondrously blue and clear and we set off in search of whales. It wasn't long before we saw a spout, followed by the sight of a tail fluke lifting out of the water. The captain explained that when we saw that, the whale was diving deep and wouldn't be back up for awhile. Other than two short plumes of water in the distance, that turned out to be the last sight of a whale we were going to get for the rest of the morning.

We motored for a couple hours, all of us scanning the horizon for tell-tale signs of gargantuan life, but no luck. Finally we anchored in an area near shore, donned our equipment and waddled toward the ladder that hung over the side. I had put on my mask and practiced breathing through the snorkel. I felt like I had a good handle on things. The last thing we each put on was a bright yellow flotation belt, making it virtually impossible that we would be drowning on this captain's watch.

I climbed down the ladder toward a new level of self-awareness. Putting my face in the water, scissoring my legs, I began to head for the coral reef. I got about eight feet from the boat when I realized that I was breathing about 100 times a minute and wasn't going to be slowing down soon. "Dude, you're in enough water to drown!" my brain helpfully reminded me. "Forget that snorkel shit - these lungs need real air!" I tore the snorkel out of my mouth, flipped the mask up to my forehead and began my swim for life back to the boat, displaying all of the swimming grace of a cat in a burlap bag.

I grabbed onto the ladder and held on until my breathing slowed. If i just stay here for a minute and get used to this, I thought, maybe I'll be all right. Meanwhile, Sue and Justin were happily snorkeling over the reef, looking at schools of brightly colored fish. I put the mask on, bit down on the snorkel mouthpiece like it was a tough steak and stuck my head in the water. One breath - two breaths - threefourfivesixseven breaths and out I pop like a wack-a-mole head. This is stupid! I know I'm not going to drown, know I can breath - hell, the captain would jump in after me himself just to keep his insurance rates down!

Another couple of tries and I knew it wasn't going to work. Intellectually, I knew everything was safe, planned out do-able. Christ on a crutch! Little kids can do this. But my ever-helpful mind was having none of it. I couldn't stop hyperventilating. The captain's mate (whoever) told me that happens sometimes. I handed up my mask and snorkel and she handed me a body board - a powder blue body board with a plexiglass window that kept filling with salt water, ultimately preventing me from seeing whatever marine life might be in front of me. I paddled around for awhile pretending I, too, was seeing all manner of exotic creatures until it was time to get back in the boat.

The others were excitedly chattering about all the miracles they'd seen: schools of fish, urchins, mermaids, whatever. I took up my post on deck hoping in vain for one last sight of a whale or dolphin. It was a beautiful day and our boat rode over the waves like a gently swaying amusement park ride. The deck felt solid beneath my feet. The sun warmed my skin and my soul. I was grateful for the air in my lungs - as much of it as I wanted. We got back on the dock, gathered our things and walked contentedly back to the car.

In spite of the disappointments, it was a wonderful morning. I was filled with the salty Pacific air and warm Hawaiian sun and I was with my daughter and son-in-law in a place I never previously imagined seeing. I think, too, that maybe I had a little bit of the euphoria that comes to people who have escaped death, or at least, that's what I imagined.
8:36:32 AM

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