Below the Surface

I recently got the joyous opportunity to snorkel off the coast of Oahu, Hawaii. As I fitted my mask to my face and checked that my snorkel was attached I felt fear well up inside me. Just one hour earlier, a large wave had tossed me around and dumped me on the beach, leaving my bathing suit and dreadlocked hair full of sand. At least the bathing suit came clean… To be fair, I’ve never been great at timing waves and often find myself trying to run from them (have you ever tried to outrun a wave?) rather than ride them into shore.

With mask and snorkel on I looked out at the water. We were at a different beach now and the waves are much smaller, but still… How would I know what to do when the wave comes if my head was in the water? Additionally, this was only my second time snorkeling. The first time I had immediately sucked a load of salt water in through my snorkel, leaving my mouth, throat and stomach in a sickly state.

The waves? No confidence!  Breathing through a snorkel? No confidence! Oh and then there was the coral. I knew that coral was very sharp, and thus concluded that if I should happen to scrape any part of myself against it, I would be leaving a blood-trail into shark-infested waters. Did I mention that the day prior, the beach was closed due to a tiger shark in the bay?

I hemmed and hawed. I put my feet into the water and then took them out. I tried on flippers, then took them off. I rinsed my goggles and refitted them. I got teary eyed from the anxiety. Finally, I walked back to the shady spot up on the beach where all our gear was. As I tried to collect myself and gain courage, I thought about all the times one of my children (or husband) was afraid to do something and I paved the way for them. “Look, it’s not too scary. Want me to go first?” Or, “You can do it, watch, it’s easy!” But now I had no scared children to be brave for! I was the only one nervous and fearful.

I picked up my head to look back out at the water just in time to see my 62 year-old mother splash into the waves, mask and snorkel on and head down. Out into the water and over the coral she went floating. I didn’t know how many times she’d been snorkeling, but it was probably not many. I had never seen her snorkel. Yet there she was, floating along, flapping her feet and breathing just fine.

Immediately, I walked down to the water again, put my mask down and bit in to the mouth piece of the snorkel.  In calf deep water I got my flippers on and awkwardly flopped out into the water.  I breathed in gently through the snorkel tube, put my head down and coasted out.

Above the water, I was full of fear and anxiety. Below the surface, all that disappeared.

Once my head went under, my entire perspective changed. I didn’t see waves, salt-water and the potential of a nauseous stomach. I saw coral and fish, loads of colorful, beautiful fish. It was a whole new world. A world of weightlessness and tranquility. A world of gentle and fluid motions. I saw colors more brilliant than any of the flowers I had admired all week-long. I saw shapes and patterns that I didn’t know existed. I saw movements that only ballerinas come close to capturing on land.

I flipped and floated along, mesmerized by each and every thing in front of my eyes. I wanted so badly to talk about all I was seeing. I wanted to tell my mother or husband or any one of my cousins, but no one was near by. They too were floating around, head down, captured by all they saw. It was almost painful not to be able to exclaim and shout about every wonder.  A couple of times I swam to my husband, took off my mask and told him about a fish below. But by the time we got our masks back on and our heads down, the fish were gone. It soon became obvious this was not the way to snorkel. Above the surface it was loud and rough and the water constantly got in my eyes and mouth. But once my mask was on and my head was down, everything became quiet and calm.

I quickly concluded that this marvelous world was better enjoyed in silence. And once I realized that, the silence seemed fitting.

Nothing I could say would accurately capture the beauty anyway.

(And no matter how old you are, you may still need your mother to pave the way.)