This weekend I am going to Monterey to
complete my dive certification. I am both excited and a bit anxious.
I have always lived near the ocean and considered it a calming force in my life. In high school, I spent a week in a rural area of Mexico, along the cost. Every day we lounged around the beach or snorkeled in the clear waters, and every night we would get on small fishing boats in 3 hour intervals (midnight, 3 am, 6 am) to check if we caught any sea turtles in our net (to treat any wounds they might have, measure them, and tag them for research—I got to name one of the turtles “Kattachu”). At first, during the boat rides I would hang on desperately to the seat of the boat and feel each wave as the impact of my butt hitting metal. But by the end of the trip I felt as though I could predict the crests and troughs of each wave and thoroughly enjoyed my time in and on the water.
In Boston, I hardly ever saw the ocean but knowing it was nearby was enough. One of my favorite spots was at the ICA museum in a hallway bereft of art but graced instead with ceiling to floor windows that overlooked the ocean. I saw it once in the rain, with the trails of water running down the windows and the drops gently dissipating into the sea and the image stays with me still.
When I spent a year in Japan and felt lost or overwhelmed I would walk a few minutes to the breakwater and look out over the ocean. The smell of the salt water and the cool breeze would always center me—yet I was looking out over the same ocean that devastated the lives of thousands of people in the community I was helping to rebuild. Their relationship with the ocean was even more complex since they made their livelihood fishing and farming in it. The sea was at once a provider and destroyer.
Yet after just two pool sessions in scuba diving I had begun to develop another side to my relationship with the sea. Sitting at the bottom of a 12 foot pool for the first time and looking up at how far the surface was induced a mild panic attack that made me want to swim to the surface as fast as possible and take in huge breaths (not gulps, which is mouth breathing, but nostril breaths because breathing through the nose is a luxury on the surface) of fresh air.
I suppose I’ll have more thoughts on this after I actually do my open ocean dives this weekend, but whatever happens it’ll surely deepen the relationship I have with this vastly complex body of water.
I have always lived near the ocean and considered it a calming force in my life. In high school, I spent a week in a rural area of Mexico, along the cost. Every day we lounged around the beach or snorkeled in the clear waters, and every night we would get on small fishing boats in 3 hour intervals (midnight, 3 am, 6 am) to check if we caught any sea turtles in our net (to treat any wounds they might have, measure them, and tag them for research—I got to name one of the turtles “Kattachu”). At first, during the boat rides I would hang on desperately to the seat of the boat and feel each wave as the impact of my butt hitting metal. But by the end of the trip I felt as though I could predict the crests and troughs of each wave and thoroughly enjoyed my time in and on the water.
In Boston, I hardly ever saw the ocean but knowing it was nearby was enough. One of my favorite spots was at the ICA museum in a hallway bereft of art but graced instead with ceiling to floor windows that overlooked the ocean. I saw it once in the rain, with the trails of water running down the windows and the drops gently dissipating into the sea and the image stays with me still.
When I spent a year in Japan and felt lost or overwhelmed I would walk a few minutes to the breakwater and look out over the ocean. The smell of the salt water and the cool breeze would always center me—yet I was looking out over the same ocean that devastated the lives of thousands of people in the community I was helping to rebuild. Their relationship with the ocean was even more complex since they made their livelihood fishing and farming in it. The sea was at once a provider and destroyer.
Yet after just two pool sessions in scuba diving I had begun to develop another side to my relationship with the sea. Sitting at the bottom of a 12 foot pool for the first time and looking up at how far the surface was induced a mild panic attack that made me want to swim to the surface as fast as possible and take in huge breaths (not gulps, which is mouth breathing, but nostril breaths because breathing through the nose is a luxury on the surface) of fresh air.
I suppose I’ll have more thoughts on this after I actually do my open ocean dives this weekend, but whatever happens it’ll surely deepen the relationship I have with this vastly complex body of water.
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