Deep Water

I thought I was capable, was sure of myself in deep water, as familiar as I am with my own pond. But this pond found an opening into larger water and I am in it, gurgling and trying to stay afloat as the powerful currents sweep me out and away. These unfamiliar waters are both warm and cold, a confluence of many, many small ponds. I can’t even begin to see where the water ends, either below me or around me. I swim around, thrashing, trying to explore. Is this ocean map-able? Often I am frightened. I thought I was a good swimmer. Have I fooled myself?

There is no place to rest my feet; these waters are unknowably deep, cavernous, and dangerous if one is not a strong, patient swimmer.

Me, I need to gain strength; I’m not yet used to these depths, the vast water.

Once in a while, either when a wave crashes over me or when I get brave and dive below, I try to look around under here, but it’s so hard to see. Slowly I guess my way through, backing out, going around, pushing through. Within these depths I gradually make out the most amazing structures. I thought I knew coral, but these jagged formations are massive, connecting in unimaginable ways. Gravity seems not to have influence under these waters; it is the currents of the water itself that shape what is below. When I can look hard, I try to examine the coral up close, close enough to see and touch, but careful not to get swept up into it where I’d be ripped up. When I can, I gently swim through tender deep-water plants, careful not to pull their roots. Are they, too, needing to surface?

I float sometimes, my back to the water, but it keeps pulling at me. Is that a siren song? I can’t resist. I turn over and kick into it, forcing my eyes open. How far down can I go today? There are places that are so dark. Are those really sunken boats there? Who else is here? Who tried to swim here and drowned instead? Just when I think my lungs will burst, I look for the sun, the moon, any light and shoot upward, gasping for breath as I break surface. I breathe, see where I come up, try to tell if I can see land.

Sometimes I really can’t see the shore and it seems there is no solid place to hold. Often my sight goes when I’ve been down too far or too long. I think I will never see land again, never feel it under my feet. But those are the times when I see a beacon, maybe a lighthouse, maybe just a glimmer of dawn. And then I can see in the distance there are places, maybe the shore, maybe islands, that I could get to if I need to. When I need to.

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Thanks to E, who provided feedback on a very early version of this.