It’s a shocking plunge; chills erupt throughout my body, enveloping me in an encompassing cloud of bubbles.
Although I am not gifted with the ability to open my eyes underwater without goggles, I can imagine the scene as I plunge into the deep.
My hair is flowing in a messy halo around my head, my face is pallid—my makeup washed away—and my limbs are in a freelance dance of their own.
I’m weightless down here.
I can stay for only a short moment, due to my ineptitude to breathe underwater, but even so, I feel a clear peace of mind unparalleled to any other sensation.
The noise from above is muffled—a mother worrying about her 5-year-old son straying too close to the water’s edge, a lifeguard yelling at an irresponsible teen not unlike myself, endless laughter from adults and children alike.
I can imagine the breeze above the shimmering surface; the way it’ll inevitably welcome my slick skin back to the earthen world. My hair will be draped in ropes of rich chocolate along my torso, dripping with the crisp, chlorinated water. The palm trees will rustle with the wind, the common grackles will shriek at each other, and my friend will be waiting to splash me upon my surfacing.
All that sounds nice and fine, but I think I’d like to stay down here for just a bit longer. At least, until my breath gives way and my lungs scream for mercy.
I think back to the dreams of when I was young, when my main goal in life was to become either a mermaid or marine biologist when I grew up (each occupation was interchangeable in my mind).
I wanted to live among the clownfish and their anemone friends, learn how Nemo’s dad traveled across the ocean to save his son. I wanted to be like Ariel’s sisters, singing among the coral reefs and swimming alongside their dolphin friends. I wanted to become friends with each creature of the endless deep, from the tiny anglerfish to the reclusive dogfish. I wanted to speak to the sea turtle as if he was my best friend, hunt with the whitetip shark, and burrow under the sand with the flounder. Being underwater was a necessary part of my future, whether I could live there or study it.
Of course, a pool is no comparison to the biodiversity of the five oceans and millions of lakes, ponds, and streams on Earth, but I can safely envision what life underwater would look like here. Here, nothing will disturb me until I return to land, if I so choose.
Now, I can sense my lungs beginning to painfully contract, closing up the availability window for my last supply of oxygen. I’m reluctant to leave behind this childlike dream of being weightless and free to live among the ocean’s creatures forever.
However, I can always return to this seduced dream state if I want. Either in a hotel pool, the Pacific or Atlantic Ocean on vacation, or the lake at my uncle’s cottage, I’ll always remember the sacred sentimentality of existing underwater.
Without further ado, I rise above the surface.
