I feel a peace when I dive. A feeling which comes from a weightlessness – from defying gravity. I find it amusing that we balance on the dive deck, lifting up our finned feet, becoming entangled between the platform and the ladder, struggling under the weight of a 12 liter tank filled with air, strapped onto our backs with a restricting jacket and attached to an assortment of hoses, not forgetting of course a belt of lead weights. We splash into the water, before we bob on the surface and then slowly begin to descend. Equalizing, exhaling into our masks to prevent squeezes. After time this process becomes thoughtless and you can even be tricked into thinking that you belong under the ocean. The danger then is that you will become too absorbed into your new surroundings. You may forget the rules, or even begin to mislead yourself that the rules no longer need apply to your only temporarily amphibious body. That is of course until the expensive piece of equipment strapped to your wrist begins to protest, sending out a mechanic shrill of beeps to remind you of your status as 'guest' to the underwater world. Utter calm, peacefulness and tranquility can in one breath turn to panic. We simply do not belong where we cannot naturally breathe. We learn ways to stay down longer, to dive deeper. Many times we are swept along with the currents. It is far to difficult to fight what we cannot see; many times it is impossible, but usually, I still feel at peace when I dive. Surrounded by my own amazement. Floating, listening to my robotic breath, watching flying schooling fish race past – endless streams which often turn into colorful waterfalls as they pour over the edges of protruding rocks. Large camouflaged groupers loitering on top of or below ledges. Corals filled with life as tiny shrimps inhabit every crack, while lizard fish lay invisible before darting to an opposite rock onces disturbed. Their rapid flight contrasts to their motionless neighbors- the scorpion fish- which melt into the next to rock with their pinkish lumpy skin and moss like beard. The closer you look the more you see; plants which move and which respond to light. Invisible shrimps which dance over the sand to crawl along your nails, meticulously picking them clean. I turn around and keep on swimming. I let my head fall back so I see the sand; upside down. I rotate back onto my front and drop my head down again, this time to look back between my legs. At times I pause. I no longer breathe. I hear the ocean, which often sounds just as it does when you hear it through a shell – a faint echo of waves, of emptiness - of 'deepness'. I hear the crunch of the parrot fishes as they use they beak to bite onto a corner of coral. Or I hear a titan trigger fish as it uses its entire body weight, doing a powerful backflip, with its teeth looked around half a rock. I inhale re initiating the flow of bubbles which accompany me on my saunter through the water. After time the common becomes to mold into the scenery while the obscure becomes more pronounced. A exhale to bring my body down .
Then of course you have exceptional dives, which give you the real hit – the necessary injection of adrenaline, intensive wonder and amazement which no longer come from the common fish, but only from the exceptional pelagic or underwater mammals. The more I dive, the more I realise the experience is not restricted to the sea. Under times of stress of fatigue I imagine exhaling under the water. Feeling the liquid absorb my weight. Letting the peace and beauty reclaim me.
