Out of Air

Bubbles. Air. Twenty four meters deep. Panicked. Adrenaline. Fear. Thoughts...please come. Please tell me what to do. Please think. Slowly reaction. She's grabbed my alternate. Make her look at me. Calm her down. Calm down. Think more. Her primary is fucked. Spitting air all over the place. Like white powder streaming from behind her head. Her eyes show complete shock. She's looking around. She's looking up. Her mind is flowing as quickly as her air. No. I'm not going to let her follow it. I grab her BCD . Me. Look at me. Your not going up. Not yet. Pull the alternate all the way out. Over my arm. Grab her arm back. Make her hold mine. Reciprocate. Respond. Find her eyes. Search for the recognition. Find the recognition. There it is. Its ok. Breathe. I reassure her. Your going to be alright. Find the others. Four pairs of wide eyes. There all there. There ok. Only one person to worry about. Back to the eyes. Watch her breath with me. A friend appears. Grabs onto the back of her tank. I don't have anough thoughts to think about what she's doing. I can't think. My friend signals 'ok'. Ok? Ok. She disappears as quickly as she appeared. She was turning off the air. Stopping the bubbles. The powder air. Avalanche. Her pressure gauge settles at zero I check mine. We're good. Only about 13 minutes into the dive. The needle which now counts is well over 100. We're coming up. I tell her so. I tell them all. My eyes alternate between my computer and her face. Please keep looking at me. Please hold on tighter. I need to know she's with me. I need to know were working together. I watch the meters tick down. As we travel up the rest of the group linger a little below. As if there being pulled by our force. Safety sausage out with one hand. Were in the middle of the ocean. Relieved. Relieved I'd included the following words in the previous dive brief: “If one of us happens to run out of air ten minutes into the dive, were all coming up together. We go down together we go up together”. I grab her inflater hose. Let some more air escape. Slow us down. Control...control? We share a smile. Reassuring both of us. We are working together. I need to inflate the orange plastic. Send it up before us. Signaling our path out. If i use my reg, how will she react? It might jolt us up. I throw it to Cyril. A 'fun' diver. A DM. He slowly unravels it. Like the minutes. Like my thoughts. Cyril inflates it – using his own reg. Up it shoots. Three minutes tick slowly by. Three. Three. Three. Two Two Two. One. Forever one. We're ok. Time up. Needle still high. Look up. Clear water. Look down. Bubbles. So many bubbles. All up. Together we break the surface. She throws my alternate out and breathes unassisted. I grap her inflater hose. Inflate. Finally I speak. “You ok?” Ok?...She cries. Relief. Shock. I kiss her cheek. Hold her again. Faces all around. Relieved. Above the water I smile. Below I shake.

What would I have done differently? Think. React quicker. Switch off her air. Would I have done that given the time? But 'Aditgato': Thank you my friend. Feeling relieved. No harm done. Only to my own confidence. But safe. Yes controlled within the possibilities. She could have pulled me up. At one second she had wanted to. She could have been too far behind. She could have grabbed Claire – my buddy, who was more shaken than any of us. But she saw the blue of my fins and then yellow of my alternate. She felt my arms and saw my eyes. A situation adequately delt with. But room for improvement. Generously providing the flexibility to learn from it. To reflect. How to learn without experience? Next time if the thoughts still come as slow, the reactions will be quicker. Experience will guide. Next time might not be so free. Next time, my needle may not be so resilient. My divers may not be so perceptive. Next time my arms and eyes may not be enough. Air. All around. In tubes. In bubbles. Precious.

Flip Flops and Rubber Bands

Kathmandu, Nepal. Earlier today.

Flip flops and rubber bands. Inventive - a new game I've never seen before. The flip flops are the bat and the rubber bands all tied up to make a wee ball. Two toddlers have no 'rubber band ball' so make do with the head of a bright yellow flower. It flips and then flops to the ground. One picks it up and they try again.In Uganda the kids were really good at chasing rusty wheels with sticks. In Cambodia they had plenty of spare plastic bags to make footballs out of. In Jenin camp they showed no fear as they sped down steep pavements on trays. But never any flip flops and rubber bands before. Strange as most kids have a pair. With the exceptions being Darwin where they had two (theirs and mine) and Phomn Penh where they had half.

My hand is in demand. It is held and hugged. They play with my rings.They untangle (or try to) my hair tie from my bracelet. Like most kids they pull up my sleeve and compare their forearms to mine. They ask mycaste. 'I don't have one.' They look confused. Although without a family, not many of them will. I tell the darkest girl I like the colour of her skin, "Maile mon parcha." She smiles and then hides behind her fringe. I tell a 14 year old I had also lived away from home and from my family since I was 8. She asked if I had a 'sponsor',she asked if I had ever found my home - my family- again? She said she only found hers a few years ago. We agree this is her home now and her tactile friends are her family.A laughing little Asha (Hope) collapses into my friends knees. Giggling with tickles. Asha (Hope) is four years old. Asha Hope was born positive. To a 25 year old mother. A mother who was described as having 'a difficult relationship' with her giggling, positive daughter. Difficult because she doesn't know who the father is. Difficult because she is a 'reminder'...The flip flops make soft noises drowned out by laughing, the momentum distracted by dancing. So many little fingers, hands, long shiny hair and with every lingering glance a quick clasp of palms and a shy,smiling, "Nameste."HIV? You? 8? 4? 14? 2 months old?300 children. Unwanted, at 'rsik' or returning. Returning from across the border. 'Returning' to an unfamiliar institution. Safe-r. A 'institution' which doesn't discriminate against your caste, against your blood, against your stolen prostitute mother, against a tiny amazing SURVIVOR. Take my hand. Keep it. For now its all yours. Your lovely. Your amazing.