The Rhythm of the Ocean

A personal essay by Frances Avery

Without a backwards glance, I tip off the edge of the boat and sink into the tumultuous waves around me. I am going in slow motion: the waves at the surface break and create little white caps but the deeper we go down, the less movement there is. 

At Kerama Islands, Okinawa, Japan.

I have trained, tested, evaluated, tested again, and finally proven myself worthy of the little plastic card I am handing over to the dive shop owner. I release a breath I did not know I was holding as he hands it back to me, smiles at me and asks me if this is my first time. I choke on the words and answer back that yeah, this is my first time. But what I want to stutter is something along the lines of yeah this is my first time and I’m terrified and please don’t let me die. I smile back and shove my doubts into the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet of my brain.

I wrestle into my wetsuit and wriggle around until it is comfortable; the wrists feel too tight; the neck is exceedingly scratchy, and it is pulling on my baby hairs that never had a chance at survival.
My buoyancy control vest has a lot of clips on it, most of them familiar. I’ve trained for this, I keep telling myself. I know how to do this even though I’ve never done it on the open ocean. The tank I can handle. That part is easy. Just turn the knob away from my body until it stops and then turn it half a turn towards my body. Now I can breathe. Relief floods my body and takes over the anxiety as I realize that the possibility of faulty equipment is low. 

The dive master snags the mooring ball with a hook that is attached to a ten-foot long pole. With a couple of flicks of his wrists, a knot is tied, and the boat is secure. The engine cuts and the smell of diesel fuel fills the air. It isn’t an unpleasant smell; it reminds me of Dad’s big blue truck always puffing out exhaust in conservationist California. Memories of drives to the beach flood my mind. We always stopped at Pepe’s Mexican Food for burritos that were wrapped in yellow paper. The memory makes me want to cry not because I'm sad but because I was incredibly homesick for anything familiar and the smell of exhaust fills that desire.

At Batu Bolong, Komodo National Park, Labuan Bajo, Indonesia. 

I struggle with hoisting my air tank onto my back and then I remember that I have to put on my weight-belt first. I reach for it, drag it toward me, and jackknife my body at the hips in order to stabilize the weight belt for as long as it takes me to thread the loose end through and cinch it off. I try again with the weight of the vest, all fifty pounds of it. The dive master reminds me to hold onto my mask and my regulator with my right hand and to grip my weight-belt buckle with my left. I fumble with my right hand and end up just placing my entire hand over my face in an attempt to keep everything in one place. I feel blinded, but I am reassured by the fact that it won’t last forever.

Without a backwards glance, I tip off the edge of the boat and sink into the tumultuous waves around me. Once my face is underwater, I feel safe. The limbo between off the boat and in the water is what terrified me. The waves keep me above the surface just long enough for me to remember to press the button on my equipment twice to pump air in to my vest. Waves splash into my mouth; the taste of salt and salt and salt overcomes me. I spin around searching for my dive buddy, my masked face looks just like everyone else’s masked faces. Panic sinks in. But when I find him, I grab his hand and squeeze twice—our signal for safety—and we descend. 

Diving on the wreck Chien Tong
in St. Eustatius, Netherlands Antilles.

I am going in slow motion: the waves at the surface break and create little white caps but the deeper we go down, the less movement there is. The calmer water keeps me suspended, my optimal buoyancy reached. Time stops. All around me is deep blue water glittering with microscopic pulsing hearts of tiny organisms. The only thing I can hear is the sound of muffled breathing and the gurgle of air bubbles as they leave my regulator and lazily make their way to the surface. I monitor my breathing, making sure it isn’t too fast or too slow. I’m much calmer than I was at the surface. The rhythm of the ocean is my rhythm. 
 I look down. Below me is a blue-green reef speckled with sunlight and the subtle movements of fish. Fear and amazement take over my body, making my limbs go stiff and awkward. I’m suddenly very aware of how teeny-tiny I am in the midst of this vast ocean. But I’m not upset about it.