How to Snorkel

The wetsuit felt tight to begin with but when I jumped into the cold water at Pelican Bay my chest felt imprisoned by it. Suddenly breathing became an unnatural act that had to be thought about to be done. In. Out. In. Out. My lungs were impatient for the air they were so used to getting easily and without noticeable work.

What is going on here? Why is this so much work? Why am I running out of air? WHY CAN’T I BREATHE?

I kicked my flippered feet back and forth to keep my head above the swells and turned. The boat looked like an island drifting away from me at an alarming rate. Wait, I thought weakly, don’t go that way. But the wind didn’t care: it pushed the fiberglass buoy of hope even further out along the circumference of the circle allowed by the anchorage.

I glanced toward the shallows where the back of my son’s head bobbed in the surf above the kelp. The blue tip of his snorkel cut smoothly through the water’s surface, unconcerned and easy. He moved like a lazy leaf between the world below and the world above, taking in the feast the sea offered.

They seemed like friends, one powerful and deep; the other fragile and trusting — an easy-to-break robin’s egg in the palm of a giant’s hand that reached across the surface of the earth.

Could I do this?

I relaxed and pulled my mask on. Slowly, evenly, I lay down face first in the surf and let the urge to kick pass through and just… breathe.

One. Two. In. Out.

Instead of someone who had to get somewhere — safety, a boat, a view of a starfish — I was just a being drifting in the space known as the ocean and a whole new world appeared below me.

What a perfect lesson for me and my life.

The ocean beneath came alive with flashing orange Garibaldi and purple urchin.