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Wet Dreams Galore
It hit me earlier today, as I watched Ian Thorpe earn his latest gold medal, how much I miss being in the water. I haven’t had a good swim since I used my uncle’s pool on the afternoon of the Fourth of July—and, to be honest, I was too busy telling Australia and New Zealand stories (or heckling my newly-married cousin about his home life) between leisurely laps to get much out it. But, now, after all these weeks of trying to rationally work through all my assorted problems, I find myself craving the challenge and simplicity of sixteen seamless laps of backstroke or three sets of breaststroke with four laps each.
It’s hard for me to explain how much I love water in all its forms, mostly because it’s not a rational idea with concrete reasons. Nor is it something I can measure, in some academic unit, or calculate. The only explanation that comes close is that, for me, water promises freedom and comfort and calm and challenge and exhilaration and peace and acceptance all in a single package. That ‘s obviously a contradictory answer, but I’d argue that it’s no more contradictory than the sometimes-healing sometimes-destructive, sometimes-timeless sometimes-unpredictable nature of the element itself.
How to say this? For some, the fear begins when they enter water’s embrace. But not me. It is a refuge, and when in it, I feel the simultaneous sense of relief and awakening that I imagine others experience when entering a much-treasured sacred space. From the first moment I learned how to move in it, I felt a deep and instant empathy, a bone-deep love. Some are put off by its contradictions, its changeability, its moodiness, but those are qualities I know and appreciate—qualities that I embrace and understand.
I guess you either understand it or you don’t. Words are not a way one comes to accept such things.
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Planning for the San Diego trip continues, and I find that I’m really excited at the thought of being near an ocean again. I mean—the Atlantic is nearby, yes, but I’ve lived here too long, and seen how the beaches and water have been treated, to feel any sense of calm or joy. About the Pacific, however, I (foolishly?) remain optimistic. And I’m giving serious thought joining Oso on all those early morning swims, if he’ll have me; 6am California time will probably still feel like 9am for me, so it shouldn’t be too hard to get up. Not for the ocean, anyway.
I would also love to pull on a wetsuit and explore the hidden depths of the Pacific— I’ve caught myself daydreaming about diving more than once lately. Renting gear for a day and getting a guided tour of the area is actually cheaper than I thought it would be, and it’s all too possible I won’t get another chance to do this until I visit a friend in Tampa during January. But, of course, traveling solo means I’ll have to look for a dive buddy when I get to San Diego, and I find myself wavering. It would be inaccurate to say it’s more trouble than it’s worth—there’s a reason so many divers believe heaven is below rather than above—but beyond the inherent difficulty in such a thing, I’m wondering how much I can trust somebody with whom I’m barely acquainted while in the water. I keep hearing the voice of my dive instructor and how he constantly told us, “If something happens down there, [your buddy] is the one who holds your life in her hands. If you don’t trust her implicitly, don’t bother putting on your gear.”
(Will, if you’re out there somewhere, aren’t you proud I remembered your pet lecture so well?)
So, I keep thinking, keep mentally weighing the pros-and-cons. There’s a little voice which insists on pointing out that this experience will almost certainly pale compared to Reef, just because that was the Reef and nothing can top that—and I definitely see its point; I try to convince myself that swimming or snorkeling, or just getting into the water, will be enough. But there’s the part of me—the same part that regrets having gone horseback riding instead of skydiving while on the North Island—that wonders if I won’t kick myself for it later. I also can’t stop myself from wondering if not diving in September will make it harder emotionally and intellectually later on—I’ve heard lots of certified divers let their qualifications lapse if they don’t dive again within the first six months—and I really don’t want that.
Somehow, I don’t think I’ll resolve this one until I’m actually on the beach facing the ocean, and my heart whispers its answer. We’ll see.
There are other non-water-related plans, of course. I’ll meet friends and family for lunch or dinner, a night exploring what the Gaslamp Quarter has to offer, make a visit to the Japanese Friendship Garden (and the rest of Balboa Park), wander around La Jolla and wish I had more money, maybe take a visit to the wine country and indulge my senses. But, quite honestly, I really wouldn’t complain if my week consisted of nothing else but time by the beach. Maybe get a massage if I really did do nothing but swim and dive and eat and talk and I had lots of money left over—an oxygen tank, easily borne on the descent, always manages to make my back hurt after the experience of weightlessness—but I could do nicely without it, too. Just having that sort of week would be a balm to my soul.
I can’t wait.
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