A large dark torpedo-shaped animal came speeding through
the water heading right at me. I instinctively shut my eyes, clenched my body
and prepared for impact. At the last
possible moment, I sensed a shift in the water and gingerly opened my eyes. Mere inches away and staring right at me with
the deepest brown eyes I had ever seen, was a large sea lion. I gulped some sea
water, sputtered and coughed and struggled not to panic.
As
I looked into those large eyes, I calmed slightly, and it occurred to me that
the sea lion was playing. His small round face was whiskered, and his eyes had
whitish eyebrows. He seemed to be laughing at me as I floundered in the waves,
flaying my arms and flippered feet in the most ungainly way. He moved his large body with grace, perfectly
controlling his own flippers and tail and performing spins and twirls as he dove
and surfaced. As he dove, he twisted his
head back to look at me as if to challenge me to keep up.
My
dear friend and snorkeling buddy had the where-with-all to snap this photo!
We
were in the Pacific Ocean somewhere off the coast of Isabella Island in the
Galapagos. The Galapagos are volcanic islands 1000 kilometers off the coast of
Ecuador and 2,000 kilometers out of my comfort zone.
For
most of my life I’d been deeply afraid of the water. I shouldn’t have been. I
grew up in Southern Ontario, Canada, and summers were spent at the cottage,
next to one of the hundreds of small lakes that populated that area. My sister
and I would spend hours on the ancient wooden dock that jutted out into the
lake, bobbing up and down to the rhythm of the waves.
While
my sister lay slathered with sunscreen listening to the Beach Boys, I would sit
bolt upright, watching for the huge Dock-Spiders that would crawl up between
the planks. They were the size of my
palm (okay, maybe I had small hands), and they were fast and unpredictable. One
moment, I’d be half-asleep; the next moment, something dark, furry and venomous
would be crawling up my leg. I’d scream
and leap to my feet.
Occasionally
there would be a splash as fish jumped out of the water. I was fascinated and
terrified. When my sister jumped into
the cold dark water to cool off, I imagined the feel of the cold, scaly fish
skimming past her legs and feet. Sometimes, the little ones even nibbled at
you. I’d scream and leap from the water.
Later,
as a teenager, we would camp next to smaller, stiller bodies of water that were
often man-made from dammed-up streams.
The bottoms were muddy, and the muck made squishing sounds as you walked
into brownish water. Pre-historic
looking turtles and large toads stared as you entered the water. I dreaded the
inevitable skinny dips. They should have been deliciously transgressive –
sliding naked into the water, the moon overhead. Instead, I couldn’t help but
think of those turtles and the fish hidden in the dark water and where they
might get up to.
On
different summer days, on different larger lakes, calm waters would transform
into angry waves that would crash to shore, tossing swimmers onto the sand.
Only
the foolish voluntarily left the land and willingly entered the forbidden world
of water. But here I was in one of the most unique ecosystems in the world having
spent the cost of a car to get here, on a snorkeling expedition with
enthusiasts who raved about how lucky we were to be here.
I
had no choice (other than eternal shame). With huge trepidation I clamored over
the edge of the rubber zodiac, held my snorkeling mask close to my face,
untangled my flippers, and splashed into the ocean.
Almost
immediately large schools of fish swam toward and around me. Flashes of orange,
blue, purple and red competed with the flashes of sunlight filtering through
the water.
The
fish were a myriad of shapes and sizes. Sleek and narrow like a tube, fat and
bulbous, waving with tentacles.
They
ignored me as they swam around me, coming within millimeters as they focused on
their own path.
As
I panicked, the waves of the ocean washed over the top of my snorkel, and I
gagged as the salt water filled my mask and my mouth.
I
had to choose. Stay in the water and
fight through the fear. Or raise my arm
in defeat and climb back on board the zodiac and wait for the others.
I
chose to stay and was rewarded with the encounter with the sea lion. Eventually, my heart didn’t race quite as
fast, and my breathing became a little steadier. I learned to float on top of the water and
let the salt water’s natural buoyancy lift me over the waves. I learned to
listen to my own breathing.
The
ocean and its creatures still felt strange, but no longer quite so foreboding.
The sense of malice turned into feelings of being invited into a different
world, with new languages and customs.
Back
on shore, I saw several of the sea lions out of the water, basking on the sandy
beach.
Now
it was my turn to laugh. Their
gracefulness and speed in the water turned into awkward half-lurch, half-drag
movements as they hauled themselves over the sand.
The
next day I felt brave as I slid over the edge of the zodiac for my second day
of snorkeling. I was calmly following our guide when almost immediately he
signaled to head back to the boat. Only when I was safely back on board did he
point out the black tip reef sharks that swam right under us. I learned that
the Galapagos are home to over 30 shark species and have the highest
concentration of sharks in the world!
Maybe
my fear of the water was somewhat justified. It is filled with life very
different to our own. I will never feel completely relaxed. Now, however, my
fear competes with a growing sense of curiosity. I may not be ready for Lake Huron Cottage
Dock-Spiders but I am determined to swim and snorkel in our Ontario Lakes this
summer.
***
Janice Locke is a
retired CEO and Business Executive living in Ancaster, Ontario. Her
newest gig as a grandmother is her most rewarding. She enjoys hiking in the
beautiful Dundas Valley with her Sheltie, Callie. Janice writes based on
personal experiences and observations of life’s beauty and brevity.
For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).
See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.
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