Of That Colossal Wreck
Diving became a refuge, suspending thought whilst in azure suspension. The curls of underwater currents often allow you to drift along without dispersing any energy. Eyes flicker around the furthest reaches of their orbit trying to triangulate the distance from the surface, the depth till rock bottom, and the pressure left in one’s tank. These constellation of elements—a handful at the most—are everything. All that matters, in that moment, are these simplest of things. How long can I stay under? How long can I stay under till it’s dangerous? How far can I go? How far can I go till I die?
Diving isn’t about bravery. You don’t suddenly get brave. Its sorcery strips always all that you previously hold dear and allows you, momentarily, to peer at your skeletal scaffolding—that which truly defines you—and take note of a commonly buried truth. This is a very different image to that which the world knows you by.
I mention bravery not as a cheap nudge to consider the act of diving as a brave one, but because fear is an integral part of the experience. The act of remembering who you are is predicated on fear. It’s the only emotion that subtracts. Happiness, anger, and love multiply. But fear and fear alone shatters the frontier of the thinkable.
Entrance is key. You can roll back, facing the boat—this vestige of safety—hanging onto the last morsel of civilization. This, most dive masters would consider, is treachery to the human condition. It is the easy way. To momentarily conquer a vast expanse of water too large to comprehend, it is oft thought that you must face forward. Standing up. Feet firmly placed on the boats fiber-glassed razor sharp edge, skin digging into the crusts causing dents that will last for days. The right hand is placed on goggles and oxygen regulator, ready to push in if things go awry on entrance. The left hand is placed over a buoyancy vest. You fix your gaze on the horizon, take a deep breath and casually step into the water as if you were adjusting your feet, ever so, to step onto a curb. The smallest of actions cause the largest of reactions. First black, not blue. Bubbles erupt from everywhere. You hold your breath. Why are you holding your breath? Your oxygen tank rendered useless by stupidity. You inhale, exhale, inhale. Calmness. The volcanic eruption of bubbles gracefully re-sculpts into a mobius pillar striving for the surface. Your vision readjusts as the exact refraction of light in the water hits your mask glass, then a pocket of air, then cornea, lens, gelatinous vitreous, retina, optic nerve, and finally, brain, as your consciousness scrabbles to comprehend an environment as alien as the farthest reaches of our solar system.
Blue is a passing notion. It does not exist. Instead shades of turquoise and teal blend back and forth, bursting with color until vivid nothingness—visibility abruptly ending. This is nature’s tease. The depths contain multitudes, concentrating life, but we do not always have permission to observe. Permission ebbs and flows. Currents blow you forward, toward jagged coral striking from every corner of this subworld. Yet even in such a deterministic universe, orchestrated by celestial globes, we do have free will.
The philosopher Martha Nussbaum argues that hiding from fear is an act of civil disobedience. Fear, she writes, illuminates a shared incentive to cooperate. Such incentive allows for empathy, morphing into trust and ultimately respect. The ocean knows no respect. Yet the fear it strikes, the hammers each wave makes as it gushes down your lungs, gives some credence to this ivory tower notion. Can we be wise from a point of safety? In order to tap into the human condition—surfers, climbers, skiers, and divers agree—one must seek comfort in the extremes. If not comfort, content. If not content, acceptance.
City living keeps you on edge. Panoramic vision is a learnt reflex, as you subconsciously assess potential harm, delay, or nuisance. Daily commutes run in real time but in the background your mind quantumly computes a never-ending array of variables which would ever slightly alter your parabola from origin to destination. Such worldliness is a hindrance down below. Edge is entwined with angst. Angst uses up oxygen. Less oxygen means less time below. This is sinful. The perfect antidote to edge when diving, years have taught, is giving up on the search for perfection. Not every action has an ultimate right or wrong. Not every dive will have crystal-clear waters. Not every train will be on time. A good dive has the afterglow of warm melancholy. A good day, immersed in salty water or polluted air, should do the same.
The people of diving shared a common ancestry with those that climb and surf, pelt down slopes, and take to the air with speed; souls who strive for the ideals of solitude. Surfacing was the antithesis of such endeavors. As the dial gradually lowered, indicating a fleeting amount of oxygen left, nature hands you two options. Surface, hail the boat and simper back to civilization, or lock eyes with your diving partner, wink, and jolt forward in-stream with the current, allowing you to drift whilst preserving gas. This last act of rebellion—even if collapsing lung air spaces are the real victim—meant that when we ultimately surface, as we have a knack of doing, we head back with an innate feeling of conquest, not survival.
Is diving all I was doing? Submergence is merely a property of weighted objects. It is not an existential thread of moral philosophy. Yet on these sun-kissed days, I chase reefs and rays as Woolf chased narrative and Proust chased time. As I jump into glassy waters, whitewashed with hidden creatures and lands, I feel fearful. But fear alone does not define dives. The violent swells of undercurrents and choppy lashing waves are remembered. Yet this charge of danger does not chase away the fearful. It lures the converted. Disciples addicted to subterranean immortality.
Contributor
Salil Patel
Salil Patel is a doctor and writer in London. He is still searching for a balance between political hope and scientific uncertainty.