Into the deep

by Christine Collins (Australia)

A leap into the unknown Australia

I peer over the edge of the boat into the dark blue below. There is nothing to see but sunlight, which moves and distorts with each wave that laps the hull. In a black wetsuit and oversized fins, I look like a giant seal about launch into an unknown world. But unlike a seal, I have neither the grace nor the sleek swimming style which would help me to adjust to the new world below. In fact, I am not like any ocean going creature. I am a vulnerable human being, pretending to be at one with the sea but feeling far from it. My head tells me that this is a wonderful freedom that could be a lifestyle of adventure and fun, but my stomach always dictates otherwise. At first, it will send warning signals from my ears to my brain, “You’re OK, You think you’re OK.” Then as the boat rocks a little more, the warnings will become more frequent, “You’re trying to be OK. You’re fighting to be OK.” A little later, the message will scream, “Warning, you’re not OK, warning!” Then it is all over in a moment, before my brain can even register what has happened. My stomach wretches without further ado and continues to convulse until the ground beneath my feet is firm again. I have learned over the years that it is not worth the trouble of making a boat return to shore amid a fishing or diving experience that everyone else is enjoying. It is best for me to either lie in a corner and quietly die, rather than feel the wrath of others who have had their adventure cut short. So, what I am doing out in the middle of the ocean off the Western Australian coast? I am fulfilling my bucket list - no, not a seasickness bucket - but a quest with considerable risk that I may fail, but everything to gain if I’m successful. And so far, so good. My warning signals are uneasy but not dire. With an ungracious splash, I enter the ocean and quickly bob to the surface. My breathing is magnified through the snorkel and I focus on slowing it down to a less-than-panic speed. I look around for my giant ‘seal’ family who are also bobbing up and down nearby at the whim of the ocean currents. There is no stealth in my approach toward them as I thrash the water with my newly acquired sea-feet. Luckily, I have not drawn the attention of any hungry reef shark this time. I gulp a mouthful of salt water, splutter and cough, then regain control. The leader of the group points ahead, so we partly swim, partly drift to the indicated area, with an occasional bump into each other. I float, suspended in time and space. Watching. Waiting. A shadowy figure emerges from the depths. It is a dark shape against the blue of the water but I can’t see any details. Steadily, it moves closer and the shape gets larger and larger. Within seconds, it is beside me. It is a huge animal, effortlessly gliding by with just a flick of its tail. Its wide mouth is open, revealing a fathomless cavity that sucks in the seawater like a giant sieve. Its large body, with distinctively spotted skin, is so close that I could touch it. The creature looks at me with a large, knowing eye. “Welcome to my world,” it seems to say telepathically. “I am just visiting for the food but you are welcome to be here too.” At that moment, I feel alone with this magnificent creature. I respect its majesty and beauty. I am humbled by its immense size yet gentle nature. This animal is truly incredible. My internal anxiety disappears in that moment. Being face to face with the whale shark has all been worth it.