Limbo

by Taylor Reid Sutherland (Canada)

Making a local connection USA

Soft veins of pink and orange were starting to glow over the violet horizon—a rare moment of tranquility that only those who rise before the sun get to experience in Miami. A mere hour or two before would see the last of the party boaters docking for the night, and shortly thereafter, the marina would be flooded with tourists and hurried fishermen that had hoped to be at sea much earlier. The smell of salt in the dewy morning air seemed to make my lungs feel lighter. The university students and Rusty Pelican runoff that shot tequila under the neon light of the Miami skyline were always too hungover to wake up early enough to experience this limbo; and the fishermen who docked their trawlers at the marina were far too concerned with cutting their bait and drinking their coffee to enjoy it. For just moments between night and day, there was this: the serene sound of saltwater lapping at ship hulls and seagulls in the distance. The next moment of peace didn’t come until at least eight miles off the coast of Key Biscayne—past the bright red mooring buoys, overzealous jet skiers, and ‘must idle’ zones. I could see dolphins riding along in my wake and calling out in greeting when they breached the white-capped waves until it was time to cut the throttle; and my chipped porcelain mug—still half full with cold, black coffee—joined the one from yesterday next to the helm in the pilothouse of the small vessel. Today was a good day: the sun would be high in the sky by lunchtime and fluffy clouds lit up in a spectrum of pink and yellow hues. If I dropped a quarter, I was certain I’d be able to watch it sink all the way to the reefs below. A smile pulled at the corners of my lips; Neptune wasn’t far East, and I hadn’t been diving in far too long. Neptune Memorial Reef was one of the most incredible sites I’d ever seen with my own two eyes. Spanning hundreds of feet of the ocean floor were exquisite concrete structures into which cremated ashes had been mixed. It hadn’t taken long for the ocean to claim what was offered to it; a million different colours of coral blanketed the underwater figures and bridges like silk. Schools of fish flooded the marine cemetery in a flurry of shiny scales, and barracuda patrolled the courtyard. Forty feet below the surface was Miami’s own Atlantis. It’s crazy the way the world comes alive underwater, exactly how I imagine donning a pair of prescription glasses at sixty to be when you’ve needed them your whole life. Lithe reef sharks eyed me as they jetted into shadows cast by the towering, regal arches of Neptune that rose high over their kingdom, while dolphins squealed back and forth at each other like young siblings. Here, I am free of the burdens that I carry above sea level and I feel privileged—like nature is letting me be a part of this submarine world for just a little while. Hours pass this way, and it feels like seconds. The time that I don’t spend hovering over the seabed is spent floating on the surface above it—staring down in awe at the empire that lies before me. Before I know it, the red that ran through the sky at dawn is dribbling into it again in heaver hues. The longer I spend in the ocean, the harder it is to leave it, but the salt on my skin is enough to satisfy me for now. Dusk is bleeding into the sky and with it, reality descends once more; its hand heavier and heavier on my shoulder. Already, I can hear the music and laughter as the night approaches, and the smell of greasy pub food floats on the breeze as I pass the Rusty Pelican--where fishermen watch the last hours of the day disappear over the rims of mismatched beer mugs. Just before the calm waves lull me to blissful unconsciousness in the pilothouse, my mind wanders from the brilliant colours of the reef and romping dolphins to the crystal-clear seawater that ceaselessly cleanses my soul.