Jamaica. How exotic. Fitting that I would be attempting the most daring thing in my rather boring and stable life on a Caribbean island; where I am far from the humdrum students that surround me on day to day basis. We walk into the resort’s center for recreational water activities, refusing their kind offer of sail boating – we had already done that the previous afternoon. No, this time we were heading straight for the big guns: we were going scuba diving.

Glancing around me while my parents fill out our liability and insurance forms, I immediately notice a few things: there was a pretty girl waiting with her parents and little brother in the corner, whispering quietly among themselves, a tall, well-built college boy (who looked like the poster boy for Abercrombie) was lounging on the only armchair in the room, and lastly, I saw my family friends signing up to go snorkeling instead. The room was bright, although not as glaring as the beach it was situated on. The furnishings were hotel-y, classy and abstract, but still managing to get an ocean paradise theme going. I walked over to the aforementioned buddies , taking care not to trip or bump into the furniture, lest I make myself into a bumbling fool before we even get on the boat, joining in their discussion of which guys were the cutest at the beach volleyball court. Out of us four girls, I was the oldest, moreover the fattest, and the tallest. It made for awkwardness; I would always feel extremely self conscious when we frolicked about in bikinis, or even in the scandalous booty shorts that have pervaded clothing shops nationwide. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not overweight nor obese, I’m just average, in every single way. I was at the age when not all of the pudginess had left my cheeks, and adolescence was just starting to taper off, leaving a discomfited somewhat teen-aged girl. No other words to describe it, I was just plain awkward.

Back to the scuba-diving. By this time, my parents had filled out the necessary forms, they firmly reassured me one last time that we would be getting “an extremely beneficial experience that would enrich our lives in a novel and irrevocable way” – words which just breezed over my head and did not answer the question of why I couldn’t do something fun with all my other friends, but had to be dragged off to do an activity with just my parents, away from the pack. It certainly isn’t the first time, so I guess I should be used to this by now.

We are ushered into a small adjourning room with the stereotypical nuclear family; we sat in stiff, unyielding plastic foldable chairs, waiting for the introductory infomentary to begin. It outlined in a tacky 1990’s font the risks of scuba diving, death being a principal hazard. I attempted to pay attention, yet my brain kept drifting back to that one word: death. It connoted so much with only 5 letters; a nothingness, sadness, mourning, and simply disappearing from the lives of everyone you take for granted. Yet, would it be so bad? Being able to escape the chaotic mess that is our lives, being able to numb pain, to simply not feel anymore. I shake myself out of my reverie, focusing back on the hand signals used for communication under water. “Well, these sound crucially important”, I scold myself. Soon, the concluding screen flashed, and we were herded (yet again) to acquire the scuba equipment. Outfitted and ready, like baby ducks tailing their mama , we followed our instructor and supervisor to the sprawling resort pool.

We step into the pool and are instructed to dip our heads beneath the pool and to breathe through the air tank and mouth piece. I open my eyes and see the underwater pool world through my scuba mask, hearing my breaths echo as if a elephant was huffing and puffing next to my eardrums
…and I freak. I pop my whole body back out of the 4 feet deep water, whip my scuba mask off and suck in warm tropical air tinged with a taste of salt.

It was daunting, completely defying the laws of nature, effectively skewing my perception. I force myself to put the stifling visor back on and slip under the water’s surface again, holding onto my parents’ hands for backup support as I gulp in the stale yet purified oxygen from the backpack-esque tank strapped onto my back. I give the all-ok signal to the instructor, and wait for my brain to stop spazzing about out-of-body experience and to just breathe. I chant in my head random mainstream pop song lyrics that all center around the theme breathing, although admittedly those words applied to after breakups, but I justified that my situation was equally traumatizing. I slowly get the hang of it, but all too soon our trainer says we are ready for the real thing. For scuba diving 40 feet beneath sea level.
I hoist myself out of the pool and get cold feet, literally and figuratively. How tempting it was to just purposefully walk away from this overwhelming, intimidating event. To just give up for once.

I find myself on the boat, shepherded on, and weighed down by the dead weights strapped around me to keep me from later floating up to the surface. I make friends with the other girl, her name is Jamie and she’s from New Jersey, etc. To me, she looks like the standard popular cliquey girl. She reminds me of the girls that I suck up to at school, trying to make friends, emulating their styles, struggling so hard to just not be the socially awkward, loner new girl. She, and they, are all that I’m not; they’re popular, social, friendly, gorgeous, model skinny… need I go on? I wonder if I really do become the one exception to the safety policy, if I become the one blemish, the one failure in this scuba diving activity in the history of the resort…if I die, would the people in my life care? Would the peers that I spend half my days with, would they attend my funeral? Would they cry, or would they just fake the tears and feelings of loss? “Enough”, I tell myself. Enough is enough. I try not to think such morbid and deep thoughts while currently being tossed about on turbulent waters, else my motion sickness will soon become apparent. Feeling a little green around the gills, we arrive at the destination; a place in the clear, azure ocean where civilization just becomes a speck on the horizon. We slide around the floor of the boat a bit, reaching to the edge, where we ungracefully plop into the water. The tides are rough, buffeting us around, force feeding us salty seawater. After the choking fest, we slip on the masks and try to find the rope that will lead us down.

Sliding down on the algae-clumped rope, going one hands width at a time, I question the hygiene of the algae tickling my palms, skin crawling with feelings of germophobia and creepycrawlersophobia. Adjusting to the pressure is painstaking, and my ears feel like corn kernels being popped into popcorn. My parents soon can’t handle the pressure and have to go back up; leaving me alone, once again. Looking around me, I suddenly realize that there are risks just as bad as death down here. Accidentally flashing some boob, kicking a coral reef, face-planting a spiky coral, punting a stingray; these are all humiliating and terrible possibilities, practically equal to the prospect of death.

I coerce myself into turning off that never stopping brain of mine, to cease over-thinking every little thing, and to simply be. I use my senses to wonder in awe at the picture perfect aqua world around me, and to marvel at the myriad of colors and sights assaulting my eyes. In this world, I am alone, yet I am surrounded on all sides, the marine life not suffocating but welcoming, friendly almost. Certainly better than the suffocating society that awaits me back home. I wish I could forever float in that plane, to simply exist in beauty, not disturbing it, and allowing it to seep through my pores. Here, my greatest fear of loneliness and abandonment will never come about. I was loathe and reluctant to return to my true world above me. To break the surface, and to be blinded again by the sense of insignificance reflecting off the ocean’s waves. To speed back towards that no longer quite as small speck on the horizon.

To return to my habitual, routine life.

I am now a halfway certified scuba diver. I don’t know if I will ever become fully certified. I don’t know if I ever want to go back and try to find that ephemeral sense of tranquility and utter beauty, or I ever can anymore.

I am scared that I have once again been drained by the hectic bustle of living in the 21st century.