Slow the breathing, move with intention, and don’t forget to look up.
I had so many reasons not to scuba dive. I’m claustrophobic, for one–I sweat and gasp for air in crowds and small rooms. I yawn for days after a flight to unplug my ears. And I thought it could go wrong in so many ways: tubes could break, tanks could blow, masks could leak. I stuck with snorkeling as my boys grew up, and I loved it — until we had a chance to join some friends on a trip to Tahiti.
Staying on the surface would not be enough. How could I pass up the opportunity to get up close and personal with brain coral and parrot fish and manta rays? I signed up for the last spot in a dive certification course here in Central Oregon, in their final session of the year.
Our check out dive took place in Cultus Lake, a high alpine lake that’s a gem all summer long, but this was late October. The 48’F water temp was warmer than the air (it was snowing. Really.) We stuffed ourselves into 13mm neoprene farmer john suits, plus booties, gloves, and hoods, which made buoyancy a challenge. A few crayfish and old beer cans dotted the sandy bottom, but we weren’t there for sightseeing. The good news was that my ears and my claustrophobia were manageable–but so far it felt like lots of work with little reward!
Four months later, tropical turquoise seas replaced that frosty slate-colored lake, and I finally experienced the zen of scuba. Once the gear was in place and my ears equalized — both of which take time and attention — then the zen begins. There’s a shift, a calmness, a slowing of the breathing and the brain. Waves may toss around the surface, but everything below just sways. Fish as vibrant as a black velvet painting, anemones and corals that fell right out of a Dr. Seuss book, a puffer fish that spikes out and scoots away, adorable yet toxic. You have to stay fully present, just to take it in.
Slow the breath, keep the hands still, paddle gently. Inhale to rise up, exhale to drop deeper, every movement deliberate. Stay quiet when you glance up to find a flock* of eagle rays gliding above you like slo-mo bats, even though your heart is racing. Wonder at the school of glitter fish that flick away in synchronized motion, then snap to attention when you recognize the bullet-nosed shape of a lemon shark resting below you. Slow the breathing again.
Zen.
*a group of rays is actually called a squadron, but that seems too military for these gentle, flowing creatures. Bats live in colonies, but that word doesn’t fit either. Flock? Family? Pod?