Scubadosing

While floating along a few feet above myriad patterns of coral I thought how wonderful it would be to be able to return to this world any time I wanted, un-aided by any technology; to be able to plunge into cool blue depths and explore an endless world of interconnected life. A world having at least one extra dimension to the one I am used to.

As washes of cool and cold pass over my body my breath is deep and steady with the rush of compressed air forced into me through my regulator. At a depth of sixty feet every breath contains about five times as much air as I would breath on the surface. From sea level to space air pressure drops off exponentially to zero. From sea level downward it increases linearly. Only on the surface of the planet do I walk on two legs against gravity. Just a short distance above or below, and I float or fall. I feel vaguely disembodied, but my breath reminds me that I am a living thing.

The bulbous, brain-like coral stands mostly rigid, but within the folds is covered with minute teaming life-forms. If the current that urges me along stood still I could expend all my air chasing down the details of one cluster and fail to take in most of it. By changing my depth my field of view dramatically expands to engulf me in the overarching immortal web.

Here and there the coral is dead, like a burn spot on a living brain. It lies all broken up and contains only shades of black and gray. It lies in stark contrast to the living coral around it. Whatever is happening at the edges between the dead and living is too slow for me to see. I don’t know if the spot grows or shrinks. I don’t know if it was caused by disease or inflicted by man, or what it portends if anything.

When I cast my eyes down the steep slope the coral gives way to blue depths. Greater and greater relentless pressure lies that way, rapid consumption of my remaining air, nitrogen narcosis. It is unlike standing on the edge of a cliff because there is no binary decision point. You can always push a little further. Fortunately, I am sane and still love my life, and I have a guide who watches over me.

Back on the boat, the dive master tells innumerable bad jokes. One is something about the accidental swapping of someone’s meds for “cat medicine”. I keep the book I have been reading of late – Karl Jansen’s Ketamine: Dream and Realities – securely in my bag. I missed the punch line.