Under the Blue

To one who has never plunged into the water with nodules between teeth and tank on back to explore the challenging deep, you are missing an exhilaration. To know the first tug of desire that beckons you when you see a body of water, to feel the slight apprehension before you somersault from the boat's edge, to forget fear as your body pulls you down in loose grace, these are pleasures that may enthrall.

A friend intrigued me with his tales, and a recent vacation in Acapulco was the only inducement I needed to put on mask, tank, and fins. I went down with a skilled instructor, Fernando. The resort provided compulsory instructors for the inexperienced, and I followed his hand and eye directives to a T. The water was shallow in the inlet where I dove, fewer that 10 feet deep, and I relished my new ability to move as I pleased without racing to the surface for air. The inlet water was clear, easily explored. Soon I was impatient for deeper waters with bigger fish, floating seaweed, and the sunken ship Fernando had mentioned.

The next day proved more challenging. Standing on the jagged rocks that separated the inlet from the bay, I surveyed the gray day and the black water. I felt afraid but glimpsed Fernando’s prompting smile and pushed my body forward. Once under, fears evaporated. The wonders gripped me. Fernando told me to hold on to his shoulder strap that harnessed the aqualung to his body as a precaution. And so we went.

This world enchanted. The silence, except for the sound of bubbles from our aqualungs, brought a peace and awe. One acquires an immediate reverence for this twilight garden that was without trespass for centuries before man learned how to survive in it. Descending, I saw nothing but darkness inviting me further. We moved deeper and across the water. Temperature changes startled, warm then a cold pocket, then tepid, and warm again. Soon the variances became routine.

The varieties of fish encompassed a wide range of lengths, widths, shapes and sizes. Many were brilliantly colored or had contrasting stripes looking as though an artist had just removed a brush from them. I was sorry we couldn’t converse, so I could know the identity of the fish. Many swam in schools while others traveled alone. They ignored us, unconcerned about who these huge fish might be.

The rock formations differentiated as we streamed. Some formed low bridges that looked wide enough to allow swimmers to glide through, others were fantastical shapes—like an oversized head on a emaciated neck that widened to a scalloped ripple of rock skirt spreading out. Many rock indentations invited tiny fish to dart in and out of the miniature caves presumably in search of food or adventure. Coral colonies projected themselves towards us, looking like sea flowers with delicate petals. I reached out and was about to touch a rock to push myself forward in the water when Fernando ripped my hand away. To my surprise, an unattractive creature stared out at me. Later Fernando told me it was a moray eel.

We swam on and I tried to photograph, cerebrally, the strange beauty that left me in wonder and appreciation. Fernando swam a short distance from me now leaving me on my own. He carried a smaller spear as a protective device. Moments passed before I looked directly ahead. Fernando had speared an octopus, and it struggled to free itself. It was small, the size of an average man's chest, and it put up an impressive fight.

We dove everyday, but my final day proved exceptional. We motored out to mid-bay and once over the side of the boat, headed for the bottom, some ninety feet down. A magnificent Argentine liner was sunk in the bay in 1944 due to a fire, and we went to examine the remains. Gliding lower I noted many and various fish I hadn’t seen at higher levels. Some swam up to our masks and whipped to either side in gay fun.

Coming upon the ship, it gave off a feel of loneliness and desertion. Fernando knew the ship well and disappeared in any direction only to return minutes later. I examined the accessible upper parts of the liner, then took stairs and ladders to lower parts. The decks and corridors gave me a shiver, and I peered through portholes covered with years of sea growth. It was easy to imagine the once well-uniformed men, who walked through these narrow halls. The sunken ship was everything it should have been, eerie, but still commanding a solemn respect for what it had been.

Time seemed nonexistent in the sea. It has a hypnotism that makes a diver reluctant to leave its tacit womb and eager to return to its fathoms. Twice we resurfaced to our waiting boat only to exchange empty tanks for full and return to the sea.

Before we left the ship that day Fernando gave me a souvenir tile from one of the ship's deck floors. There are sea organisms embedded in it so thoroughly they have become as much a part of the tile as were the words, "PONZANO MAGRA" a town in south Naples, Italy, where the tiles were manufactured. It is a small memento but one that gives me pleasure each time I see it.

The next vacation you take in one of the sunnier parts of the world, let a tank slide over your back, forget your fears, and sink into surprise.

Originally published in Exclusively Yours Wisconsin, Vol. 30, Issue 3. 1977.