Kailani

The ocean and I first met each other in Coronado, California. It was cold there, and gave me a bit of a shock. My feet ached as I ventured further out, little by little. I didn’t often go more than waist deep, too achy from its cold presence. Much later, in Mexico, we met again on warmer terms. The water was inviting, and I learned to ride its waves with just my body. I also learned to let it support me, as I floated in a full suspension by warm salty swells. It became a lullaby to my soul to rest on ocean waters and rise and fall with each wave. Our next rendezvous was in Hawaii, where I fell in love with the ocean. I played in waves that were nearly out of my range of skill, and I often simply sat on the rocky coast and watched the water play on the lava. My sorrows and joys seemed to break along the shore, passing as quickly as each wave. I simply watched from my observer position, and allowed tears or laughter to roll by. The ocean remains indifferent. When winds are big, its waves are big. It can be calm as glass and seem as nurturing as a womb. It can also be terrifying, developing giant waves and housing creatures of monstrous proportion. Whether serving as a metaphor for emotions, the depths of our minds, or a mother, the ocean cradles my heart in a wonderfully neutral suspension of both adventure and gentleness.
I sometimes swim out from the Kailua Pier, paddling over a coral garden of wide variety. Each time I see something new. My courage has grown. After nearly half a year of sitting on rocks at spots here and there, wishing I had the courage to just swim off from a protected spot, I finally took that leap of faith. It was an empowering moment when I looked back to see that I had made it out without being dashed on the rocks. An oldtimer told me about the cove where I entered the water, the underwater landforms to be seen as I swam out (a stone arch, then a long bench of rock and coral to explore), and the direction of the prevailing current, but failed to mention one thing. I explored and played and delighted in this expanded territory until I decided I was ready to come back in. That’s when I realized that my informant had forgotten something. How was I supposed to get back out of the water onto the rocks? Because it was a glassy-water day, it was no big deal. I scoped out the easiest exit point and made note of where it was for the next time.
Adjusting to breathing under water goes against every instinct a human possesses. For that reason, snorkeling and diving may need to be learned as a process for some of us rather than an event. It is unnerving to leave your natural element entirely and to go against the ancient survival instincts of our species. Once mastered, diving of any sort results in access to a wonderland to behold.
Ocean water is a living environment. It is impossible to replicate true sea water. Sometimes when I float, I feel the air on my upturned palms and fingertips. The air feels like an elastic bubble. When the sun comes out, it feels like a hot bubble. I wonder if that’s how fish out of water feel about air. Coming up toward the air from below, waves look like a bubbly surface, billowing like clouds. I wonder if fish that swim way out to sea get freaked out by seeing nothing but open sky above the air out there. Then I get my feet back on the ground.
Flying back to the Big Island one day, our aircraft turned in just such a way that my porthole captured only land for my view. Instantly I had a sad feeling of being land-locked. I wasn’t raised near the sea, but apparently I was meant to grow there. I am at home both in and on the sea.