Between the ages of 4 and 11, my dad used to take me snorkling with him about 3 times a week. There was a secluded beach about 15 minutes from our house, tucked behind a row of old abandoned homes, and it had the whitest sand I had ever seen. The water was always crystal clear even to about a depth of about 5 feet, just a few feet short of where a coral reef sprawled crawling with life. It was our own little world for a few hours after I got out of school.
Now, I've always had asthma, but it was worse around that age. Any little thing would trigger it: sports, strong emotions, laughing and small changes in the weather. So while dad was used to being able to dive deep and see the corals from up close, in the beginning he limited me to using my snorkle close to the surface so I would have a constant supply of air. It still looked beautiful from above, but I wanted to get close. More importantly I wanted to be like dad since, being an only child, he was pretty much my best friend and I idolized/mimicked everything he did.
Eventually, by the time I was around 6, I discarded the snorkle and just had a mask. I remember how worried my parents would get when I used to go under, now swimming side by side with dad and my face inches away from the bright tropical fish and coral mazes. I had trained myself for a year almost, in a small pool my parents put for me in the yard. My best friend Alex would come over and he'd hold my hand tight, brushing the back of it soothingly as I dipped my face in the shallow pool after taking a few rapid shallow breaths. At first his counting would only reach until 10, before my panic would set in and the air in my lungs burned finding a way out of me. He'd notice my grip tighten and pull me out of the water, patting my back as I coughed half the contents of the pool out. With time I was able to surpass the 30 second mark, and he would feel my grip actually losen - also prompting him to pull me out thinking I had drowned. He then learned that I had taught myself how to relax while underwater, clearing my thoughts, concentrating not on how the air felt in my lugs and how much time had passed, but on how the water drifted between my fingers. I focused on things under the surface with me, like his limbs or my hands...or that tiny speck floating around me.
I remember the first time I went under without my snorkle, without telling my parents I had practiced before. My dad was a little ahead of me picking a baby octopus up so I could see it close, and when he turned around I was right by him with a sea urchin to show him. He signaled me to go up, and I signaled "OK" back but stayed under a little longer distracted by a purple and yellow fish. I suddenly felt someone yank me up to the surface by my hair and my mom running towards the water thinking I had drowned. "Can you breathe?! Do you need the inhaler?! Yari, you're pale!", to which I just smiled at them saying I was fine. I explained I had been training my lungs and I could do it on my own, to trust me, the all knowing 6 yr old. It took a while, but in time they grew accustomed to my sometimes 90 sec - 2 min dives without coming up for air. I was finally able to enjoy the true beauty and serenity, always remembering to come up for a breath of fresh air but never letting the darkness and panic take over.
I wish I knew why I thought of this today. I guess, suppose, what have ya, that sometimes we may feel like we are out of breath while being surrounded with the good and band things in life. The harsh times may seem like that panic that sets in when your body does the natural thing of wanting you to freaking breathe, making your heart race and your vision cloud as a sign of impending danger. The air? In my case I guess the air can be people/habits that I revert to, that comfort me, that make me feel like I'm going to survive...but how am I supposed to enjoy life (the ups and downs) for longer periods of time if I don't toughen myself up? I'm finally loosening my grip, and feeling everyday things slip between my fingers. I'm ignoring that need to go up for air, because I'm looking for things in life to focus on. Floating specks and beautiful fish I want to enjoy just a little longer, without drowning.
Do I make sense? Probably not. I guess what I'm saying is, air is only so important. It keeps you alive long enough for you to take a dive again and re-discover a new world. Or maybe I just miss Alex.
P.S. This is Alex, now age 27. We don't talk anymore. But between ages 4 and 13, he was my world :) Hooray for the good memories.
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