Breathing through a tube
published 9 March 2007
I spent the last few days in Apulit Island, about an hour’s boat ride from the northeastern shore of the Palawan mainland, on an assignment for the lifestyle section. The trip came just a week after my birthday; I had the notion that the junket was a gift dropped, on a fancy platter, from heaven, some sort of reward for working hard and not complaining too much. I was wrong.
Upon arriving at the resort, activity officers advised us guests to get a lot of rest. After all, we had already traveled by air, land and water that morning, and we were wiped out. The real activities would begin the following day, they said. We were too happy to comply—and enjoy the spectacular view from the terraces of our cabanas that stood on stilts on the water.
In the morning, the staff told us to prepare for snorkeling lessons—if we wanted to. I had been planning to just lounge around the beach, catch up on my reading and take a lot of pictures for my desktop background, something I can stare at to transcend my load at the newsroom. This, while sipping watermelon shake or Coke light whenever I got thirsty. After all, I had always thought of myself as too conservative, the kind who ordered the same things in the same restaurant and took the same route to work.
Then I remembered I was supposed to be working and decided it was time I stepped out of my comfort zone. I must confess I wanted something new to write about, if only to be different from the thousands of other writers who must have attempted to describe the beauty of the scene. So I donned the equipment—fins, life vest, and mask. That was perhaps one of the best decisions I ever made.
Like anything, snorkeling was difficult in the beginning. My being a Piscean didn’t make me a natural fish in the water. Suffice it to say that I let in some seawater into the mask and the water seeped through my nose. Of course I panicked and gasped for air. Water also got into the tube through which I was supposed to breathe, and I sputtered again. I panicked and held on to the arm of the instructor, much to the dismay of others who were waiting for him to guide them, too.
It had been half an hour and the farthest I got was about five feet away from the pier. And did I tell you I was still holding on to the rope? I know. It was pathetic. I was sure everyone, even the fish, was looking and laughing.
I hauled my frame to shore and started getting at what I must be doing wrong. I shook off the water in the mask and discovered it was too loose. I made sure it fit snugly, even though it hurt my ears and practically sealed my nose. I also shook the water out of the mouthpiece and then practiced breathing through it. I reminded myself that heck, I was wearing a life vest, which made drowning highly unlikely. Finally, I let go of the rope, made the sign of the cross, then jumped into the water again.
I never came back up, at least not until I felt hunger pangs and realized a good couple of hours must have passed and it must be time to grab some lunch.
I snorkeled some more: in the afternoon, in another side of the island, and again the following day, in yet another island. Now I had something to write.
***
Afloat, the first thought that comes to mind is, wow, this looks like an aquarium. The corals, fish in bright colors, all other creatures whose names to which you are a stranger. Then you laugh at your silly thought when you realize it is the other way around: An aquarium is made precisely to approximate this environment. This is the real thing.
Remember, too, that you’re floating, and only the front half of your body is submerged in the water. Your perspective is like a bird’s eye view, except that you’re not a bird and you’re certainly not flying. You wonder whether God must feel this way: Looking down at all of us as we go about our daily business, find food and fight over it, deal with those of our kind, those not of our kind…
The peace is immense. At this point, you’ve probably stopped struggling against the water and have surrendered your body to the waves. There is nothing but the sound of your breathing.
You realize you are a mere onlooker, and you are humbled. In your everyday existence, you think you’re so hot—that you’re invincible, and that the world revolves around you. But now you realize that all this activity has gone on for ages, and will go on further than you can stretch your mind. Suddenly you envy these creatures: no pretensions, distractions, appearances to keep. Everything is in order, as it should be.
Of course, the experience is not all in awe.
There are some scary moments. You get scared, sometimes, especially when you pass those spiked black creatures, which you think may sting you or secrete some harmful substance anytime. At one point, too, the corals end and therein lies a steep and sudden drop. Beyond that, terrifying darkness. Your imagination runs wild and you imagine a monster there, or a corpse, Sadako-style. Or a shark, smiling and ready to tear you into pieces. Or you may get suckered into a hole, something too strong for your life vest to resist. You castigate yourself for having all these ridiculous thoughts but swim away from the site. It’s not as if you can see anything there, anyway, since it’s so dark. At least you can always tilt your head upward if you want to remind yourself that you walk amongst your own kind and that you are just a sojourner.
***
Earlier, I said I was wrong in believing that the most important aspect of the trip had been handed to me gift-wrapped. I had to work hard unearthing the best things it had to offer. And, what do you know? It was worth it.
They say, however, diving is better, since it’s here where you can literally swim with the fish and be part of their world. That sounds like a nice experience. I may try it some other time, though I’m not doing a good job sounding brave. I’m growing old. I’m realizing I don’t have a lifetime to see the rest of the world, so I’m starting now.
