top of page
Search

Darling, It's Better Down Where It's Wetter. Take It From Me.

Writer's picture: Pru WarrenPru Warren

Oct. 13



I don’t seem to be able to turn it off—the desire to compare. To understand something by saying to myself, ah. THIS thing is like THAT thing.

 

I mention this because we went snorkeling again this morning, which is a form of exercise I very greatly esteem. This is my idea of exercise; what I was born to do. Lay in the water in a dead man’s float, let all limbs dangle uselessly, and feel waves wash over me. In crystalline, warm/cool water. And have lots and lots to look at.

 

In fact, there WAS a small expenditure of energy since we were following our guide (first Jeff and then Erin, who knows from crocodiles) around the reef. Eight of us trailing along behind him or her, making sure our “buddy” was at least still in sight. Twig was my buddy but her mask developed a vigorous leak and she had to swap masks with Erin (whose face, I assume, is wider than Twig’s). Every time I looked for Twig’s white swim shirt, she was upright in the water, clearing her mask. The drift was a lot less pleasant for her.

 

But Twig was still the one who spotted a sea turtle! She got my attention and I got to see it too. The turtle took off with impressive speed; not interested in sticking around. But there it goes! I got to see it!

 

When I was eight or so, my mother and father took their three daughters to St. Bart’s in the French West Indies. (Caribbean.) Our father, an exceptionally intelligent man, taught his three daughters how to snorkel and we’d spend our days on the reef in front of the beach house they rented. It was hugely fun…and I don’t remember them needing us to buddy up. Daddy, Twig, and I would set out to drift around and look at things. We separated almost immediately. Mom and Lexie (just a baby then—four or five) preferred to splash in the shallows. Mom never liked what she called The Big Deep; she preferred to snorkel where she could touch her hand to the bottom. Back then, Lexie was right by her side. (Later, Lexie did more scuba diving than either Twig or me (even—shudder—some cave diving; no thank you!), so she didn’t fear The Big Deep at all.)

 

Dad taught us how to dive under the water to look at things and reserve enough air in our lungs to blow the snorkel clear once we resurfaced; we didn’t have to pop our heads out to take our first breath. That was cool. From the beach, I remember seeing my father’s back disappear, a brief flash of his flippers, and then nothing until he popped up again and spouted a plume of water through the snorkel like a whale using the blowhole. Neato. I could do that too!

 

In my memory, we would go out for hours at a time. It’s not like snorkeling wears you out; you just drift and breathe. Come in when you get hungry. Once, Twig and I were back on the beach when it started raining. We all ran for the house, wondering why Dad never came in; he was still out there spouting like a whale. Later we asked; he had no idea it had been raining. Wild!

 

So snorkeling is tied in my mind with exceptionally happy memories of being with my family and especially my father. He could ID all kinds of fish; that was the kind of brain he had.

 

And one day he announced that he and Twig were going to snorkel around Eden Roc, on top of which was built a fancy hotel. I was deemed too young to make the trip—damn it! And they saw a SEA TURTLE, and I was so damned jealous…

 

…and today Twig called out to me. “Pru! Pru! Look—a sea turtle!”

 

And there it was! She’d spotted another one and this time I was there to see it! Oh, it was so sweet!

 

Wait. Where was I? Right—the overwhelming urge to understand what I was seeing by comparing it to something I was familiar with. Thus, floating over a coral reef is like New York Fashion Week. No, it’s like every genre of fiction. No, it’s … it’s… I can’t do it. It’s BETTER than that. In keeping with the meditative state of snorkeling, the view forces me to be In The Now, Man. Just open your eyes and take it all in.

 

There are these black sea stars. They very wisely prefer to cling on to staghorn corals of a warm shade of topaz. This makes an eternally attractive color combination; what Lexie calls “blackie and khaki.” The sea star is inky black—the only truly black thing in sight—and each of the dozens of feathered arms has a slim crimson spine, only visible if you get right up next to it. The tangle of many arms form a gently-waving ball that looks (sorry for the comparison; I really can't help myself) like a perfect bun on the head of a beautiful woman. One with lustrous, dark hair. Maybe that was my favorite thing…but maybe not. What else?

 

I saw a striped fish that would have seemed gaudy at a drag show. It had a disc-shaped body, which probably means it was some kind of an angelfish, and was striped in bold yellow and white, but each stripe was edged in a pencil line of cobalt blue. I mean, come on. Who designed that thing to be so spectacular? Remember the Star Trek where they went to the planet that automatically built whatever they were thinking of? Sulu thinks about war planes and then he’s being strafed by one? You know the one. It was hard to believe that there wasn’t a humming, whirling lab hidden inside the masses of coral with clever beings giggling and saying “Look! I’m about to send this one out—check out these stripes! Are they not spectacular?”

 

Erin saw a Napoleonic wrasse in about 40 feet of water, and I think I saw it, too. It was shy, but huge—and mostly pale blue with pale green and pale pink markings. She was very happy to see it, and I was, too—but then, I was happy with the black-and-white fellows in six feet of water, or the yellow tube things that filtered the water, like a blobby ocarina with purple splotches.

 

The award for most glorious went to another angelfish (which I’m hereby naming the Goth Angelfish because I CAN’T stop comparing things), which was mostly a dark color. Like if you chose red but then slid the color bar slider almost all the way to black. But its tail and the back half of its trailing fin were flame orange. It was a fish who said “Dolling, I vant to be alone” while throwing a fluorescent boa over its shoulder and flitting away. Look at me/don’t look at me. Oh, WELL DONE, secret egg-headed designers hiding in the rocks! That one is really something!

 

The ship’s doctor, Tucker, was in our group, and he liked nothing more than to dive deep, deep down so he could peer under overhangs and see who was hiding down there. I mean, he went down twenty or thirty feet at a time. It was very Jacques Cousteau to watch him do it, too. Adding a human figure to the not-like-anything-else world helped to put things into perspective. He told me I had to start pressurizing my ears as soon as my head went under the water, which I can accept. But I don’t WANT to go down and scare the groupers and the Napoleonic wrasses. I’m perfectly happy up here, swimming amid ten million silver and blue bait-sized fishes schooling all around me.

 

The journey ended all too soon; I don’t think we even got two full hours on the reef, but let us not be greedy. I came back, hosed off, hung my bathing suit, swim shirt, and swim leggings with all the cool kids’ rigs (there’s a place behind the outdoor bar on deck six where you can hang your wet gear if you know where to go; Kura told us about it and I am DOWN with the cool crowd when I put my wet things up there), and then I headed to the observation lounge/library. I found a guide book—tropical fish of the Pacific. Excellent. Let’s see what more learned authorities are calling the Goth Angelfish…

 

…but alas. I never saw the Goth Angelfish in the book. I never saw the Perfectly Striped Damselfish. I never found the Napoleonic Wrasse. I think the problem is that no one book could possibly provide a comprehensive inventory of the world I was floating over. Because my father is long dead and I can’t quiz him, I must make my peace with the fact that I’m not going to be able to label and understand what I’m seeing. But I sure as hell can enjoy it.

 

Still haven’t come across anyone who was taking underwater photos so I can share some images with you. For this post, I’ll have to make do with the stunning sunrise this morning—plus this beauty shot of me in full Queen Elizabeth I face paint.



She used lead to get this unnaturally pale look; I’m using reef-safe sunscreen. I’m thinking mine is less toxic than hers…even if she did look a lot more attractive!

 

Today we’re anchored off the island of Fenualoa. We were supposed to do our village visit this morning and snorkel in the afternoon, but Lyle our expedition leader went to talk with the village elders early this morning when we arrived. The chief of another village died a few days ago and the funeral was this morning; we were asked NOT to come ashore until after the funeral.

 

But once they were finished honoring their dead, we could come ashore after lunch and they would interrupt their mourning to dance and sing and endure our cameras and curiosity…I have opted to skip this visit. I’m aware that this makes me look like a stick in the mud, but too bad. Twig and Harry have gone. Perhaps Twig will share a photo that I can use in a later post.

 

MORE SNORKELING.

69 views1 comment

Recent Posts

See All

1 Comment


Tonya Lunguy
Tonya Lunguy
Oct 13, 2024

I've never been so enthralled with fish watching as I am through your eyes!

Like
poison_flowers.png

© 2020 by Pru Warren. Proudly created with Wix.com

​FOLLOW ME

  • BookBub
  • Facebook Social Icon
  • Instagram
bottom of page