Some of us just hate snorkeling.

 

Some of us just hate snorkeling.

Often, the perceptions that we have of ourselves are not always accurate.  And it can be jarring and surprising when the assumptions of ourselves prove to be untrue.  As a little girl I would lay in my bed at night and dream of the adventures I’d have later in life.  I viewed myself as a risk taker, thrill seeker, one who weighed the risks but usually said “count me in”.

So when I was in my early thirties and on my honeymoon with my wife, of course I couldn’t wait to zipline, snorkel, and go horseback riding on the beach.  I was ready for every active excursion our all-inclusive resort in Cabo had to offer.  Ziplining was a blast.  Horseback riding was a scene filled with lots of laughter and timeless memories.  And then there was snorkeling.  Snorkeling was like waking up on Christmas morning as a young child only to find no presents under the tree.  Disappointing, confusing, and distressing.

It was early afternoon when we loaded onto a party boat with about 20 other people.  Our hosts, two young local men in their early 20’s who spoke great English and were very charming, played loud music and handed out shots of tequila giving our group the ultimate Cabo excursion experience.  We sat across from a group of girls who had partied too hard the night before, one of whom was far too hungover to stay on the boat.  The second we dropped anchor she jumped in the water and swam to shore with no personal belongings and a single pool noodle she used to stay afloat. We all watched as she left the pool noodle on the sandy beach and walked toward the street to catch a taxi as her girlfriends laughed nervously, hoping she would safely make it back to their hotel.

After very little instruction or any safety protocols, we were handed flippers and life jackets, goggles and snorkels.  One by one, people either jumped into the water from the back of the boat or climbed down into the ocean using the ladder, following a guide with some sort of bait in a bag he would use to lure in fish.

I was one that cautiously lowered myself into the water with my flippers on my feet but the mask and snorkel hanging off my wrist.  From the moment I got all the way into the water, I was uncomfortable.  The water was too cold and no amount of “you’ll get used to it” comments made the experience any better.  The waves were rolling and kept making me feel like the boat was going to run me over.  I kept my hands raised up into the air because I didn’t want to lose the mask and snorkel that I was wearing as a bracelet and I think part of me didn’t want my hands to be wet.  I worked my way toward the roped off area by the shore where all of the other people wearing the same blue flippers were swimming only to be stopped in my tracks by a disgusting looking rope meant to keep motorized watercraft out of the safe swimming area.  My wife, ever the adventurer, held it up for me.  Evidently she thought I was going to swim under it, meaning I would have to put my face in the water.  Seeing the hesitation and the “you better be kidding” look in my eyes, she pushed it down.  So chivalrous.  

“I don’t want it to touch me!” I yelled, unnecessary panic in my voice.

“Well, it’s either over or under,” she stated matter of factly as she waited for me to decide.

No way was I putting my face in the water so over I went, as quickly as humanly possible.  Hands still raised.

While swimming over to the group, my wife excitedly yelled, “Babe! Look!  You can already see fish!”  I watched as she and the others skillfully swam around, faces down, snorkels poking up out of the water.  I didn’t want the mask over my eyes and nose which is why I hadn't even put it on my head yet.  I certainly didn’t want the mouthpiece thing in my mouth.  And I was still awkwardly treading water upright with my hands in the air.

“I just need a minute!” I said.  “I’m trying to right myself!”

“There are so many fish!  You have to look!  You’re going to love it!”  she and the others would say with encouragement and enthusiasm between their time underwater and rise to the surface.

I hurriedly put the mask over my eyes and mouthpiece into my mouth, plunging my head partially into the water and immediately whipping back up.  I had held my breath and tried not to pinch my eyes close. God damn it was cold.

“Did you see it?  There’s one right under you!”  Her eyes were bright with joy and excitement.

“Yeah, it was blue,” I said as I tore off the face mask and tried desperately to be comfortable in this moment.

“No, it’s not.  You were looking at your own flippers, you dipshit.”  She laughed and embraced me.  “How can I help you?  I can tell you hate this,” she asked lovingly.

“It’s ok.  I’ll be fine,” I reassured her and myself simultaneously.  “I’m just trying to right myself.”

“What does that even mean?” she asked.

I wasn’t even sure how to answer because I didn’t know exactly what I meant or what I needed.  I just didn’t feel right.  I wanted the water to be warmer.  I wanted the waves to be calmer.  I wanted the beach to be closer and the boat to be further from me.  I wanted to see the fish without putting my head under the water.  I wanted the life vest to keep me afloat without scratching my neck and suffocating me. Nothing was terrible but it just wasn’t right.

At some point I dropped the face mask/snorkel thing and some lady in our group had to dive down deep to get it before it fell to the ocean floor.  I was miserable in a cold, Mexican sea of dread and somehow those around me were elated to be exploring the warm ocean waters.  I was keenly aware of our shared yet drastically different lived experiences.

I tried.  God knows I truly did.  But getting back on that boat with a cocktail in my hand and the nasty snorkel equipment as far away from me as possible was what I needed to put me at ease.  I had spent every second in the water trying to “right myself” and it turns out getting the hell out of the ocean was the only way to achieve it. 

Snorkeling in the cold waters of Cabo was like me trying to live a straight life.  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t “right” myself.  I just never felt quite right.  Amid a life of safety and joyfulness I could tell that I wasn’t enjoying it as much as those around me.  I was uncomfortable, on the verge of suffocating, and unable to live in the moment to see the beauty around me.  And I was unable to articulate why.  I thought I’d love snorkeling because I’d spent my life believing I was meant to snorkel.  No one ever told me there was an option to stay on the boat and have a big lesbian margarita instead of ever having to get back into the rocky waters of straight life.