If you told my ten year old self that I would love snorkeling as an adult, I’m not sure she would have believed you. I’ve always loved water and swimming, but when taking a dip in a Pacific Northwestern river or a Midwestern lake I painted an underwater picture absolutely devoid of life. The second I started thinking about the critters beneath me, a low grade panic would roll in and settle somewhere in my gut. For me, looking underwater was akin to turning on the lights in a dark room only to discover the walls are crawling with strange, foreign creatures, some of whom might bite you if given half the chance. Blissful ignorance was the greatest weapon against my fear. I’ll take it pitch black, thank you very much.
Snorkeling was not a part of my upbringing and maybe that’s because clear tropical warm water never entered into our vacation equation. The very first time I went snorkeling I was 25 years old. Jeff and his father had a long standing tradition to don the snorkel gear, wetsuits and all (a PNW necessity), and dive into the frigid, eerie waters of Lake Detroit.
Lake Detroit is actually a reservoir, her gut, fed by the North Santiam River, is held in by Detroit Dam. I’m not sure why, in the Western US, we insist on calling reservoirs lakes, but any still body of water big enough to run a motor boat around in is a lake, despite the fact that it’s entirely manmade. She’s beautiful in summertime, her waters lapping up against dense coniferous forests. When drained she loses her shimmer. Her shores subside exposing a muddy bottom haunted by the remnants of trees that used to lavish the valley floor.
For as long as Detroit Lake has been in existence as a recreation spot, and for as long as it’s been stocked with fish, fishermen have been trolling her depths and her shores, getting their tackle caught up in the preserved roots of phantom trees. Beautiful lures of all shapes, sizes, colors, embedded in ancient bark. Splashes of orange, shimmering silver, strips of pink, plumes of red adding color to an otherwise somber underwater landscape. Jeff and his father have been diving for lures in these chilly waters since Jeff was a kid. Their collection, displayed meticulously in Dave’s workshop, is incredible. One could spend hours examining the beautiful details of each one, as you would examine a butterfly collection, or could simply stand at a distance and admire the sheer quantity and diversity.
Anyway, my first snorkeling adventure was to take place in these waters. I was excited and terrified by the prospect. The fact that Jeff and his father had been doing it for decades eased my nerves. The actual act of snorkeling, however, proved far more difficult than I ever could have imagined. Breathing underwater is not a talent I naturally possess, even with the assistance of the snorkel. I skimmed the surface, like a water bug with six left feet, and watched intently as Jeff and Dave dove down down down to chase a speck of color. They moved with grace and ease through the water while I continued to struggle with my mask, prone to panic at the slightest malfunction despite the fact that sky and air were a mere 6 inches from my face. The experience in and of itself wasn’t really traumatizing, the Burrights ensured my safety and comfort at every turn, but it still managed to trigger drowning dreams. Those dreams intensified following an underwater struggle between me and a line that fouled our prop in the ice cube cold water of Puget Sound.
Fast forward a few years later. Days before leaving California, bound for Mexico, Jeff talked me into buying snorkel gear even though I’d already (prematurely) convinced myself that maybe snorkeling wasn’t for me. In addition to the drowning dreams, I was plagued by dreams where I slowly drifted to the ocean floor, like a feather falling from the sky, and came to rest in complete darkness where not even a speckle of sunlight accompanied me. There I would lie, in complete darkness and complete stillness while the creatures of the sea turned me, ever so slowly, into sand. Despite being terribly morbid, it was a more peaceful dream. No struggle, just surrender.
Snorkeling is highly compatible with sailing. Plus, it has a low cost of entry and a great potential return on investment. I couldn’t afford to let my nightmarish dreams prevent me from enjoying one of the fun water based activities at my disposal, especially in places dubbed “the aquarium of the Pacific.”
With Jeff as my patient mentor, I learned to snorkel in some of the most incredible waters teeming with strange and beautiful creatures. From the Sea of Cortez to the Gulf of Chiriqui, I have absolutely fallen in love with turning on the light, peaking beneath the surface, seeing what kinds of creatures keep my toes company when I’m not looking. Almost two years later, snorkeling feels more natural to me. The fins have begun to feel like extensions of my feet, the snorkel like an extension of my mouth. And really, it’s almost a necessity since we are perpetually surrounded by water. It’s our equivalent of going out for a stroll around the block.
You really expressed your feelings well. Very honestly. I finally took a breath at the last paragraph. It brought back memories of growing up in Ohio near Lake Erie. I couldn’t see a thing but the sand at the bottom from about 12" away, but at 10 years old it made me feel like I was in the TV show "Sea Hunt" with Lloyd Bridges, Jeff Bridges father. (Yes, I’m an old guy).
As a SoCal beach kid, snorkeling was just part of the lexicon of watersports, so I never had those fears, despite wrangling a moray eel and a shark or two, not to mention sting rays, to the surface. But, I do understand fear of the deep, especially if you can’t see what’s down there! Good on ya, Harmony, for making the plunge. Just don’t SCUBA. That has hazards of a different order. BTW, my former father in law ran the concrete and aggregate plants when Detroit Dam was constructed, 1950s, I think.