There is a mystery of traveling that brings an intensity and presence to things that might in our ordinary lives seem, well ordinary.  What would normally be a begrudgened, half blind slap at the blinking, buzzing, evil that summons the monotony of another day, is now somehow, a great admiration of the earliest hours.

The loathsome morning hours generally only tamed by dark swirling caffeinated bliss, instead is seen as a precious glimpse into the untold whispers conversed between the forbidden lovers of dusk and dawn.

The air feels different on your skin, the smells are richer, the colors more deep and vivid,  you get a feeling that anything is possible, and all the rules of your regular life no longer apply.  It was riding that vacation high when I excitedly boarded a boat destine to enjoy the underwater magic this island is known for. Grinning widely it took maybe an hour for the physics of my life to catch up with my enthusiasm.

The day was bright and warm like high noon on a midsummer day back home, even though it was just nearing 9 am here. I closed my eyes enjoying the wind on my face and giggled when the soft warm breeze was replaced by the startling cold wet lashing of the gigantic sheepdog tongue that was the Indian ocean lapping at me from over the side of the boat as we set off.

They took us out to a popular dive spot called Japun. It shared the same name as the cheerful flower offering that sat leading the boat safely through the water.

I normally steer away from any standard touristy locations when I travel, but I have to admit to being decidedly less adventurous when it comes to the water. I swim like an injured bird tangled in fishing line and prefer to be able to gasp deep cool gulps of actual air when I decide to panic, so I have gone sparingly on the water sports in my life thus far.  Climbing into the booties and fins easily, I squeezed my head into a mask so tight that not only was there a water tight seal, but I was pretty sure the suction may actually pull my eyes out of their sockets like those deep sea fish whose eyes literally pop out when they are caught and raised to the surface.

Snorkel in position I took a confident leap of the side of the boat, more because I am a ridiculously competitive person and not actually because I was the least bit reassured by the fact that people 2x my age in either direction were easily swaying through the water. Feeling like I was doing lamaze coaching I repeated ‘slow even breathes’ over and over in my head, and then I forgot.

I didn’t actually forget to breathe, but I did forget to be anxious and hyper vigilant. I was surrounded with a school of fish, literally all around me. They were calm and swaying and seemingly oblivious to my mass within their group. Honesty side note: I did have a national geographic moment remembering how predators will just enter schools of fish with mouths open collecting their yummy morsels, and I may have extricated myself from the group with some level of anxious urgency. But other than that I was surprisingly calm and at peace.

I could spend pages describing in detail the subtle variations between the sunshine yellow angelfish and the plump eerily-still resident that remained on the floor between the coral gloating over his shades of brown camouflage that made him nearly impossible to make out, but for me it wasn’t about that.  It’s true, it was like getting to climb into the cleanest, most varied, and well-stocked salt-water aquarium in the world, but more than that was the silence. It isn’t like anything I’m familiar with.  There isn’t the simple sound of chirping birds, or crickets, or geckos, or frogs. There is no breeze rustling leaves, no lawn mower or traffic in the distance, no mumblings of a conversation a few tables down…It was silent. I heard only my breath hollow in the plastic tube and I wanted to be still. I wanted to be a visitor with no footprint or impact. I was small, and humbled, and amazed…and still. I swayed with the easy flow of the subtle currents like the fish below me. They didn’t battle upstream against the force of a raging river; they just flowed and allowed the ocean to redirect their coarse. Rocking gently in the water made me reflect on my life and how, so often, I ‘decide’ on a specific coarse never considering the more natural ebb and flow of my journey. The fish were sometimes still, but never stagnant. Always in gentle motion, but never off balance.

I enjoyed the feel of the water on my skin and the buoyant nature of the tropical ocean, right up until my previously ignored physiology wrenchingly reminded me that I get fiercely seasick. Who knew you could get seasick while actually still in the water. Head pounding, stomach churning, I quietly begged for a speedy return to my bed and western pharmacological buffet.

Just another example of great balance. With great peace, great disruption, both equal in fond appreciation.