Drinking Seawater

Tourism is the most important industry in the Bahamas; it's their moneymaker. You wouldn't know it to look at Freeport, but this is what they claim. I'm not in the moneymaking business, but even I could recognize how many dollars they were letting slip through their fingers due to bad management. At any rate, they are making a little bit of money, which they're taking from the rednecks who leave North Carolina, Virginia and Georgia to max out their credit cards and "live it up" at the Sheraton and the Westin resorts on Lucaya Beach. The result is a carnival-esque atmosphere, comprising a massive grilling operation serving cheeseburgers (why leave America just to do the same things you do when you're in your own backyard?) and watery beers; a major section of the beach dedicated to every watersport you can imagine (jet skiing, parasailing, windsurfing, kayaking); this huge grotesque water slide built to resemble a castle turret; bahamian women cornrowing white girls' hair for $120; a LOUD man with an equally loud sound system blasting random soca jams and teaching burly white women in too-small swimsuits how to dance; all topped off with the one-man band struggling to be heard over the madness as he performed for drunken white men drinking rum punch out of coconuts. I quickly realized that, if I were to have any fun whatsoever on that island, I would have to find a place where these people did not go.

Soon, my partner and I rented a car and proceeded to spend the next couple of days exploring Grand Bahama Island, looking for - and finding - remote, secluded beaches where we were the only ones around for miles. We lay on the sand, gazed out over the sun-brighted, blue blue ocean, talked only when it was absolutely necessary. We found a restaurant that few people seemed to know about where the best banana bread is baked, ate conch and drank the best Bahamian beer - Lucaya, it's called. Originality is not important over there, apparently. We let the cool breezes whip through our clothes and hair and soothe the harshness of the sun's rays on our skin. There were very few people around, and they were equally blissful and oblivious to anyone else's presence. We were pleased to be relatively alone and in the Bahamas, with no cacophonic drivel disturbing our peace. I was so happy.

But apparently, I was not content. When my partner suggested we go snorkeling, I pictured myself calmly drifting through shallow clear water, observing sea life, pointing at interesting creatures, smiling. It was an attractive picture, and so I agreed; I just knew it would be great fun. I didn't realize that I was not actually the person smiling and pointing in my imagination; rather, I was visualizing the small white child - the snorkel model, if you will - that appeared in the Bahamas guide book I purchased before the trip. I suppose it doesn't matter that I didn't notice what my subconscious was doing. Either way, I was ignorant of what the activity entailed and gravely mistaken when I assumed it would be "great fun". I was about to realize that the guide book was a liar, and that I was going to be in for a hell of a time.

We drove our rickety Island-mobile to Paradise Cove, where a very tan, gruff instructor gave us curt instructions about how to snorkel in his equipment. "Don't walk on the grass, don't kick up sand, don't touch the coral or you'll kill it. If there's an emergency, wave your hands and I will come in my boat and get you. Don't wave if you're scared because you see a big fish. And don't walk in my flippers. Enjoy yourselves!" My partner and I walked away from ol' Hitler, and entered the water. It was the first time I'd ever snorkeled, and I was excited about it, but also scared. Now, this is why I don't do anything too new: because I cannot be trusted to take care of myself properly. There's too much going on for me to think about everything that should concern me and I inevitably leave something out. In this instance, I was too busy thinking about Hitler's equipment and breathing properly to remember the following:

1) I had never swam in the ocean before
2) I am scared of heights, and in the ocean, depth = height
3) I hate wildlife, especially fish
4) I don't like the way things look underwater

It wasn't until I took my first step in the water and realized that I was surrounded by hundreds of tiny fish - at which point I took a flying leap back onto the sand - that I remembered points 3 and 4. With my partner coaxing me back into the water, I tried again and stepped on squishy grass, which grossed me out so thoroughly that I turned to run back to shore again. My partner quickly grabbed my arm and gave me a good talking-to. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. None of the fish will ever touch you or swim too close. I'll hold your hand the whole time."

"The whole time?" I asked, incredulously.

"The whole time. I promise."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

"You'll hold my hand the whole time?"

"Yes! Come on, let's go."

And so, I went. I had a couple of false starts: the water was too cold, seeing grass growing on the ocean floor was so disgusting, everything was brownish-gray and eerie...even now, I'm getting chills thinking about it. Also, it was a bit weird listening to myself breathe through the snorkel tube, and I had to keep reminding myself not to breathe so fast lest I make myself dizzy. But eventually, I made it and started swimming and observing. When I saw my first fish, it was silver, thin and ugly, but I only jumped a little bit. I began to believe that I would indeed be all right, that I was even a bit excited by what I was doing. I hadn't begun to think about points 1 and 2, yet. About 50 or 60 meters away from shore, we got to the first rest station, a giant floating round raft. My partner had begun to worry about the quality of our flippers, which didn't seem to be doing much to propel us forward in the water, but he never said anything about it. I can't yet decide if that was smart or stupid, because had he voiced his concern, I probably would not have swum the next 60 meters to the next rest stop, where the water was deeper. On the other hand, I might have continued on and then I would have been even more mentally fucked when the katakata bust. And God knows it bust, right out of the water.

We resumed swimming, and the water was becoming a deeper shade of blue. My breathing was quickening, as my anticipation of what would come next grew. However, I began to notice that the water was becoming more and more choppy, the waves stronger as we swam...and we also weren't moving forward as fast as we had been before. In fact, we seemed to be standing still most of the time, no matter how much we paddled our legs and I was growing tired. I still wasn't seeing much sea life, and every time I looked up, I saw that we weren't that much closer to the rest station. I was beginning to worry, but only ever so slightly, when suddenly the ocean floor plummeted to 40ft, and I was looking down at tons of fish. Points 1 and 2 immediately flashed to the forefront of my mind, and I panicked.

What the HELL am I doing swimming in the ocean? My mother - rest her soul - nearly lost her mind at Bar Beach in 1987 when she saw me at the water's edge, and then me I brought myself to the deepest of the deep to look at ordinary fish?? Chineke, this water deep o! Why is it so dark?? Where is that fucking rest station????

In my state of panic, I forgot to breathe through my mouth and somehow I ended up swallowing sea water. It was just a little bit, but enough to remind me that people get dehydrated when there is too much salt in their system. I lost it. I started frantically thrashing towards the rest station, abandoned my partner's hand and kicked him in the face for good measure, screaming through my snorkel tube. Ten hours later when I got to the rest station, I used my newly-acquired superhuman strength to hoist myself on top of it, where I tried to catch my breath and gain some inner peace. My partner eventually reached me, with deep worry etched on his face, asking me if I was all right. I shook my head, too weary to talk. He asked if I wanted to go back. Realizing that this was his vacation too, I (very selflessly) said, "No, no. You go ahead and snorkel. I'll stay here and try to calm down." He reassured me that he would be back soon, and went exploring the reef. The big, ugly reef, with waves crashing violently against it. I lay on the raft, too afraid to sit up because I was suddenly aware that I might as well be on top of a building waiting to plummet to my death below where fish would eat me, bit by bit.

With every passing minute, I became more aware of my surroundings. With every passing minute, I became more of a basket case. I was floating on a fucking raft, over 100 meters away from the safety of the beach and over 40 feet above land. (In a mind where depth translates to height, it wasn't that the ocean was 40ft deep; it was that my feet 40ft were too high from the ground and had to stay that way unless I wanted to die a slow, painful death.) I was surrounded by all manner of fish that I didn't even recognize and which were scaring me with their beady eyes and emotionless faces, and I knew that there were barracudas around because the other snorkelers kept talking about the ones they had seen. You know what a barracuda is? A shark! Ok, they wouldn't eat me, but what the hell was that supposed to mean to me at that point in time? A shark is a shark is a shark. When I realized that this was the hostile environment I had to swim through to get back to shore, when I realized that I had willingly put myself in this predicament, when I realized that Hitler would not come and get me simply because I was afraid - I began to cry. Like a scared little kulutempa puppy, I sobbed and lamented my fate and wondered what would become of me.

(to be continued...)