Solas Award Winner
My feet crunch along the sandy foot path that leads to our thatched hut. Just ahead is the island guide, a bare-chested Sumo wrestler-looking guy, with a plumeria-patterned wrap hugging his enormous brown torso. The sweet smelling plumeria flower, that comes in yellow, orange and pink, flourish across the landscape of this “Garden Island”. Along the path, wide bands of dark green palm leaves shade us from the piercing sun that being close to the equator brings. From a distance, the musical sounds of Conway Twitty are heard trilling and trailing from a boombox. To our delight, the location of the hut offers natural shade and the tranquility of a thundering waterfall nearby. My friend Ruth and I agree with the scuba article; Taveuni, one of the 100 habitable Fijian islands, is “paradise”. The sea, dressed in turquoise and blue, circles the island with a wide hem of foam. Current-wise she holds an unwelcoming surprise, and she’s biding her time to share it.
A week prior, a tropical storm left remnants of vegetation damage which are seen along our footpath. A group of scuba divers from around the globe had signed up to dive here this week. Ruth and I are the only ones who chose not to cancel; with vacation arranged, approved and funded nothing was going to stop us.
The first two days of diving were practice warm-ups; descend 30 feet, note the stirred-up sand, hang on to rocky surfaces, don’t touch the barbed coral, marvel at the endless traffic of orange, blue, and yellow fish swimming in cinematic view, and always stay within eyes-hot of your dive buddy. If you lose sight of your buddy (Ruth) surface immediately.
The third day has us cruising to the “Great White Wall” located at Rainbow Reef, where in shallower waters you can enjoy a collection of shaggy-fingered rainbow coral, spanning across and beyond one’s peripheral view. We follow Rick, our dive guide, as he makes the descent to 120 feet, and steers us to the opening of a short narrow tunnel. So narrow is the tunnel that positioning your oxygen tank into a hugging position is logistically necessary. With Ruth choosing to stay behind, I position my tank, and with a pounding heart, enter the tunnel. I groan as the air hose tugs and my wetsuit scrapes against the craggy walls. “Look ahead Carmen, just keep moving” I mutter. Coming out the other side, a towering tiered wall of copious white coral resembling fresh-fallen snow comes into view. A shaft of light from above casts a shimmer to this winter-white scene. It’s perfection. I briefly take in this ethereal site (deep dives can result in oxygen toxicity), then swivel around and swim back through the tunnel to meet up with Ruth and Rick. Together, with measured increments, we ascend 120 feet to the surface.
Our next trip, Rick, takes us beyond the visibility of the island to explore the plundered hulls of early 20th century ships. At the dive spot, Ruth and I voice concern over the undulating choppiness of the water as the boat rocks from side to side. Given the assured thumbs up, we gear up, flip off the back of the boat, and start our descent. For each ten-foot descent, an upsurge of sand and grit churn around us making it difficult to see and manage our footing. Within minutes, we‘re caught in an undertow, a fast-moving invisible current. Overtaken, I somersault, smacking my arms and legs against coral, and what seemed like any rock formation that has a blunt edge. As I finally get a grip and right myself, I don’t see Ruth anywhere, and I notice a tear with a small trail of blood trickling out from the thigh of my wetsuit. I ascend to the surface.
A 360-scan informs me there’s no Ruth, no boat, and none of the Fijian islands in sight. A shudder of prickly hot fear surges across my body. I am alone, bobbing and bleeding somewhere in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean, and I have no idea where Ruth is.
The sky is a blank slate of pale blue, and there’s not a sound except for the water that slaps up against my chest and face. Time lost is gauged by the deepening redness of exposed skin. The searing sun makes my eyebrows feel like they’re on fire. My bleeding thigh throbs, reminding me I may be translated as a meal, depending on which sea creature is doing the translating. Sandbar and tiger sharks swim here. To attack, the sandbar shark typically has to be provoked; a tiger shark, on the other hand, won’t need encouragement, it has a chomping good appetite.
While comprehensively trained, tested and certified to be scuba divers, neither of us came to the island with extensive diving experience. When it comes to electronics at this time in history, a GPS tracker is a waterproof compass, a watch wasn’t a computer, and the island itself has not yet been sullied by proliferating commercialism. We discovered this diving paradise because of Ruth’s habit of buying glossy travel magazines and reading them to me at work.
Against a cloudless piercing sky, a curious dark bird starts circling. For what purpose is this bird surveying me? Is there an underwater hunter nearby, something that would tear me apart and leave some meat scraps for this ominous fowl? For mother- ocean to capture the attention of the companions of her ecosystem, above and below the surface, I could be her lure, the treat offered for showing up.
“I’m too young, I just found love, I’m scared, I don’t want to die” I shout into the deaf air. The heat and salt coat my stinging eyes. I crave water in this vast watery desert. I’m sleepy and it’s less painful when I close my eyes. I’ll just shut them for a while.
I’m unaware that the boat has arrived. Rick jumps in, and with Ruth’s help I’m pulled up out of the water and laid on the back of the deck. Shovels of ice are distributed over me, the same as they do with a net-full of caught fish. Ruth hovers over me with her tear-stained face and says, “Oh god, we started to worry that we wouldn’t find you.” “You’re safe, I’m safe” I whisper through blistered lips. Rick, alternatively looking at me and looking up to the sky, repeats to a nameless god, “thank you, thank you, thank you”, as he continues to dump shocks of shoveled ice on top of me. His bequeathed benediction brought good fortune; I get to live another day.
My body stiffens in nervous anticipation as I once again pull on the wetsuit, the one with the tear. This is the last dive before Ruth and I leave to go home. After the previous dive, I need to know I still can do this. With a hesitant back flip, I’m back in the arms of mother ocean hoping this time her embrace has nothing but beauty to share.
Post Note
When we return home to Arizona, Ruth continues to read glossy travel magazines that include articles on diving. About 3 months later, she reads aloud the same inviting lines that had called us to Taveuni in the first place, except this time there was an added footnote.
“Come to see and experience paradise…the *diving is spectacular.”
*” Experienced divers only.”