A week ago today, I was snorkeling in the aquamarine waters of “The Mayan Riviera” (the ridiculous name given to the resort area south of Cancun, Mexico.). After some initial discomfort—suntan lotion and salt water in my eyes; ouch!—I settled into The Zone, i.e. the mystical place I can access only when flippering underwater. Maybe I lose all sense of time and self because our species has such affinity to the sea. Or maybe I feel so other-worldly because I am, thanks to snorkel gear, allowed to visit this quiet, stunning, glorious, undulating other world. A world, as we all know, that actually comprises three-quarters of Mother Earth.
So much of the one-quarter world I generally inhabit—and my unearned, automatic significance in it—I take for granted. I take nothing for granted when I snorkel. “Did you see those barracuda?” my step-son asked me when we were ashore. No, I hadn’t; I didn’t care, either. I saw patterned sand and a rainbow of fish and coral and waves from their underside and everything I saw, every single thing was wonder-full.
I am a guest, a grateful guest underwater and every breath is a prayer of thanksgiving.