Our son takes a coding class on Tuesday nights, and to entertain myself while I lingered last night in a squeaky bean bag on the floor of Techpad, I dug out my dive logs from my SCUBA years.
I became certified to dive at age 12. My dive master was a giant ex-Navy-seal named André. He was big and loud and uncouth, and he made me feel safe, and I loved him. Through my high school years my family dove with André and the Savannah dive club, driving to Crystal River or West Palm Beach on long weekends, and we took diving vacations each summer. We spent all of our spare time underwater.
Sadly, I didn’t journal about our dive trips or write about my love for being underwater. In those days I only wrote about things I didn’t understand: boyfriends, atoms, the universe. (But mostly boyfriends). I didn’t write about being underwater because I didn’t feel the need to analyze or dissect it; I only cared about getting underwater and staying there. I wasn’t at a point yet to appreciate that I would one day thirst for those descriptions.
But I did keep dive logs, with depths, temperatures, notes on what we saw and where, how many hours I’d logged underwater, and who was with me on the dives. These are some of my favorites.
From 1988, when I was 13. We were maybe 20 or 30 miles offshore, and the seas were big. I’m shocked I wasn’t seasick. What I love about this one is that we could feel the surge of 8 foot seas when we were 50 feet underwater. I remember that feeling, of moving with invisible waves, being lifted and dropped at the bottom of the ocean.
From 1989, when I was 14. I don’t remember being underwater during a storm, but I love the thought of sitting on the bottom and looking up, watching lightning flash and rain patter the surface:
From 1990, when I was 15. “Mom had a cow.” That makes me laugh every time I see it. Also, I love that I used a semicolon in this one:
Also from 1990, age 15. I love this one for my dad’s handwriting. I have letters from my grandmother in her handwriting, and something about seeing her handwriting makes me feel close to her even though she’s gone. My dad is still alive, thankfully, but when I came across my dad’s writing in this one, it made me feel close to him like my grandmother’s handwriting makes me feel close to her:
From 1995, age 20. On the field course when I met the man who is now my husband. I didn’t know at the time of this entry that I was in love with him, though it seems obvious to me now: