Tiburón

The swells are full and frequent this morning, rocking us from side-to-side – not like cooing babies in a cradle, but more like prey waiting to be swallowed by the unforgiving and the unseen. Saltwater sprays and stings my dehydrated, cracked lips and glues my too-long hair to my cheek when the waves crash against the boat. The water is crisp, but not teeth-chattering cold and is a welcome contrast to the intense sun rays striking my wetsuit covered body. I’m starting to get a little too warm and I’m realizing I should have left the top half off, but it felt like too much effort at the time. I look away from the vast, cerulean waters to see my dive buddy, Torres, stumble towards me with his tall, lumbering frame and bouncing, already-tied-back curls.

“Ready, Ronny?”

I barely acknowledge him, and he looks at me quizzically, sensing my sullen mood. We grew up together, so it’s impossible to hide anything from the other. We can read each other a little too well sometimes.

“Yeah, I just really need this, you know?” My voice cracks a little and I swallow it down before the hot tears can well up.

“Yeah…yeah, I know,” he replies softly. “Let me see you check your oxygen.”

I sigh and roll my eyes. It’s standard protocol to check your gear with a buddy, but lately, everything either irritates or saddens me. I inflate and deflate my buoyancy control device and take a breath from the regulator. The tasteless oxygen dries my tongue, and the mouthpiece irritates my palate. Torres gives me a teasing eye roll in return when I tell him to check his own oxygen. Once satisfied with our preparations, I reclaim my seat, and Torres takes his place by my side. My knee bounces up and down with anticipation – Torres puts a hand on it to steady my restlessness and nerves. We become distracted by the captain chattering away on the radio in Spanish – something about a potential incoming storm and the strength of the current – but I only catch every few words. We’re waiting for the okay to gear-up, and these swells are making stomachs churn. Someone to my left is heaving off the side of the boat and another has their head between their knees. I actually don’t mind the boat’s rhythm – it’s like a lullaby that draws my eyes closed – but the acrid stench from the stalling engine sends tendrils of nausea to the pit of my stomach. Poor conditions like these typically require us to reschedule the dive, but this isn’t a normal circumstance.

Last week, I lost my father to a sudden heart attack. We didn’t even know he had heart disease – but then again, he always refused to see a doctor. Another swell hammers the boat almost knocking both of us onto the deck. I like to think Papá is responsible for the choppy surf – like he’s angry we’re out here risking ourselves for someone who’s no longer here to protect us. My entire world shattered the day he passed, and the grief has been insurmountable. I exist as a living statue in a space outside of time, outside of reality, as the world merciless continues without my father. I want to put the world on pause and escaping underneath the big blue is the only way I know how to do that. Papá was a divemaster and guide, so I learned to swim before I learned to walk and took to diving as smoothly as reflex. I essentially grew up underwater and earned the nickname El Tiburón, or Ronny for short. Every person on this boat has played a roll in my upbringing and is subsequently here to honor Papá. Today, we are putting my father to rest on his favorite reef, so he can explore the sea forever. I hold his urn in my lap – the extra weight eases some of the ever-present anxiety. Since we can’t speak at an underwater service, we wrote epitaphs on stones and placed them inside so Papá could be surrounded by love from his most beloved friends and family. I unscrew the top of the urn and read the stones again to feed my sorrows:

Enjoy the reef para siempre, mi amigo.

Now you’re really “swimming with the fishes” and I’m finally the funny one! Oh how I wish I wasn’t…you and your jokes will be sorely missed.

I’m excited to visit you at our favorite site, old friend. Sleep well.

To my second father: you gave me a brother, and for that I am forever grateful. Ronny will be (mostly) safe with me.

I take mine out last and hold it in my hands for a moment. There is too much to say and not enough words. Instead of a fumbled mess of my nearly illegible writing, my stone displays a simple, crude drawing of a shark and is signed, su Tiburón.

Lost in thought, I’m startled to upright standing position, like an obedient soldier, when the captain yells, “Buena, vamos!”.

The deck suddenly gets very busy – crewmen drop anchor, divers gear up, the captain barks orders – all while balancing the still-tottering boat. With exceptional effort, we perch in suspended anticipation evenly balancing the boat. My body yearns for the tight hug and crackle in my ears from the weight of water. I imagine gravity drawing me towards the sandy substrate as schools scatter, seaweed sways, and sand swirls around small pillars of coral and sponge. I imagine the sound of exhalation bubbles and moving water forcing my mind to focus on only my surroundings. Mostly, I imagine Papá gliding through the water with me. Finally, the divemaster rolls back into the water and signals for us to do the same. I hug Papá close, put a hand over my regulator and mask, and let go as I flip overboard.