At Least They're Committed

Sitting on the chaise lounge, sunglasses on, looking out at the clear blue waters and white sandy beaches of Half Moon Cay, I knew I had to get out there . . . soon. I glanced down at the book on my lap and sighed. Ten more pages is all. I needed to finish. Why? I don’t know. The book sucked. Another sophomoric stab at horror by Dean Koontz. “Odd Thomas” was just bad. No character development, unconvincing explanations, vague background . . . I can go on and on. Who is this guy’s editor?

No matter. I had to finish. And then as the four of us were walking a mile and a half in the waves down the beach, barefoot and nearly naked except for our scuba gear, I droned on about everything the book lacked and how superstar power wasn’t good for these writers because they truly need to be taken to task and held to higher — not lower — standards.

This is not a thought memory, though. It’s a mood memory. What I recall is the feeling; the opportunity to sit in the sun, day after day, and read a bad book. I remember how the sand squished beneath my feet as I followed the baby angel fish that played near my toes as the waves hit the shore. I recall the blend of laughter, goofiness, activity — in this case an impromptu hike down the beach and snorkel adventure to check out sunken ruins off shore — the silence, the sound of the Earth, the waves and the cry of the gulls, the rainbow ring around the sun.

It feels sweet.

I didn’t make it out to the best part of the sunken ship that day. Not realizing we’d meet up with that New Yorker who’d send us to the out-of-the-way spot, I hadn’t taken my flippers. I swam out about three-quarters of a mile, then curved in to wait on a sandy beach (smaller than my office) as the rest explored.

Not many fish out there, I became aware as the violence of the waves crashed me into the shore and the sand forced it’s rough fingers into my swimming suit, that there was an angel fish with me: a large white angel fish with sharp, deep gray fins and light gray tiger stripes only on one side. He’d disappear with each torrent of water, peaking and rippling and tossing all around me. Then as the water stilled, there he’d be, all by himself, staring at me from directly in front or swimming back and forth and — when I was deep enough — circling around me. I stuck my masked face in the water and we stared at each other a long time. I held my finger tips out to him, he simply moved an inch or two out of my reach. I was there for an hour and he never left my sight save for the times the waves ripped the waters apart.

Noise: Water against rocks, birds, rustle of the trees behind me. Yet there was a deep still. It was quiet. The lonliness was beautiful. And after the crew caught up with me and we were snorkeling back to shore, I turned often to see if maybe the fish would follow me the three-quarter mile swim in the ocean and 1.5 mile trek on the beach. Of course, he did not. The rough-hewn sign on the tiny shore said “Taka Beach.” Maybe my new friend was Taka.

Later, floating on the blue rafts provided in our bright yellow cabana, steadying ourselves on the rope that determined whether you were in or out of bounds, Colleen and John both stressed the importance of coming back right to that spot in the sun and the sea whenever things got tricky at work or with life in general.

I do. We’ve only been back a week and a half, but that escape — the entire 10 days but especially that moment — buoys me. The calm, the silence soothes me, putting my brain back where it ought to be. That . . . and the memory of, as the last to leave the ocean, looking back one more time and seeing a white angel fish swimming back and forth, gray tiger stripes on one side, none on the other.