To me, the ocean has always been a foreign planet, like Mars, forbidding, but exotic. The only oceans I ever observed growing up were oceans of wheat and barley and flax — and the great plains — all of which stretched out as far as the eye could see — wavy grasses brushed by the gentle hand of the wind.
So I was shocked when I stepped into the real ocean in the British Virgin Islands and a two-foot-high wave knocked me backwards. I was unprepared for its raw power, which made it seem even more forbidden.
The ocean possesses other powers, too, like its overwhelming hidden beauty. In the Caribbean near Norman Island, the site of the book Treasure Island, I donned a mask and breathing tube, and flopped backwards off the boat to snorkel for the first time, nervous as deep water scares me. I had zero concept of how that simple act would alter my world.
Treading water, I lowered my face into the ocean, and was stunned at the heart-stopping beauty that met my eyes. Thirty feet below in the crystal-clear aquamarine water lay a forest of corals of myriad colors, with dark caves that doubtless harbored reef fish and eels.
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Other denizens of the deep swam about, fish of every color and size vied with each other, bright yellow, red, green, orange and purple. I thought I would see nature red of tooth and jaw, but no fish attacked any others.
Instead they got along famously, twisting and turning to avoid each other. The only things being eaten were strips of pancakes, nibbled gently from my fingertips by a veritable army of yellow-and-blackstriped Sergeant Major fish, six to nine inches long.
And they cooperated, each patiently waiting their turn, swimming up for a bite of pancake, then moving to allow the next one to eat.
About fifty feet all around a curtain of haze deepened to hide everything beyond. Like, in my fearful mind, sharks or Orcas or other large predators that wouldn‘t mind having Bill for lunch.
Despite the fears, the ocean’s beauty continued to attract me. Later I snorkeled off
a private island near Bermuda where locals had fenced off a hundred square feet of ocean just off the beach. Only two to five feet deep our snorkeling garnered a dozen skates, relatives of manta and sting rays. Skates have no bones, only cartilage, which allows them to move making that distinctive flying motion.
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Six of us stood in a large circle, each clutching a dead fish to feed to the one- to two-foot long triangular skates. The woman leading the episode warned us that if we gripped the fish too tightly, we could lose a finger. We all laughed nervously.
Yet the skates were friendly and enjoyed being petted. Three times when they felt my hand on their back they turned around for more touching, darting between my legs.
When my turn came the woman grabbed a 40-pound skate and yanked it effortlessly out of the water. The skate struggled until I offered the fish. Whoosh! Half of it disappeared. I checked my fingers; still all there.
After studying ocean beasts from a distance, and then within my own physical realm, the ocean seemed less of a foreign planet for me.
— This is the opinion of Bill Vossler of Rockville, author of 15 books including the e-book "Nature's Way: Writings on the Wild." He can be reached at bvossler0@outlook.com.
https://www.sctimes.com/story/life/2022/03/27/vossler-exploring-foreign-planet/7003488001/
2022-03-27 12:00:35Z
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