I am up in the stratosphere, sitting by a window in a row completely my own, looking down below, beyond the clouds, at the extension of sky blue. I know the ocean is there. If I look intently enough I can spot a ripple somewhere where winds drive the waves. It’s all I see, though—no green, no beige, no land, no beaches—just blue and white.
I know I am coming from the Cayman Islands (I mean, I’m on a plane coming from somewhere), but the past four days have just been nothing short of magical. I’ve traveled to places long and far and I have had my breath taken away a number of times, but not like this. Here, it was taken away over and over and over. It was as if I wasn’t even breathing, in a state of being where I was consumed by everything around me. Yes, I was a part of it—I could move my feet one in front of the other—but in a way that made me wonder if it was somehow predetermined.
I am looking out the airplane window at a blue space where an island should be but isn’t. I am thinking back to what has been more than a dream or a reality, and no other word comes to mind other than magic.
Exactly 48 hours ago I excused myself from our outdoor dinner table and walked a few meters to the shore. Men were gathering the beds, chairs, and umbrellas for the evening, but I managed to steal a seat and drag it to the edge of the water so that my feet could catch a little bit of the clear, now purple, waves just before they receded back into the sea. The sun was setting and it affected everything around it—the clouds, lined by heaven’s light; the sky, an ombre of warm tones; the water, a reflection of the sky. The beach wasn’t as crowded as it had been earlier in the day. In the distance, I could hear the chatter of guests as they waited for their food and the playful screams of children as they still played with one another in the pools. But right in front of me was the sound of my present, the place I really was. The crashing waves, the calls of tropical birds (at first sight, I thought they were crows—they were not). And then it happened. The flop of a fin, a big black fin. The muffled sounds of the people behind me now became clearer. Gasps and increased excited chatter. And it happened again. In the purple crossed sky, somewhere between day and night, leaped out a stingray and hit its left side against the calmest of waters. And it was over. Many hoped to have been witness to it again. I had hoped. But secretly I knew that the fish had graced us not once, but twice, and he wasn’t going to do it again.
As the sky became darker and the overhead lights lit up, my mind wandered back to the day prior. The glass-bottom boat we had to ourselves for two hours approached its second destination. We had seen corals and fish of vibrant colors but now there was nothing below but darkness. “You ready?” I looked at the mask being offered to me, then looked up at perfectly disheveled dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and an alluring raised eyebrow. “You got my fins?” I challenged. No one else had wanted to go snorkeling (why?) so once the fins were secured on tight, the local and I were off. It was a pleasant feeling of invigoration to feel my body pedal faster through the water than it normally did. We swam for about a minute until he finally placed the mask on his face. I followed his lead. Down below it still looked dark blue despite the turquoise I could spot in the distance closer to shore. I knew it was deep beneath my feet. Not thousands of feet, but enough for me to be uncertain of what to expect once I buried my face under water.
The mask pierced through the barrier between air and water and right in front of me was a whole new world. Not Atlantis, not a lost city of gold, but a lost ship surrounded by silver. 100 feet I thought. That’s how far down this ship must be, give or take. Schools of silver-scaled fish swam closer to the surface, not entirely afraid that I had invaded their home. I actually tried chasing a few of them as they swam away from me, propelling myself faster, extending my arm out at one point (though not fully…I think I was secretly afraid one of them would bite me with their nonexistent fangs and that would be the end of me. I knew that wouldn’t happen, and I smiled to myself at the thought of how ridiculous I was, but who really wants to touch fish anyways?). And then he signaled me. I picked myself up from the water and watched as the intrepid Caymanian bobbed his head in the direction he was heading, inviting me to follow him. He swam and I swam after him. He slowed, I caught up. “Look down by the floor of the bow.” We both plunged again. I wasn’t sure what he was referencing and I think he sensed that, as he grabbed my hand and pointed it to where I should have been looking. An eel, probably 6 feet long, slithered along the length of the wreckage. I wasn’t sure if I should be frightened, but I wasn’t. I just looked at it. I hovered over it, following it along its path until it turned under some boards and disappeared from my view.
I studied the ship back up to its other end but stopped midway when I saw something else remarkable. It was he, free-diving straight down. Within seconds, the man reached the deck and steered the wheel a few times 360. Planting his feet against the floorboards, he pushed himself upward and shot towards the surface. I met him above. “I’m tempted to do that,” I told him. “Why don’t you?” He smirked. “Just push yourself up, summersault once you’re back under, and swim down. Grab your nose to equalize pressure. You might need to a few feet down.” And so that’s what we did. I kept telling myself that as long as I didn’t actually breathe, no water would get into my tube and I wouldn’t choke. I didn’t make it all the way that first time, I think the lack of confidence I had in my lungs held me back. But I did hold out long enough to watch him. There was an open latch and he swam straight into it. The damn eel! I couldn’t help but wonder what in the world was down there…there, where he was so nonchalantly headed. I’d like to say that that’s exactly the kind of thing I would have done—spearhead into the unknown and quite simply just play the rest out by ear. But what if that damn eel was in there?! He reemerged and shot up again, spiraling this time as he inched closer to the surface with each passing second.
We swam back to the boat and talked about things. Maybe it was his history with the island, perhaps with diving. If I'm being honest, all I really mused over was how this place wasn't just magic in its skies and waters, but in the way it enchanted its people. There he was, an arm's length away, a late twenty-something with hands and feet, an ordinary guy; yet, he didn't seem normal. There was nothing normal about him and I couldn't put my finger on it (I decided I didn't need to). Just like the island disappeared through the clouds, so did he after that day. Was he really there? Could someone and someplace like that exist in the world?
I guess I'll have to go back to find out...