While on vacation in the Bahamas, we went to a dive sight called “Danger Reef.” The reef got its name because of its location—this is what my husband told me to lessen my fears. He said that a long time ago ships didn’t know the reef was there and crashed into it, thus the name. But I knew better. Danger Reef was famous because it was known as a shark dive and my teenagers were excited to tie up to a buoy in the middle of the ocean and jump in the water with sharks.
As one of my children recently explained to me, “Mom, I don’t worry about much because you do it for me.”
There’s a statement to give the overprotective parent pause.
There we were in a small motorboat cruising over the ocean surface in search of Danger Reef. The guide was watching islands to get his bearings. The children were elated, their hair flew back with the wind. It was as if they were riding galloping horses on a great adventure. I clung to the guard railing.
“The buoy should be around here somewhere,” the guide said. “Everyone keep an eye out.”
The sea was rough that day by my standards. This meant it had swells moving through it and that it wasn’t flat as concrete. We bounced over the waves scrambling to secure scuba gear so it wouldn’t fly out of the boat.
“I see it!” my daughter called out.
Sure enough, in the middle of nowhere, there was a buoy. The guide slowed the engine and we tied up, but before he turned the engine off, he revved the engine a few times.
“Let’s the sharks know we’re here,” he said
“Great,” I thought, why not just ring a cowbell and yell, “Lunch time sharky, sharky. Lunch time!”
“Look! I see them!” my husband called out. Sure enough, large, dark masses approached the boat and began circling. There is something distinct in how a shark moves its body in the water. It has a casual, decisive swagger that says, “I own this place.”
My family began to count with enthusiasm, “One, two, three….” They were up to six. Six dark masses circled the boat.
“Seven! I see seven!”
I remembered taking my children to the zoo when they were little and together counting lions. They had counted with enthusiasm then as well. I had taught them to count. I had taught them to revere nature. Had I left out something? Did I forget to point out the deep trench and the steel fence that separated us from the lions?
I watched my family put on their scuba tanks, strap on fins and fill their masks with anti-fog drops. I watched their fingers spread clear goo over the surface of the mask. They wanted to make certain that if they were going to be eaten by a shark, they’d see it clearly.
We’d gone snorkeling on reefs before where hundreds of fish showed up when we did and we had hopped in the water with crackers and fed them. This time my kids were hopping in the water without crackers.
Transformed into amphibians, my family sat on the edge of the boat listening as the instructor reviewed safety hand signals and then without a thought, they all flopped over backwards into the water.
I could see them in the water, see them descending. I watched the plumes of air bubbles. I counted the plumes. And then I couldn’t see them any more. They were gone. The sharks were gone and there I was alone in the middle of the ocean, tied up to a buoy bouncing around with the roll of the swells.
For a while I was angry at my husband for introducing my family to such adventures. It was his fault we were here. I’d rather take them to a farmer’s market. A table covered in heirloom tomatoes can leave me in a state of rapture and a bouquet of fragrant sweet pea blossoms can render me speechless. I don’t need sharks to feel excitement.
For a while I held my breath, awaiting their return. I soon realized this was not a sustainable solution. I worked on breathing and not thinking.
“Roll with it,” soon took on a new meaning. “Either they will be eaten alive by sharks or they won’t,” I thought and I began to arrange water bottles in the cooler. I refolded beach towels and reapplied sunscreen. I tried to hum and I watched the surface of the water.
My plan was that I would look for the return of their air bubbles. When I knew they were beginning their ascent to the surface, I would put on my snorkeling gear and join them. I would take a quick peak at Danger Reef.
I was curious.
A half hour passed and I was enjoying the roll of the waves moving through the boat. Breathe in, breathe out, I told myself and don’t imagine your family being eaten by sharks. Breathe in, breathe out. I liked the movement of the boat and the water. I was comforted by the sea.
And then I saw air bubbles, plumes of air bubbles. My family was returning from the depths of the ocean. They would be home at last. I have come to know that home is not a place. It’s a feeling that happens when we’re all together and nothing else matters.
I put on my fins and my mask and sat on the edge of the boat. Was I really going to jump in the water at Danger Reef to have a look? I gave myself the option of not going in. “I don’t have to do this,” I thought. I sounded reasonable. But curiosity eventually won. I wanted to know what Danger Reef looked like.
I hopped in. The water was cool, but not cold. I felt the strong pull of the tidal current and I swam for the line that was tied to the buoy to stabilize myself. In the distance, I could see a dark mass approaching me.
“The sharks are curious,” the dive instructor had told us.
The shark approached me the way I cruise the display case at the butcher counter. “What looks good for dinner?”
I could feel my heart race and was certain my increase in adrenalin would smell like a tasty marinade to the shark.
Breathe, I thought again, breathe. “Calm thyself,” I instructed. I pretended I was an Akido master. Man over beast. Man over beast.
I still could not see my family but I could see the columns of bubbles in the distance. A few more dark masses came towards me from the depths of the sea. And instead of ripping me apart limb by limb, they swam past me.
“Ok,” I thought, “so that’s how this goes. You’re here. I’m here. We both know it. Ok.” I took a deep breath and began to look around. As the saying goes, there were definitely other fish in the sea. I just hadn’t seen them because I had been so focused on the sharks. True, the sharks were still there, but as the instructor had said, “They won’t bother you.”
As I began to breathe and look around and not focus on the four sharks circling me, I saw that there were many other fish in the water. There were jacks, yellow tail, snapper and reef fish. There were lone groupers and schools ranging from 15 to hundreds. Sometimes the sunlight would catch the fish scales and light would shimmer. It was exquisite, a quick flash of silver light emanated from the dark water. It was beautiful.
Below me I could see coral heads and sea fans. The colors were purples, pinks, golds. Schools of fish magically appeared out of the depths. Their coloration and rhythmic movement, swimming together, forward and at the same time being swept sideways with the tide, was entrancing.
I didn’t forget that the sharks were there. They seemed to become more casual as they swam past me, but maybe it was I who became more casual about them. There were sharks at Danger Reef. Many of them. There was also a lot of other beautiful creatures to admire.
And then I saw something new and I laughed out loud under water into my snorkel. Danger Reef looked exactly like my mind.
My mind is always teaming with life. The question is whether I see only sharks. Do I allow them to eat me limb by limb and leave me paralyzed with fear, consumed by dark thoughts that appear out of the depths? Often, the answer is yes. I let myself be eaten thought by thought. What the dive instructor didn’t say about the sharks was that “They won’t bother you, unless you let them.”
In the time that has passed since I was at Danger Reef, I have been working to notice my thoughts. I know which ones are sharks. I’ve even started to catch myself when I’ve put my entire head into a shark’s mouth. Here’s what I’ve discovered– an undisciplined imagination can kill you and your loved ones several times a day.
When we pulled ourselves back onto the motorboat, my children were full of stories about what they had seen. I watched their enthusiasm, enjoyed their retelling.
The dive instructor asked me what I thought.
“Danger Reef looks like my mind,” I told him.
“What?” he said. He was a blond-haired tan kid from Texas.
“That’s what my mind looks like,” I said.
I could see him thinking, “middle-aged woman from northern California.”
These days, I tell myself, “Jump in and breathe.” I try to take my head out of the shark’s mouth sooner—or not even go there at all—and instead I look around. If I’d stayed clinging to the guardrail, I could have missed it all. Instead, I’m left in awe, “God, what a beautiful world we live in.”
The only ship that gets wrecked on Danger Reef is my own. I remind myself—I’m the captain and to all the creatures who dwell in my mind I say with a casual, decisive swagger, “I own this place.”