Why was yesterday so much harder?
Why was yesterday so much harder than previous days? Is it that Steve is leaving today? I know that's impacting me as I teared up as the words tumbled onto the page. Is it the anticipation of returning to Portland knowing that Hunter won't be there, that only fragments of what once was, remain?
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Yesterday we sailed to the Key West National Wildlife Refuge, which took about an hour, then anchored and snorkeled the sponge gardens that are nestled between seagrass beds in water only 10-20' deep. It was different from reef diving-- no kaleidoscopic array of fish darting in and out of waving or monolithic coral-- instead, the fish blended in with the sand, their colors pale as protection while they mature, giving them a fighting chance at surviving the enormous appetites of cormorants and heron that come to these breeding grounds to feed. The sponges were impressive-- shaped like large vessels or balls, while others look more like branches on a cactus. It was good to be in the timeless space of observing life underwater, away from all normal reference points (the horizon, the sun, the boat), drifting, or slowly swimming in the warm, choppy water. After an hour we had seen a huge grouper, a lionfish, a pufferfish, lobster, conch, angelfish, and many other fish I have no name for.
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We got back on the boat and I felt very unsettled...emotional nausea is the best way to describe it. I don't know if it was exhaustion that rendered me so raw or just being out, with people, on a boat-- music playing as though life were normal. I broke down, unsure if I could do the next part of the trip which required kayaking around a mangrove island. Fortunately, the past month has taught me a few things: 1) It's ok to ask for help, 2) Its okay to sit this one out because it is just not what I need right now, and 3) It's okay to not know what I need. So, as everyone was getting into the kayaks I checked in with myself and decided I wanted to go if Steve did most of the paddling and I could just go for the ride. I had very little physical energy left. Luckily Steve was fine with this and Amy went with the guide, so she was also happy. This island was full of cormorants, pelicans, tri-colored heron, frigate birds, snowy egrets-- all easily viewed as they perched in the mangroves and entertained us with their fishing prowess. I felt like I was in the Galapagos Islands, especially when the guide showed us the Cassiopeia jellyfish (upside-down jelly)-- they were all over the swallow sand in only 2-3 feet of water, hanging out soaking up the sun looking like moonflowers in shades of tan and green with tinges of blue.
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Back on the sailboat, I wrapped myself in a towel, trying to find a way to insulate myself from the casual conversations all around me. I wanted to sit on the bow of the boat as I did so many times when crossing the Atlantic, just me and the sea (and occasional flying fish or dolphins)-- but instead, there was nowhere to be quiet and alone. For the third time that day, I melted down, sobbing in my brother's arms as we were occasionally sprayed by gusts of seawater. Seemed appropriate to be dripping wet in the warm evening, mirroring my watery insides.
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Getting home required a seven-block walk to our scooter-- past a few rowdy bars and lively restaurants, then ten minutes leaning on Amy's back as she drove through the quiet back streets. I wanted only to be home, in the cocoon of our little slice of tropical heaven. It took an immensity of effort to navigate an outing like this -- I'm grateful we shared the experience and I'm grateful that this morning it's pouring cats and dogs, limiting activity and calming my nerves. Today, as I try to wrap my head around saying goodbye to my brother and preparing to return to Portland on Wednesday, I vow to put no pressure on myself. Perhaps resting at the beach or an easy swim. That is plenty.
