Under the Sea

That's my magic place--as most people who know me know. I don't want to be a mermaid (although I like the scary part of mermaids, the mythical, dangerous creature lurking under the surface, ready to harm mere mortals, the description of Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair).

I want to be, hmm, I can't think of a good word, but something that means I can live on land or under the sea. The word should combine the notion of ambidextrous and bipolar. Bibreather, maybe? Ambilandsea? Ambigroundwater? Um, no! I'll have to keep thinking about that.

I'm not ready to give up this life, but I want short breaks of swimming with sharks, whales, porpoises, manta rays. My magic place is the sea--cue the calypso music. I'm not sure I'd learn any lessons there. At least, I don't want to learn lessons. I want the play of weightlessness, particularly after that delicious dinner Saturday night at Tokyo's Japanese Steakhouse. (Thanks, Amanda, for planning dinner.)

I imagine myself cavorting with porpoises, competing to see who jumps higher from the water, who flips best, who herds the most fish. We dart alongside boats, getting a cheap high from the fumes and racing the boat and ourselves, enjoying the oohs and aahs from passengers.

I dive down deep, exploring wrecks, hiding from moray eels with big jaws and silent sharks. I leave behind the papers I still haven't graded, the texts I need to read, the comments I haven't written, the conference proposals I need to submit, the trips I haven't taken--I leave them all and luxuriate in the freedom of the sea; then I must enact my freedom by escaping from the tiger shark on the prowl, diverting him with a nice tuna I send that way while I rush for the surface and join the passengers on the boat.