Last Dive

“Oh, um, we don’t know if we can go to Helmet today,” the woman behind the counter said to me.  I could feel my face dropping.

“Seriously?” I asked, the pitch of my voice resting somewhere between a dog whistle and a whine. 

“No,” she chided, a satisfied grin spreading across her face.  “You are going.”

Sarcasm.  My weapon of choice.  There’s nothing like dying by your own sword.  I grinned sheepishly and forked over my money. 

My last dive in Palau.  Admittedly, I did not take to diving like most people do on this island.  Diving and I had a few dates, but I didn’t really see any relationship potential, so I didn’t really pursue it until recently.  But over the past few months, my interest has resurged, prompting me to venture out more.  I still back roll off the boat like a frightened turtle flipped onto its back, but the anxiety I had over mask clearing and the general condition of breathing underwater has subsided, enabling me to actually enjoy my dives.  And, as of last Sunday, I still had two pressing items on my list of to-do’s before I boarded the plane: a wreck dive and chandelier cave. 

We had our own boat for the short day trip, complete with our own dive guide, a driver, and some guy who didn’t really do anything but apparently wanted in on the trip.  As we sawed our way through the choppy waves to Helmet Wreck, I absorbed so much of what had become familiar to me over the past year.  Taking in the lushness of the greens and browns, I realized that over the next week, palm trees would turn into maples and oaks, bleeding with vibrant colors and taking their last breath before falling gently to the ground below.  The quilt of blues and bottle greens would become fallen pine cones and tree roots mixed with hard packed dirt and grass, eventually evolving into a blanket of crystallized snow.  I wanted to open my eyes wider, soak in the last drops of the Palau that I would tell people about in stories for years to come.  We have a love hate relationship, Palau and I, but, man, I missed parts of this place already, and I was still on a boat. 

Beneath the choppy surface, Helmet Wreck loomed heavy and somber, its silhouette smudged by algae and rust.  In the still silent air, you could practically feel the history of the site.  I envisioned ghosts of World War Two leaning over my shoulder as I clumsily finned my way closer to the wreck.  Old sake bottled evidenced that life existed at one time before the ship succumbed to gravity, sinking to the depths of the ocean.  I breathed heavier, excited and privileged to see a wreck in such an intimate way.  Clinging to the ocean floor while manta rays shuttle overhead is exhilarating, and an incomparable dive experience in its own right.  But there was something so dark about exploring the wreck that day, so quiet and meaningful.  And Helmet Wreck is just the tip of the iceberg as far as wreck diving goes.  I could feel the monster of curiosity beginning to hatch inside of me.  Key West supposedly has some good wrecks…

After being pelted with rain (Palau should win an award for its precipitation, really.  It can go sideways, diagonally, and I swear sometimes upside down, just to make sure that you are completely saturated), we arrived at the small inlet marking the beginning of Chandelier Cave.  Short stints of actual dive time make the cave a customary third dive, but with the weather that day, we were all thankful for it to be the second and final.  Surrounded by bubbles of air, we descended and swam to the opening of the cave.  Eventually the light ceased to exist, and we were left in utter darkness, our direction illuminated only by our flashlights.  A wave of panic rolled over my body.  There was no “up”, just in case, that sort of random security blanket that the light of the surface provided to me before.  I mean, you really can’t just shoot up when you’re diving (unless you feel like risking severe physical repercussions), but that sort of beacon of false security always exists, guiding you.  Now it was gone.

I flashed my light ahead of me, making Sheree’s fins light up.  She has been on three hundred dives, a number that body slams my meek little handful of dives in Palau.  If Sheree is calm, I should be calm, I reasoned, mentally chastising myself for being a baby, if only for a moment of brief nervousness.  It was sort of exciting, really, swimming in the dark, not really knowing what was ahead of you, like watching a scary movie alone in the dark.  Sometimes in order to have fun, you have to test your boundaries a little, push past the nerves and see what’s out there.

We swam in reverse, starting with the last chamber, and worked our way to the first. Inside each chambers, the rock looked like a used candle, soft bulbs of hardened wax frozen mid-drip.  I ran my hand along the walls of the cave, feeling the slightly grainy texture.  Our voices echoed slightly as we explored the chambers, swimming to each side for a closer look at the round natural architecture.  Anyone with an open water certification can do chandelier cave, but I still felt a little bit cool, emerging from underwater into a cave dripping with stalactites.  In other chambers, rock suspended from the ceiling, small stone glaciers of glistening off white. 

"I could seriously live in here," I said, laughing.  

On the ride back, the wind was cold against my skin, even with the warmth of a wetsuit.  I smiled, anticipating the chill of fall, excitedly reminding myself that hot chocolate and sweaters were only a few days away.  Wrapping my hands around a cappuccino at the table, I looked at Sheree and Kristen and felt lucky on so many levels. 

Earlier that week, I drove through the dustbowl of gravel and stray dogs that is the compact road to pick up Kristen from her trip to Fiji. It was hot in the airport.  I could feel a thin layer of sweat start to coat my skin as I leaned back with one leg propped against the wall and tilted my chin to the ceiling.  Dark beams met at the top of the A-frame, knitting together like clasped hands.  I hadn't noticed the ceiling of the airport before.  Now I realized why.

Waiting for Kristin that evening, it dawned on me that I was now the person in the airport, standing in wait for a friend, pacing slowly in flip flops, idly tossing my keys in my hands while chatting with people I knew from work or diving.  The only times I had been in the airport before, I was either oblivious to my surroundings from the giddiness of going home or to Bali, or glazed over from the return trip.

I actually know people here, I thought to myself as I chatted with a coworker, leaning on the hard plastic of the conjoined waiting area seats. 

Almost a year ago, I arrived in the Palau airport for the first time, dazed and anxious, stale from a thirty hour trip, wheeling my belongings hesitantly across the linoleum floor and looking for people I didn’t know.  Watching the passengers now, I can see that in a few of them, scanning the waiting people apprehensively, wondering what they’ve gotten themselves into.  But tonight, for some reason, as I flipped my keys and idly paced back and forth in wait, I was on the other side, the tail end of the experience. 

Writing furiously in my journal on the trip out to Palau during those excruciating hours cuddled up with strangers in the economy class cabin, I couldn’t have anticipated who I would become, what changes would occur in me over the course of my contract.  And though I am not markedly different on the outside, save for a more “relaxed” attitude about my appearance (i.e. flip flops, no make-up and a bun, daily), I do feel different than I was when I arrived. 

Granted, only a year anniversary out from taking the bar, I am still coated in newness and naivety just like virtually every new lawyer, emerging from my shrink wrap with a head full of book knowledge and only minor excursions into the realm of reality.  However, there are lessons that I am packing in my suitcase for the trip home that I couldn’t have learned in one year of practice or life in the United States.  Palau is much like the sugar syrup that adorns every restaurant table in the country – a condensed, boiled down experience that, though seemingly innocuous, wields tremendous potential for life change, if you want it. 

As a budding nation, Palau is still a rough sketch of what it will be in the future.  Living in such a raw, new country exposes you to issues that every country in the world faces, but on a more intimate level than you were previously allowed.  In professional and social circles, the relatively small population fosters a higher level of personal scrutiny, placing each of us under a new magnifying glass every day.  And even when confronted with the smaller challenges of daily life, such as the acquisition of a driver’s license or visa, can test the limits of an East Coaster’s patience and expose you for the petulant young woman you truly are (not that I’m talking about me or anything). 

I’m not boarding the plane on Friday some miraculously different person.  Hell, I’ll probably wear the same outfit I wore on the ride out here.  And no one needs to cue the Breakfast Club theme song when the plane starts taxiing (though that would be cool). But I do believe in serendipity, and in the fact that nearly every experience can be a lesson if you look for it.  I am, by nature, emotional and impatient, impetuous and easily frustrated.  Palau can be stubborn, unmoving, unhurried.  It responds to temper tantrums by silently tilting its head, eyeing you up and down, and squirting betel nut saliva from its lips into a tin can.  Even in its youth as a nation, Palau has seen its share of young lawyers come and go, and remains unfazed. 

My time in Palau was a mixture of what I wanted, what I needed, and what I didn’t want but definitely needed anyway.   I wanted an adventure and a challenge.  I needed time to be alone, to figure out which path I wanted to take with my career and with my life.   I didn’t want to be hung out to dry or placed in water so deep that the sink or swim method seemed like the only viable option.  I needed to learn to deal with less than ideal situations, and to cultivate patience in the face of frustration or adversity. 

I took a leap of faith and flew out, relatively blind, to a small Pacific Island to see what life would bring me out there.  I fumbled for a while, and finally reached a small degree of balance, and made some amazing friends and memories along the way.  I can digress about the negativity and frustrations that abound on this island, about the social injustices and general inadequacies of the governmental infrastructure.  But I can also digress about the amazing people, vibrant and fascinating and brimming with stories, and about the abundance of staggering natural beauty that pervades almost every facet of life here.  Basically, I can just digress.  I’m glad I came.