It’s like this, see. I’ve lost an ear (no, not the part that sticks out – which is a damn good thing, because I have some really cool shades I love to wear – but the part inside that I hear with) and with it, any sense of balance. So, I fall down a lot. Sometimes, I can’t even sit up. My damaged (or destroyed) auditory vestibular system (which includes the nerves and part of the brain it is hooked up to) are also up to firing off a barrage of auditory hallucinations along with – get this – situational hallucinations. For instance, I am wedged into my bunk so I don’t suddenly topple onto my laptop and destroy that too, and, suddenly the world will cant violently 90 degrees. I know it’s bollocks, but my lizard brain: the cerebellum, reacts to the erroneous data, sending corrective commands to my trunk and leg muscles faster than my thinking brain, the little grey cells can say, ‘hey, the world is not trying to buck me off!’ But it’s too late. My muscles are reacting to the ersatz gravitational anomaly, resulting in a lurch into a wall, or a crewmate, or my dinner, or overboard, or into a prickly bush, or traffic.
I don the mask and fins and into the deep blue I plunge for exercise, and relief, and to contribute something to the mission that is Elena and I.
But here’s the thing. Like, ‘In space, no one can hear you scream,’ it turns out that, ‘In water, no one can see you fall over!’ In fact, you can’t fall over. It’s bloody brill. And an even bigger bonus is that underwater you don’t really need to hear. Life at the end of a snorkel or air hose is my new go to environment for feeling not like a worthless freak. So, I don the mask and fins and into the deep blue I plunge for exercise, and relief, and to contribute something to the mission that is Elena and I. Let’s just say, the underwater hull of this old wreck is going to be the cleanest bottom this side of Key West. I used to be active. I have hated lurching along a beach, headbutting Len into the water or a bush, clinging to her for support like a blootered sod. Sure, I’ll probably never hike, or ride a bike, or drive, or tightrope walk, or strictly come dancing, or ride my Razor scooter, or serve soup again, but like someone far more sensorially deprived than me once said, ‘One door closes, and another door opens,’ and that door is an airlock into the deep blue. Crikey, it feels good to just, finally, move my body! Again.
And another bonus: these shitty, Bahamian sandbars, outcrops, and private islands are mosquito (among other bitey bugs associated with human filth) havens. Only bitey critters underwater, are sharks. And although, the shark has pretty teeth, dear, I’d rather swim with sharks, than stager with mosquitoes.
My new affinity for the water world has me rethinking our destination. Shhhh, don’t tell Elena! But I’m kind of thinking southern Turkiye, or wherever it doesn’t get brass-monkey-ball-freezing-off cold and Russians are allowed. Maybe the West Indies if there was a snowflake’s chance in hell we could get this wreck all the way there, non-stop with a green-snot, gay Russian aboard, against the trade wind and current.
That’s it for today. Hurricanes are still on the loose, and this boat has a huge bottom that needs detailing.