Embedded Files
Underneath the Surface
Elaine Petrarca
I grew up in Clearwater, Florida, a small beach town that has grown into a major tourist attraction. After school my friends and I would fish in the bay, and on the weekends my family would hang out at the beach until long after sunset. At the Clearwater Aquarium, I explored islands and learned about local sea life. While I was not the most adventurous kid, I was never afraid of the ocean. I participated in swim team every summer and was very confident in the water.
Flashback to a family vacation in Key Largo in 2003. I was seven the first time my father took me snorkeling and I discovered that I was not a huge fan of jumping blindly into the water. This was the first time I realized I was timid around the ocean and not as comfortable as I had previously assumed. Early one morning, I, along with my brother, father, and a few other families, boarded the boat at a dock in Key Largo and headed offshore. My older brother told me tales of colorful fish and spectacular coral reefs. As the boat made its way further out into the ocean, the shoreline grew smaller until it was not visible and the water became so deep I could no longer see the bottom. Smelling the salt spraying up from the water, feeling the wind blow my hair, and the sun beaming on my face made me extremely excited, to say the least. The excitement in me bubbled over until it came time for us to get off the boat to snorkel at the reef. As we floated in the boat ten miles offshore with the reef laying twenty feet below us, I suddenly realized I was a tiny seven year old in the midst of a vastly unknown and dauntingly large ocean.
Being one of the only girls on the boat, my hair was hastily pulled up into a messy ponytail by my dad. Then we spent about ten minutes trying to redo my hair since the captain said any hair strands caught in the mask would allow water to seep in. With my flippers on and mask fixed, I was ready to go. I waddled down the ladder until I was waist deep in the water and suddenly, I could not breathe. As the boat was rocking in the waves, I was unable to see into the water, and I froze. No matter how many people told me I would enjoy the experience, I could not make myself go further into the water. For the rest of the afternoon I sat on the boat, watching little fish come up to the surface to eat the little pieces of bread I was dropping into the water. I was curious about what lay below the murky surface, and could not wait to see the pictures that my dad was taking with his waterproof camera. I sat on the boat frustrated because I was curious about the reef, yet too scared to explore underneath the surface.
Fast forward, seven years—As a fourteen-year-old girl, I found myself on another snorkeling boat, except this time I was at summer camp at a different Key. I had mentally prepared myself for weeks and was sure this time I would jump confidently off the edge of the boat into the unknown; I was ready to see all that laid below the blue surface. Except, once again I could not. It was a windy day and the ocean was choppy. There were white caps on the waves and the boat rocked back and forth. It was hard to balance in flippers and the rocking was unsettling my stomach. My nerves got the best of me, and instead of enjoying the afternoon, I sat on the boat shivering watching my friends have a great time exploring the reef.
Senior year of high school, I went to Mexico with all of my friends. We decided to go on an excursion to an island one afternoon, and on the way we had the option to stop and snorkel for a little while. Once again, I mentally prepared myself to just do it. I put on my mask, walked over to the edge of the boat, put on my flippers, sat down, and flipped backwards off the boat—like you are supposed to. I was in the water, I had done it! Except suddenly I was cold, water got in my mouth, my goggles were foggy, and I forgot that I could not breathe through my nose; I was instantly regretting my decision to get off the boat, but then my curiosity overcame my nerves. Intrigued by all that lay below the ocean’s surface, I began to explore the aquatic habitat. I witnessed all sorts of sea life—but the part that I remember the most was how the fish all hid as soon as we made our presence known. Watching the animals swim away altered my perspective of the ocean and marine life.
There are fish that hide, but also fish that are curious—some might call them stupid. They have no idea what you are or what you are doing there. As you are exploring their world, they are checking you out because you are their unknown. There are also fish that are attracted to your jewelry. Our captain warned us that barracuda will chase after shiny things, so it was recommended you leave all jewelry on the boat. Some fish will come up to you because they are used to humans feeding them food—such as hotdogs, something foreign and not found in their habitat. Watching the fish dart away, suddenly the ocean was immensely bigger than I had ever realized, and I recognized humans do not really belong here. Despite that I was finally able to explore this part of it, it seemed even bigger than when I was up on the surface.
In her book, The Sea Around Us, Rachel Carson reminded me how little we know about our oceans and what lies below the surface. Humans know relatively little about life in the thing that occupies seventy-five percent of the Earth. Yet, boats and people invade another’s habitat on a daily basis. We introduce pollution and foreign objects into their environment. Creatures, like sharks, are misunderstood and get a bad reputation—even though humans are the ones invading their domain. Snorkeling sparked a sense of depth and wonder for me when I realized when I am in the water, I am just in one tiny part of it and there is life living all around me.
La Serenissima, The Lagoon, and Environmental Gloom
Suzanne Mullins
Last January, I crossed the Atlantic on my first-ever airplane flight and embarked on a journey into the great European unknown. I gazed in awe while looking out of the window beside me; between breaks in the clouds, I would catch a flash of the dark ocean below, then the snowy peaks of the Alps, and then, finally, the marshy lagoon of Venice, Italy. I expected my time in Venice to be remarkable, inspiring, and eye-opening—but I never could have truly guessed what was to come. I was struck by the history of la Serenissima—the Most Serene Republic of Venice—and by how those who established the city literally molded the earth and forced nature to comply with their needs. As I made my way through the spring semester, however, I began to see the consequences that can result when humans impose themselves up on an otherwise hostile natural environment. The island city of Venice is perpetually sinking, disappearing ever more rapidly into its muddy foundation.
Venice has always been prone to flooding, and its residents have been working for centuries to build it higher and escape the rain and tides. In recent years, however, the effects of climate change and sea level rise have taken an especially severe toll on the historic city. Wherever I walked, I could see the algal growth, crumbling mortar, and erosion on the sides of buildings and on doors. On a few occasions, I even had to trudge through nearly a foot of standing water on the pathway, or walk through the streets on elevated wooden platforms. All around me, the city was sagging and shifting at an alarming rate. But it was not until I got away from the structures and sidewalks, out past the confines of the canals and into the actual lagoon, that I really came to recognize the severity of the situation.
I sat aboard a small johnboat, gliding through the murky waters and marshland. I could hear nothing except the screech of gulls, the low humming of the boat motor, and the slight splash of its wake. My Italian guide pointed out a spot far in the distance, where the Venetian government was working to install the MOSE project—a set of buoyant gates meant to close the lagoon and deter the rising sea. At first I was excited by the idea, but quickly had my spirits dashed as my boat’s captain lamented their supposedly impending failure. Even if the gates’ construction is completed—and the project has already been in progress for decades—they can only keep out the water to a certain degree of sea level increase. Thus, the changing climate will undoubtedly render the MOSE useless at some point in the future.
I was very still as I contemplated this revelation. On my right was an outlet to the roiling Adriatic Sea, and to my left, a barren marshland. The Italian Alps rose up in the distance, towering over the lagoon like large, beautiful beasts. At that moment, I felt all at once both in tune with nature and also very separated from its wildness. From my vantage point in the middle of the lagoon, the Venetian cityscape in the distance looked exceptionally small; the silhouettes of its buildings receded into the horizon line and gave the impression of a long, strange ship sinking silently into the sea. It was such a strange juxtaposition—that human marvel, resplendent in its beauty and history, yet still so very vulnerable next to nature’s ferocity. Sitting on my small boat, far away from home, I truly gained recognition of the futility of man’s quest to shape nature. We should be living with the natural world, involving ourselves with the environment as simply one of many components—not forcing ourselves upon it. Because no matter what we do, no matter the efforts to preserve our cities and creations, nature is always more powerful. The might of the natural environment will always encroach upon the humans’ built society, and it will undoubtedly, ultimately outlast us.
As I returned to the shore and wandered back into the streets of Venice, I was surrounded once again by the familiarity of human society. My perspective, however, had been forever altered. Every crack in the wall, every crumbling doorstep or eroded staircase—the efforts to resolve the environmental issues of the historic city now seemed merely like a prolonging of the inevitable. It is heartbreaking that one day, the marvels of that beautiful place will likely be swept away by the sea—merely one small location among a mounting number of tragic losses. Humanity as a whole must learn that it is not immune to nature’s strength—our structures as we build them today will not hold up against the test of time. I strive in my daily life to live in tune with the natural world, as a part of it rather than a force against it. I can only hope that the rest of humankind can soon begin to do the same.
A Mother’s Love
Olivia Street
A relationship is defined as “the way in which two or more concepts, objects, or people are connected, or the state of being connected.” I consider myself connected to the ocean in the way that a child is connected to his or her mother.
Since I can remember, the ocean has represented my release, my safe haven. There is not one singular moment that I realized this connection to the ocean, but multiple similar experiences. My family has a beach house in Galveston, Texas and simply crossing the bridge onto the Island invariably incites feelings of calmness and serenity in me. Further, every summer since I can remember, my family has taken a trip to Cabo San Lucas. The moment the plane hits the ground, I feel a release of cares and worries, leading to internal centeredness. I have been fortunate to travel to six continents and forty-six countries. Each experience occupies a special part of my heart, however, the locations where we incorporate the ocean, seem to leave me more internally satisfied.
The ocean is the source for half of the oxygen that we breathe, making every human inseparably intertwined with the ocean. A mother will always occupy a part of her child’s life. No matter the extent to which she is involved, a child is inextricably connected to the woman she calls “mom.” The ocean knows exactly what I need, regardless of the time apart we have spent. Despite the mood that I am in as I enter the ocean, when I depart, I feel comforted, calm, and more secure with myself. A mother knows exactly what to say in any and every scenario. Whether it be to cheer you up, congratulate you, or compliment you. The ocean supports me. It lets me ponder my thoughts and challenges, all while keeping me afloat. A mother gives you enough space to evolve into yourself, but provides you with structure in the necessary areas. The ocean has existed longer than I have, making it timeless and wise. No matter how many times a child disagrees, a mother’s sensible and experienced advice proves true and beneficial.
As I gradually walk deeper into the ocean, I become integrated with the water and myself. Even if the ocean is cold when I first enter, it quickly shifts to the sole environment in which I feel warm. The summer air feels brisk compared to the actually chilling water that I have acclimated to. The ocean recognizes that times and situations change. Although there are low and high tides every single day of the year, the overall consistency of the ocean never fails. Despite personal ups and downs, a mother never ceases to remain steady and constant for her child. The ocean adapts to the changing times, similar to how a mother reacts to a maturing child. A mother understands that her parenting technique must also adjust with time. I expect that the ocean will continually characterize my safe haven, similar to how a child inherently expects that a mother will always be there for them.
Even when I bid farewell to the ocean, the droplets of water remain. When I leave the ocean, the tingle of the salt water on my skin and my internal peacefulness persist. When a child leaves home, little mannerisms, ideals, or beliefs that their mother has instilled in them linger wherever the child may go. Similar to how a mother spreads herself thinly and vastly for the benefit of her child, the ocean covers around 70 percent of the earth’s surface. Not only do I imagine the ocean as a mother-like figure but also it literally mothers an entire ecosystem. The marine animals and plant life are able to thrive and grow by relying on the ocean’s gifts and abilities. Further, marine ecosystems are essential for the overall health of both marine and terrestrial environments. A mother always seems to keep the household afloat, without the processes that the ocean provides, the entire ecosystem would fail.
The various characteristics of the ocean have no effect on the connection I have with it. Regardless of the shade of blue, the presence of seaweed, or the temperature, the general presence of the ocean incites my restfulness. It makes no difference whether a child was birthed or adopted by their mother. Despite the lack of blood relation, the connection stems from the heart. I am a child of the ocean from the innermost parts of my heart.
Contemplations from the Blue
Mackenzie Howe
What draws readers in to the writings of Rachel Carson is her reaction of overall wonder, curiosity and awe of nature. Her personal response to her adventurous experiences and findings are strengthened by her use of color, sound, and objective tone thus evincing the senses, rhythms and cycles of the underwater world. Rachel Carson effectively utilizes a “sense of wonder” in order to evoke an emotional response from her readers. This response encourages readers to develop empathy for and awareness of the various environmental issues she writes about; in this case, the ocean in The Sea Around Us. Rachel Carson’s writing invites readers to contemplate their own experiences with nature and therefor cultivate strong emotional connections with a place. For me, the ocean has always ignited a sense of curiosity and wonder. Ever since I was young I remember being captivated by the ocean and its numinous presence. However, there are two encounters in particular that reflect my life-altering interactions with the ocean and have therefor opened my eyes to what kinds of experiences nature can provide me with.
During one of my high school summers, my family and I traveled to Los Angeles for our annual Howe Family trip. Being the overconfident teenager I was, I informed my family members that I was capable of surfing the six foot waves at Manhattan Beach based on my two beginner-level surf lessons as a child. This overconfidence, combined with my long cultivated “sense of wonder” for the ocean is what drew me to a near-drowning experience that sunny day. I remember going out with my rented surfboard in hand, excited about the prospect of having the ocean entirely to myself for that afternoon. However, before I knew it, the same seemingly “perfect” ocean that had lured me in, was all of a sudden swallowing me whole. The menacing current began to envelop my small, nimble body dragging me down into its depths. The surfboard attached to my right ankle pulled me into the ocean’s vastness until the possibility of gasping for a breath of air was next to impossible.
As each wave crashed over my head, I couldn’t help but think about how my love for the ocean was what drew me into this situation. As I coughed and breathed in the salt water, emotions started to cloud my thoughts. For a moment I decided that I hated the ocean. I hated it for almost taking my life. But as I challenged every last bit of my strength and gasped for air under each crashing wave, I slowly and surely made it back to shore. Coughing up water and crying in my mother’s lap, I couldn’t cease the overwhelming thoughts. Before then, I had always thought that the ocean was a place I could spend time in and simply enjoy the peace that it gave me. I never considered for a second that it could also be a place that could overpower me. This experience marked the first time I truly understood my human connection with nature. Although terrifying, I discerned that human domination over nature (in this case, the ocean) is truly an illusion. I learned that interactions between humanity and nature must be balanced and that I couldn’t control nature’s conditions despite it evoking my strong “sense of wonder” and curiosity.
Despite this experience, the ocean still seemed to call my name. I decided to spend a semester of my Junior Year of high school at The Island School: a semester program in Eleuthera, Bahamas. Since most of the curriculum was centered around a place-based approach to understanding sustainability and marine science, SCUBA diving was a large component of the curriculum. My close-to-drowning experience did not help to calm my nerves about entering the cool Caribbean blue waters on that sunny afternoon. However, I again followed my “sense of wonder” for the ocean and was soon reliant on nothing but a 16-year-old dive buddy and a tank of oxygen under the crystal blue abyss. Prior to my first dive, I was instructed to observe the interactions and relationships between the reef species on my dive. Under 50 feet of water I sat alone on the bed of the ocean with my assigned coral reef patch in front of me and began to close my eyes. I considered my terrible experience surfing one year prior and contemplated how different the two experiences made me feel – one being entirely overwhelming and terrifying and one being peaceful and joyful.
Upon opening my eyes, I peered through my slightly clouded mask and began to observe a Bi-color Damselfish spin and swirl through the water while picking up small bites of algae in its tiny herbivorous mouth, and as a blue tang approached the algae the damselfish was feeding on, the Blue Tang darted away once it recognized the damselfish’s presence, suggesting how protective damselfish are of the reef’s algae patches. My intense observation of the fish’s interaction fed my curiosity and created the most astounding sense of wonder within my being – the same joyousness that I felt while safely basking in the ocean waves as a child.
Upon reflection, I understood that the underwater world provided a serene and quiet environment where I could fully take advantage of my curiosity. However I have also realized that from these two experiences sparked by wonder, that nature and the ocean more specifically is not something I nor humanity can control. It is not always predictable and is not something that I can overpower. Nonetheless, it is something that awards me peace and close contemplation of my surroundings and will always spark my strong “sense of wonder”. And by doing so, I will always attribute the ocean to teaching me about human relationship with nature as well as my strong passion and interest in protecting and preserving the ocean for future generations to come and additionally, appreciate it as a place of careful reflection, understanding and meditation.
A Captivating Capsize
Emily Dutton
The same chill of helplessness still shutters through me if I think about it hard enough. In the moment, that feeling swallowed me whole. It tranquilized every sense of my being. But it wasn’t how I had imagined something like that would be. My panic was suddenly seized by tranquility in the span of a second. In order for me to grasp my finitude, it required a moment for time to stand still at the mercy of nature.
Clear Lake, California is a few hours north of Napa. Renowned (or infamous) for the irony of its name, Clear Lake is everything but clear. Trip advisor reviews often note this misnomer. One user describes her experience and observes, “As I sit on our rental home deck gazing out onto the pea green algae infested waters of Clearlake. I wonder who gave its name.” Despite the questionable composure of the lake, Clear Lake is a popular destination for vacations in Northern California year round. Because of our relative proximity to Clear Lake, my high school soccer team and I took a retreat to a cabin on the lake.
I was a freshman in high school at the time. At this point in my life, soccer dictated and defined how I lived. It was what I considered to be my “life environment”. My worth was rooted in how well I played in my last game. My focus was constantly on the question, “How I could become better?” My eventual goal was to play in college. In everything I did with soccer, I kept looking forward to the future. This pride fueled me with a false feeling of invincibility. I felt untouchable and unbreakable. While my passion was healthy , the passion developed into an obsession – and it suffocated me. I did not realize how constricting this was until true suffocation liberated me from this trance.
One evening on our retreat, my teammate asked me if I wanted to kayak on the lake together. I looked out at the lake. I stared. I pondered. And I became enraptured. Although it was winter, the setting sun’s gleam synthesized a summer feeling. The water was calm. Each ripple looked as if it had radiated from a singular raindrop, disrupting the stillness of a lake. I suddenly forgot that it was 40 degrees outside (which is quite chilly for a Californian) and slid into a kayak. Because the lake was so still, the momentum from my initial push carried me far away from the shore. I felt weightless. It seemed as if I were sucked into a vacuum of buoyancy and silence. Sound was barely existent; I could almost hear the blood rushing through my vessels. Soccer was absent from my mind. I then lost the original momentum and paddled further out. I began to admire the complexity of the algae that once disgusted me. All of my senses were heightened and I was constantly scanning my surroundings. I basked in the serenity of the lake as I sat bundled in my layers of sweats.
Suddenly, my tranquility was interrupted by a faint voice. I realized the voice belonged to my friend in the other kayak, trying to tell me that we had drifted too far. I calmly maneuvered my kayak to head back towards the dock. To my surprise, the water had suddenly gotten choppier. I then began to paddle – each stroke required more and more effort. The current got stronger. All of the elements that seemed to extend their mercy to me had suddenly turned against me. I paddled and I paddled. Then I paddled some more. After many strenuous strokes, I realized I wasn’t going anywhere. And then, suddenly, I was in the water.
I don’t know how it happened. My soccer coach probably said it best, “Coordination is not your friend, Emily, is it?”. It definitely wasn’t, and thinking ahead wasn’t my strong suit either since I neglected to put a life vest on. Those two factors combined ultimately led to my tragic flaw: lacking the capacity to stay in a kayak. I flailed around in the water. I became submerged. I gasped for breath. Choppy water slapped me in the face. I choked on the water. The relentless current exerted every ounce of force it possessed onto me, as if it were begging me to relinquish my control. “This is it,” I thought. “This might be how I die.” In my state of (perhaps) dramatic panic, I was suddenly overcome with a sensation of tranquility. In a singular moment of submersion, time seemed to stand still. I was not focused on how I fell in the water, and I wasn’t focused on how I would escape the water. I was focused on that specific, singular moment of my existence. I had a timid reverence for the magnitude of the elements consuming me, causing me to understand my insignificance. Although I was submerged for only a few seconds, my perception of time was warped. My panic had been translated to an apparent pause in time. I came to understand my finitude in a volatile world, and became captivated by it.
After a few seconds of being submerged, I was able to regain control and my friend helped me get back in the kayak. I luckily escaped the situation unscathed (other than the social embarrassment of returning to my team looking like a wet dog). At this moment, I realized my finitude and how fragile life is. However, I had never identified how it shifted my perception of my life until this prompt. Until that moment, my life had been defined in a relationship to one consistent thing – soccer. The volatility of the lake caused me to understand the volatility of life. Because life can change so quickly, clinging to fleeting accomplishments is exhausting and suffocating. It caused me to realize that I should define myself to my current environment, rather than anxiously anticipating a future accomplishment. Life is short and death is long; therefore, I should not be fixated on anything other than my present environment so that I can enjoy the time that I have. The environment surrounding me is the only thing that I can be certain of.
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