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Abuela Dives the Wall
Once I climbed a mountain so I could
point to it each morning as I drove to work.
I was a young woman in a Subaru trying
hard. Climbing was steady exercise, a matter of
deciding not to quit though I was alone, and lonely
and tired. Now I’ve come to dive the wall
because its harder to imagine vast than high.
Mayan women arrived by canoe.
A million swallows return to nest
in the temple ruins, and behind them
passengers of a cruise line shop or walk
into the water and lie face down in the swirl
of currents as colors bleed, magentas
of sunset and cyans of sea that meet
in a violet tinge at the edge of the island
well beyond the sips of clear shallows
on a dazzling beach. At the wall begins
the depth of oceans.
You fall from the ledge of the boat backwards
laden with weight you need. I am small
and somersault, so there is a moment
of confusion and a moment to quit
before you purge your float of air, exale
and descend. As you leave the surface
you lose memory of the world. What was
heavy above and hard to carry, necessary
to test, is comfort here. You enter the disguise
of nothing, empty continent of ocean and all
you want to do is dawdle, or suspend.
But the current is running and you must perform
as trained, too late to learn survival.
You equalize the airspaces inside your head,
drop rapidly, remembering to breathe.
Breath is not a reflex; air is in a can.
Fear eats air, that’s all you need to know. Yet
your first breath is gluttonous. You must
hit bottom before you reach the wall.
If you don’t, you wonder, what direction
does a current rush the opening at a hip?
Behind is a valley of sand with coral gardens
you desperately love, where you’ve found
the neutral buoyancy, relaxed between
bottom and top. But the moment
you touch sand and turn, fins first,
the bottom disappears. You are not sure
anything you know applies. You backstroke
with useless muscles, trying only to go nowhere
one more minute. You watch others; they watch you.
For the first time, a memory from above appears:
You have raised your children, seen the first grandchild.
The mountain I climbed had no sheer cliffs
or crevass, but weightless on the precipice,
I rely on matter and cling to mass.
I imagine drift, invisibility, or the bliss
that is a diver’s fatal risk. Follow bliss
and you never will return. I check my mind
for invincibility: eighty feet and dropping
beyond all experience, I do not fear depth
like I fear drift, but am not complacent
so know I’m fine. I release my grip
on the piece of coral, inhale and kick.
The current runs along not down the wall.
Purple lace fans, art deco angels, ribbons
and balloons of the slowgrown reef . . .
we pass as massive groupers
with bulging lips, huge wide eyes, wearing
suits and vests. Columns of our hot bubbles rise.
You cannot lose track of time, pressure
in your tank, level or direction, your partners
own welfare. You signal with a circle
of finger and thumb that serves both
question and reply: Are you okay?
Yes, thanks, and you? You carry duty down
where it’s both difficult and essential.
You will give measures of your air
to a stranger who can’t pronounce your name.
You will stare into each others eyes
until you see reaction; in fact you must insist.
What I miss most of all is smiling.
When I am safe, I spread my arms
until they curve around my head.
Older but still driving the same,
worn Subaru, I’m liable to drop the wheel
to ask with arms across the traffic:
“Isn’t this incredible?” just when
the tunnel’s arch gives up the prize
and we all enter, so completely,
the current of the city, the new day.
On the elevator, eyes closed, I take
the safety stop to equalize for pressure.
When the door opens, it’s a man’s world
and I emerge, click my heels:
I, abuela! dove the wall.
©Anne Prowell 1994
(©Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies, Vol. 16)
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