The Deep Elena Perse
According to oceanographers, the ‘deep’ starts where light begins to fade. As far as I’m concerned, though, the deep begins when my feet no longer reach the sand. When I dive down, I’ll run out of air before I touch the seabed. That’s deep to me. The light doesn’t matter so much. The mesopelagic ‘twilight’ zone: a kilometre deep, sunlight valiantly trickles down until it is gone entirely, the water fading from deep blue to inky black. It’s Sunday – I’m at my local beach for surf lifesaving. I’m nine – my group doesn’t patrol, fishing foolish swimmers from rips. We do everything else, though: sprints on the sand, paddling a surfboard taller than I am, and long open-water swims. Initially, I quite enjoy these swims. I have terrible vision, and I can’t wear my glasses at the beach. The only time in the two-hour session I can see clearly is when I tug on my prescription goggles, and finally, the world sharpens into focus. I’m not coordinated: I hate carrying the unwieldy board along the beach, I’m always one of the stragglers paddling to shore. Catching a wave and losing control over the board scares me, and the session leader tells me to be ‘less polite’, to shove the other kids during beach flags. I can swim, though; even better, it’s a solo activity. Slice through the water (fingers together: use your hand like a scoop, pull yourself forward), only gasp for air every third stroke. Don’t swallow seawater (you’ll cough and choke – your mouth will ache with saltiness). Watch out for stingers. 24
