Present to every moment, our lives are full, they are a continuous flow of vibrant moments. I had doubts that three days would be enough time on the island of Isla Mujeres, in the Mexican Caribbean sea. I replaced that doubt with the mantra of: there is always enough time. There was no way to see everything and do everything in three days, but when I was present to everything I did see and do, I truly lived during my time on the island. The funny thing was that life mirrored that attitude and gave plenty of time. On many occasions, my traveling companion and I discovered we had more time than we thought, it was always earlier than we had guessed, and the days seemed as full and colorful as unhurried weeks. In being present, the sun was the hottest I had ever felt, the homemade cinnamon icecream was the best I had ever tasted, the octopus was the freshest, the fish were the most vibrant, the hibiscus the most fragrant. Because my focus was in that exact moment, moment, everything was real to me, nothing else could even compare.
My enthusiastic traveling companion Tim and I began to play a favorite game of mine, called “Of Course.” The game goes a little like this: you put out an intention of how you want things to go and then you get to announce “Of Course!” when you get exactly what you asked for, goodness and beauty over and over again. Of course what shows up for us is exactly what we wanted because we asked for it, invited it, and are living in the flow of openly receiving.
I was thrilled to scuba dive off the same island I had picked up the sport, with the same dive company. Of course the owner of said fabulous dive company happened to be on the street walking towards us just after we landed, of course he had a boat going out the next morning with plenty of room. So much room, actually, that the boat had a very intimate group. (Perfect!)
We woke up the first morning, naturally, to the sunrise over sea and it was only 640am. Of course the day was full and long before us, with many chapters left unread. We watched the island wake up, the fishermen load their nets and supplies and motor out to work in the great wide blue open.
Our dive boat was running a bit late, so of course we had plenty of time. Others who had signed up waited with us. Amused, I watched an American couple who were too angry to return my smile or conversation. They had stopped having fun together years ago, and grew progressively more and more furious in a few minutes before loosing patience and storming off. It was really better that way. I didn’t want to dive with grumps anyhow. They must have forgotten to set their watches to Island Time. The boat was another half an hour out, so we had breakfast with our extra time. Fresh guacamole and octopus ceviche served on the water’s edge, with our bare feet buried in the silky smooth sand.
Our boat ride was a two hour search out to sea. The island quickly disappeared around the curvature of the earth. The sea grew dark teal beneath us. Flying fish scattered out away from the boat’s wake, spooked up in flocks of fifteen or more, sailing like skipping stones inches from the surface before diving back into the waves. I lost count after a hundred.
Tim and I were present to every nautical mile, laughing out loud when the boat slammed over huge waves, pointing out turtles and rays, watching the thunderhead clouds change form, counting the flying fish.
We scanned the horizon for Whale Sharks, not quite sure what we were looking for. “Balenna” as the Mayans called them, pass by Isla every year on their migrating path to Australia. Actually a fish, with the shape of a shark and the feeding habits of a whale, they are the only members of their genus and their family. I knew they are giant, between 30 to 50 feet long and weighed over 50,000 thousand pounds but would they appear lightly colored, or as dark shapes in the water? The unseen, the unknown, loomed somewhere out to sea.
After an hour and a half, the boat radio buzzed. Whale Sharks had been spotted, twenty miles farther out to sea. We sped out in that direction, and began to dress as ducks in flippers and bulky face masks. Appearances were quickly forgotten when we spotted the whales, huge dark shapes in the light green water. The boat pulled up next to one, a speckled giant swimming near the surface, his two dark dorsal fins extending above the turquoise surface, and the captain shouted, “Okay, now! Jump in now!” Feeling very small and flustered with excitement, I fell off the boat face first to swim after this being of mythical proportions. The whale was so massive I forgot to breathe, unaware of my body at all, so present to the experience, immersed in the details of the school-bus sized creature before me.
When the whale turned to face me, I was only a couple of feet from his speckled square nose. He opened his colossal oval mouth to take in a wave of tiny plankton between us.
I am not in his diet, but I would fit in that mouth. Panicked, I suddenly remembered my body and tried to learn how to swim backwards. The rules of the underwater road are: you are much MUCH bigger than me, so yes, I’ll move.
The whale turned again and swam away from me. With very little effort, he traveled fast! I did my best to follow until I was looking at the tail. Realizing that catching up meant getting closer to the force propelling the whale forward, I stopped swimming.
Being a water man and a strong swimmer, Tim was able to spend more time with the gentle giant side by side. Loosing the first whale was no disappointment, for of course, there were plenty more to connect with.
We met a pair, swimming together and a much older, larger whale with a company of fish escorts beneath his body. He seemed to be the omniscient old teacher, traveling with a school of inspired students. Whale Sharks can live to be over 100 years old, but when this big guy looked at me, what was in his eye seemed older than time. His relaxed gaze was unlike any: without the wildness of an animal stare, without the emotion of a human stare, it was an eye full of the immensity of simply being. Like looking into the eyes of the ocean itself.
In knowing me, you know I took photos, and yet, I have no images to illustrate this story. Due to a faulty memory card, all my pictures have been erased. A humble reminder that the experience is all I can ever take with me. One I am so grateful to have been fully present for. And believe me, the eye of the ocean itself with all its timeless wisdom does not fit into a photograph; it barely fits into this sentence, wider than my mind’s understanding and more alive than words.
