How it Feels to Be the Earth

I think I know what the earth feels like, floating around weightless far away from anything else except of course its attendant moon always hovering around, never close enough to be interesting but always annoyingly there. I found this out one day when I was SCUBA diving along a cliff near Halifax, Nova Scotia.

We were on a noisy little trawler, 3 or 4 of us. There was much fuss and lungeing around as we struggled into our wetsuits on the tiny deck and sorted out our gear, checked our tanks and regulators, looked for lost straps and weights and sample bags, tripping over each other and interrupting, shouting questions and orders, and finally got our last minute instructions. Then one by one we flopped off the back of the boat into the water. Then there was the shock of the cold water invading the suit, the final adjustment of the face mask, and the splutter of clearing the mouthpiece of water. A few quick hissing gulps of bottled air to make sure everything was working and then with a flip and swirl I made the transition to the parallel universe under the meniscus.

Everything changes when you step through the looking glass. It is not that sound is gone, but rather that the emphasis is different. The clamor of the trawler’s engine is a distant thrum here, while the flick-flick-flick of the propellors cutting the water is distinct. The sloshing of waves against the hull is reduced to a rustle, while the sound of the rising bubbles is nearly deafening. And the barely-noticed background sounds of gulls and distant voices is replaced by clicks and squeaks of the creatures of this new realm.

I swam after our leader dragging my sample bag after me like a reluctant puppy. The sunlight rippled and dappled on the sand and stones and seaweed, occasionally igniting a cunner that had come to see what was happening. It was a good day. We were quickly done with what we needed to do, and still had a half hour of air left. We quickly dumped all the samples and pencils and other scientific clap-trap into the boat and then as quickly dispersed to follow our various fancies and interests.

I headed straight seaward toward the 50-foot dropoff just beyond our work site. I paddled along about an arm’s length above the flat seabed, with a small entourage of cunners, ever hopeful that I would break open a sea urchin for them, which I did once. Then suddenly the bottom vanished and I was suspended over the abyss, alone except for my attending cunners. I executed a slow roll and marveled that there was nothing visible anywhere except the rippling sun. I rolled over on my back and watched my bubbles fall into it for a while.

That is when I realized that this must be what the earth feels like, floating weightless somewhere between the sun and the darkness, watching the universe slowly expand, and listening to the click and snap of distant cosmic events, with its single cunner circling circling, hoping that its companion will relent one day and offer it some little celestial snack.