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Broken down fisherman’s dock

As I sit across from this abandoned and broken down fisherman’s dock, looking out across the rippling sea of the Caribbean ocean, the long clouds billowing across an endless horizon, all the fish swimming in the immensity of it, the ebb and flow of waves pulsing in silent undulations, like millions of bums in a massive orgy along the surface, beneath a light wind breezing its way to the shore to blow through my hair and cool my skin beneath a malignant sun.

I think of the days gone past below this liquid horizon, in a cool flowing element that surrounds my skin and embraces me, the man in the sea.  Sixty percent of me is water, I am at home, womb like, while I fill my lungs with air and breathe from a scuba pack upon my back.  My bubbles mushroom to the surface like I am the fountain in a carbonated drink.  The fish scatter away from the onslaught of frothing air, like summer guests around a pool watching as a young kid launches from a diving board and preps for an all soaking can opener, mid air.  (I was that kid) “Don’t get me wet” they flee. So too do bubbles irritate the fish I imagine, as they wander along the periphery of an effervescent pillar, towering in a salty sea, above my second stage.  My exhaled and carbonated air has made its final migration to the surface to meld with the molecules in the first atmosphere above the surface of the swell and surf.

Although it was only yesterday that I passed on the addiction, an STD I call a scuba trained diver. I have procreated again and this time they are dolphin divas, a level of their own. Freshly certified to explore the depths of the open water.

I am lost in revery as my surface interval is extending and my blood is no longer saturated with nitrogen.  I am now a common human, with blood flowing through my veins at the normal surface gradient. Dry like a petrified fish on a beach from a tide that has gone out and will some day soon return.

How many more divers will I meet? How many more will I get to train and certify?  Will I see the lone dolphin again? He is ostracized from a pod now far away? Like me.

I have another month living across from this cracked concrete pier that one day hosted countless fisherman coming to get tanks at sunrise, as they yelled out “Bald Head” beneath my bedroom, for my boss man and friend Kenneth Samuel, whom I worked for twenty one years ago and have now returned to the apartment above his Dive Center. I am here again teaching diving below the sea.

I think of all my divers I have shared this liquid element with. The ones I have trained, those that are now certified by my guidance.

The sunny days and short sun showers are ebbing and constantly closing with almost always clear skies that frame the stars above the Kittian night.

How long will my surface interval last when I return to my fathom five fishing?  Will I stay dry?  Will I still dive?  Hell yeah! I can’t wait for the refreshing fresh water chill that makes me so cool and warms my heart.  I need to check on my fish!

I have only lost the ability to recreate divers in my own back yard, like a eunuch, but short lived. The balls will grow back and my swimmers will blow bubbles below the northern lakes, like the dolphin divas and mermen that need to be born in the fresh water sea, we call Huron.

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