On a fringes of a Gulf Stream, off a easterly seashore of Florida, a sea
is really low and really blue. we reason parsimonious to a vituperation on a fly rug of
the dive vessel as it rolls neatly from side to side, and demeanour down into
water that’s a thicker, denser tone than I’ve ever seen.
For a impulse we suppose that if we leaned over a side and dipped my palm in
the water, it would come out coated in blue, like paint. Golden fragments
of seaweed boyant by, escapees, perhaps, from a Sargasso Sea’s swirling
gyre in a Atlantic Ocean. we would be calm to stay on deck, watching
the sea’s colors go by, though there are deeper things for me to see. we pull
on my dive rigging and burst in. Beneath a waterline, as we flog downward, the
colors remove their power and solemnly blur away.
Sitting on a sandy seabed during 100 feet is a shipwreck. It’s a tanker that
was seized in 1989 after U.S. etiquette found it pressed with marijuana, and
was afterwards deliberately scuttled and sunk to emanate a new underwater habitat.
I aim for a rug that’s turn hairy with a halo of seaweeds, corals and
other soothing creatures, and seat down behind a vituperation during a behind of the
ship in a still mark divided from a current.
