The sky above me moves in thick, gelatinous ripples, distorting the sunlight until it filters down to me in a rain of shattered diamonds. Even at this shallow depth, the world above takes on an alien appearance, the blue sky and green ocean blending together and eventually fading into the darkness of the sea floor. I take a deep breathe of the cool air contained within my tank, the regulator emitting a furious stream of bubbles as I exhale. Several of the fish nearby dart away at the imposing, bubble blowing presence I create, but the remainder of the hundreds of fish in the tightly packed school continue to swirl around me as though I’m nothing more than another one of the jetty’s barnacle covered pylons.
The water’s temperature drops as I slip into the shadows of the jetty. At this time of year on Western Australia’s coast line, the water wasn’t that warm to begin with. As more schools of fish zoom by me, their scales flashing like tiny underwater disco balls, I let my eyes feast on my new surroundings. The seabed is littered with starfish gently tumbling along to an undisclosed location, skittish crabs hurrying in and out of the tiny holes they call home, endless arms of seaweed swaying lazily in the current and, standing out from it all - a chair.
I settle on my knees, careful not to let my fins disturb any creatures hiding nearby and stare at this most unusual sight of a piece of furniture nestled in the sand before me.
It’s not an uncommon type of chair by any means. Just a regular fold up, blue and white striped camping chair, probably dropped over the side of the jetty by a bleary eyed fisherman, left to rust beneath the waves.
It had landed perfectly upright, just on the edge of the jetty’s shelter as to provide any soul who took the time to rest their water-logged body a beautifully dappled shadow to bathe their face in.
The fish ignore this intruder as easily as they ignore me, regarding it as simply something that was neither predator nor prey and therefore irrelevant in their undersea lives.
The chair beckons me to rest a while, to remove my cumbersome tank and buoyancy vest, to throw my regulator to the sharks and take a refreshing breathe of salt water, to commit myself to a life undersea.
I force my eyes to look elsewhere, to resist the peculiar charms of the chair-beneath-the-waves. The fisherman’s chair so carelessly abandoned.
I kick my way back along the jetty toward the shore, leaving the chair for the weary mermaids and lazy seals that may pass this way.
As I pull my heavy form up onto the shore and look back out across the shore, watching today’s fishermen throw out their lines, oblivious to the world their baited hooks are sinking into I begin to miss my chair. My future life beneath the sea waits for me still.
