The sea, under, afterwards.

My back is burnt, hair knotty, and memory submerged in water. Today was one spent snorkelling.

Doting father arranged a trip to the distant island sanctuary of Palau, and so it was. A smooth scenic bus trip. A ferry trip sullied by the poor old Japanese, themselves victimised by the merciless topsy-turvy of the sea. And us, by the thick-set windows, besieged by the stench of the Japanese's sick. The room was a hospital ward.

Debarked onto a massive pontoon, sturdy as land (merciful too, the Japanese thought) . Palau behind, ominously sloped and brimming with jungly mystique. Pristine aqua water between, looking very nectar of the Gods, surface ablaze with shimmering light. Geared up with the gaudy fluoro flippers and headset and snorkel, washed them out to be sure. Then in we went, under, into the domain of pulsating waterlife. First the silence-

Then everything came at once: schools of thimbly fish darting left right left right left right. Below: the slithering barracudas nervy and fleeing and get them away from me. Down: the solemn old fish like a horse's head but finned, a trail of ragtag minions hitching a lift. The bottom: dusky outlines of giant terraced beanbaggy clumps of coral, immutable, warming the ocean floor. This deep and its brooding abyss-like darkness. This deep and everything above a surfeit smear. This deep and I am cocooned.

Hours upon hours upon hours in the water; time enough for fairy-floss clouds to precipitate south and arc nautical north before outrunning eyesight. Eyes gone raw, ears gone numb, muscles fragile sacks of goo. The foghorn toot of the ferry, our cattle-call, aboard with the Japanese. We rode, counterparts in motion with the ocean, bobbing side to side ad infinitum. We thought it inevitable, we braced ourselves valiantly- but it didn't come; no lurch for the the empty plastic bag, no desperate lumber to the toilet with hands clamped over mouth. The Japanese and we had acquired the taste of the sea.

Afterwards, everything landbound seemed so rigid and fumbling and starkly unnatural in motion. This newfound adulation of the sea lingered, consumes me now as I type. It's like I've been possessed, even enlightened. Can you hear the benign rumbling roar of the surf just over the hills? Can you smell the tickly salty flavour of the very air itself? I need to cut this short, to meander down to the beach at street's end, to forget about my towel tucked in my bag further inland. That's what I need to do.

And do it I will.