by Lucy Dickens
I look away from the camera for a moment, my thoughts drifting out to sea.
‘Maybe phoney is a harsh word, but I think I’m only a wannabe adventurer. And that would be fine, except, have I been kidding myself? Thinking that reading the magazines and books while never taking any real risks or following through on my ambitions is enough to call myself an adventurer? I’ve never swam in the sea. I’ve paddled and I’ve been in boats but I’ve never actually lifted my feet off the sand within the ocean. I’ve never stayed in anywhere that wasn’t a hotel or a holiday home. I’ve never camped outside the UK.
‘You might be thinking, who feels sorry for you? You’re in Japan! I’m not saying this to make you feel sorry for me, or even to belittle the trips and the things I have done that were adventures, but my point is that I talk a big talk and have a big bucket list for someone who rarely strays off the beaten track.
‘It’s hard when you’re in a relationship because you compromise on the type of vacation you take. Plus you’re tired from work and life and would just like a break rather than turn it into a life-changing moment in time. But I’m on my own now, and I have nearly three more weeks in Japan with no real timetable, so I think it’s about time I prove to myself that I’m who I claim to be.’
The sand becomes cool under my legs so I stand and stretch, propping my phone up on my bag, and remove my shorts and T-shirt. ‘Shall we tick one thing off the list now?’
I have swimmies on! Panic not, Ishigaki.
I head into the ocean in case my ikigai is in there having a swim, and I sit down in the shallows, letting the chill water lick around my neck and arms. I glance over at my beach neighbours again and they are both floating on their backs, holding hands, like two serene otters.
I shuffle further into the water. This will definitely need editing down because nobody wants to see me spending ten minutes creeping further away from the shore in slow motion. Although if I’m suddenly swept away by an undercurrent it will make a great final viral video.
Why would I think that right now?
It’s not that I’m scared of the water, it’s more that it’s now become ~a thing~ so it feels like a big deal, although it probably isn’t.
Come on. I know how to swim. I’m already in the water. And look how cute otter-couple look. So I lift my feet behind me, push my arms forward, keep my face out of the water and hold my breath as I kick off, and take my first swim in the ocean.
I stop, and put my feet back down, and stand tall, my torso out of the water and my arms held high. ‘Woooooo!’ I whoop. One small swim for woman, one large swim for adventurerkind.
Even if I don’t do anything other than sleep, eat, roll about on the beach and take tiny swims for the next five days, I know I’ve made the right choice.
I do decide to do a little more than that while I’m here though, and the next day I spend a while compiling ideas for how to spend my island time wisely, but also in a shoot-the-breeze, easy-going way. I settle on a mix of gazing at the views, trying the local chilli oil, checking out a palm grove, walking along Kabira Bay, relaxing on ‘my beach’, and trying something I’ve never made a high priority before, due to the whole swimming-in-the-sea wall I’d built up: snorkelling.
My guesthouse serves up a breakfast of breads, rice, salad and fresh pineapple smoothies and I have a touch of each, filling my belly with these heart-healthy morsels ready for my day ahead of doing very little.
‘Domo arigato,’ I say to my host after I’ve helped wash the dishes and shown her photos on my phone of me in a kimono, which she probably had no interest in seeing but, oh well.
I’m slowing everything down today. No rush, no timetable, no worrying about connecting with the wider world. I start by sitting by my open window again, practising a little meditation as taught to me by the priest at Kiyomizu-dera temple, and then I wander back down to the beach for a mid-morning mini-swim.
My days uncurl along with my body, getting used to the sunshine, getting used to the pace of life. I let my thoughts drift about and I come up with a little trick. Any time I think of Matt, or I worry about something hypothetical, or I let doubt or sadness pay me a visit, I turn from whatever direction I’m facing and I look at the sea. And I imagine those thoughts to be waves, coming to check in on me and then drifting back into the ocean. If they want to stay I let them, I have the time to stew now if that’s what I want to do, but aside from the sadness, which sometimes lingers a little longer to enjoy the pity party, the others tend to slide away again pretty quickly.
On my third day on Ishigaki Island, after I’ve had a cursory check on Instagram to see that, to my surprise, views of my last two IGTV posts have more than doubled (I guess I must be doing something right?) I decide to take the plunge, as it were, and take a stab at this snorkelling lark. It turns out, snorkelling trips take you to a beach and then to a manta ray point off the coast.
Before I leave my guesthouse, I show my host what I’m up to and she scurries off only to return with armfuls of things for me to take, which she keeps piling up on the table. She’s loaning me flippers, which she squeezes my feet into, a mask and a snorkel, a small cool bag that she stuffs with snacks, and a clear plastic box on a lanyard, which I have no idea what it’s for until she nicks my phone, throws it in there and then lobs the whole thing in a bowl of water.
‘Oh, it’s waterproof casing!’ I say. ‘I hope …’
Lastly, she gives me a big tub of waterproof sunscreen to take with me. She’s so great. And off I waddle.
I meet my guide at Kabira Bay, a picturesque beach dotted with tour boats along the turquoise shore. I remember having a poster on my wall at uni – the same poster most people had – which was of a tropical beach with boats on. I expect it was of Thailand, but this vista reminds me of that poster. Hmm. I wonder if uni-me would have ever imagined I’d be somewhere like this in real life. I expect so. I always thought, ‘one day’ … Well, today is ‘one day’, lady!
‘Ohayo gozaimasu,’ I greet the blue-shorted, white T-shirted guide who stands with a clipboard beside a sign that reads ‘Manta Tours Ishigaki’. A few others are loitering around as well, some with all the clobber, like me, and some brandishing nothing but bright red sunburn.
I picked a tour with an English-speaking guide because although it isn’t the most out-there option, let’s face it: this isn’t the time to practise my basic Japanese while submerged in water off the coast surrounded by massive manta rays.
Yuya is a man with a big smile and bare feet. He can’t wait to get us all into the sea and from the moment he’s loading the ten of us onto the minibus to the moment he’s offloading us at Yonehara Beach he’s telling us all about the fish we’ll see, the coral reefs, the island.
‘But this is so important, snorkel team,’ he enthuses. ‘Don’t take anything home with you except smiles and photos. The coral takes thousands of years to grow and it’s their home out there. You wouldn’t like it if a manta ray came to your home and stole your front door? Would you?’
We all shake our heads.
‘And no taking Nemo home, okay? You saw the movie, right? They don’t like it. You will cause a lot of stress for Nemo’s dad.’
We all nod.
‘Let’s go in the water!’ He legs it off down the beach.
Dumbo here had already put one flipper on so I struggle to keep up, lolloping my way across the sand like an idiot, but at least it gave me a little extra time to admire the scenery. Aside from the white sand and sparkling sea (ohayo, ocean!), there are more of Ishigaki’s distinctive hills on all sides, densely packed with green palms and other flora. There are parts of the beach where the palms have snuck right down to overhang the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fishies themselves.
All along the shore, people are walking in and out of the water, those coming out have their snorkels pushed up on their heads and they smile as they push the sea water and snot from their noses, and laugh with their friends, excited about what they’ve s
een.
Well, I don’t have any friends here to point things out to, so I’m going to be content with pointing things out to myself. But I choose to make use of the waterproof case the guesthouse host loaned me, so before I jump in I switch the camera on and clip it all back shut. ‘Fingers crossed,’ I whisper.
I don’t realise at the time but the first fifteen minutes of my video is of my own stomach in extreme close-up, thanks to the lanyard having flipped the case around and so I filmed myself instead of the fish.
While we’re all standing on shore, Yuya asks us if any of us have never been snorkelling before.
I, and two young boys, raise our hands.
‘And you are making your first-ever snorkel on Ishigaki Island? This is fantastic!’ says Yuya. ‘Okay, let’s all go in the water, just a little way, and get used to how the equipment works, yes?’
We wade in to nearly waist-deep water and Yuya asks us to sit down. The sea bed here is soft sand and we’re now sitting with our shoulders above the water, swaying gently with the current.
‘I know some of you are thinking, Yuya, I need to go and see the fish! Let me go! But I am the boss and we will go through the basics altogether. And then you are free to explore but I will help our three new snorkellers a little more. Step one: spit on your mask please.’
I laugh out loud, assuming it’s a joke, but everyone else is dutifully gobbing onto the glass on the inside of their mask and giving it a rub around, like over-enthusiastic aunties cleaning chocolate off the faces of unsuspecting children. Even the two boys, who have as little idea as me as to why we’re doing this, are only too happy to be given permission to spit on their belongings so are copying their parents with glee.
Yuya glances at me but addresses everyone so as not to single me out. ‘The spit helps to stop your mask from fogging up when you are under the water. It’s weird but it works.’
I’m hocking up my third spitball when Yuya adds, ‘That’s probably enough now, so go ahead and rinse your mask a little in the water, also splash a little water on your face to cool it down because the hotter the face the more danger of fogging.’ At this point he darts his eyes to the chap with the lobster sunburn like he has no hope. ‘Now put the mask on your face, like this, and tighten the straps … like this.’
The straps snag at my hair and the rubber mask suctions at my face and squashes my nose. I stare through the glass at Yuya and back up at the beach and feel a fizzle of excitement. I am here. I’m about to snorkel in the sea.
‘Now this is your snorkel,’ Yuya says, holding up the tube. ‘This goes in your mouth, in case anyone is not sure. You put the end with the rubber mouthpiece in your mouth, not the end with the orange stripe because that end is what I use to check where you are when you are floating about.’
I suspect there’s more to it than he’s letting on, but nevertheless I make a note: do not stick snorkel into your mouth the wrong way round. Do not stick your snorkel into mouth the wrong way around.
‘With these snorkels you will breathe underwater but I would not suggest submerging them completely unless you take a pause of breath. If you get a splash of water in this type of snorkel you can let out a sharp breath, like if you are doing a breathalyser, and the water will shoot out, but you don’t want to breathe in with the whole thing underwater otherwise you will be having a second breakfast of seawater and fish.’
With that, Yuya gives a little direction about where to swim for those who are confident to get the ball rolling. I stay behind, willing some courage to find its way out of me to dunk my head and try breathing through this weird plastic tube.
I kneel in the water, the sun warming my shoulders with encouragement, the water still swaying me from side to side. I stare downwards through my glass box, and grip the mouthpiece with my teeth, my lips stretched over the outside. I take a breath, hold it, and plunge my face into the sea.
Seconds later, I pull my head back out and only then open my eyes, which rather defeats the point, I guess. I pull the snorkel out of my mouth, my lips tingling with salt, and I realise I didn’t try breathing either. Yuya raises his eyebrows at me but says, ‘There is no rush, the fish do not have meetings to go to.’
As a trickle of water creeps down from my hairline and tries to get into my mask, a thought concurrently trickles past, that same old song of I wish Matt were here to try this with me. I can picture exactly what would have happened. He would have sensed my fear and found my hand under the surface of the sea and held it as we dunked our heads together. I look up at the horizon and feel the current wash through me, and I tell myself, Totally fine to feel like that, Charlotte, but he isn’t here so get your flippin’ face in that water. And open your eyes. For crying out loud.
I’ve got a point. I take another deep breath, stuff the snorkel back in my mouth, squeeze my eyes shut and plunge my face back in. This time I open my eyes under the surface and – wow.
I’m only looking at my own legs and some sand, granted, but this is incredible. I can see Under The Water. Way better than I could if I just opened my eyes under there; this feels like a porthole into a whole other world. I’ve been staring down for a while so the time has come to try this breathing lark, I guess.
Whoa, here it comes. I very very slowly exhale the breath I was holding. That went well, now time to breathe in. My lips are cold and stingy in the waves, my teeth chomped around the rubber, and I try and keep everything super still as I breathe in … and it works!
I mean, of course it did, there are literally fifty other people on the beach right now doing this exact thing, but it still feels weird to have your mouth underwater but still be able to breathe. I feel like Ariel, or one of those escaped convicts from an old movie who hides in a lake with just a straw poking up so they can get air.
A few more goes at this and I’m ready to see more than just my own legs, so with a thumbs up from Yuya, I very carefully swim towards the others, my face under water, the snorkel sticking out.
Let’s say ‘swim’ in this instance in the loosest possible term, because I’m more gliding with the tiniest movement possible, paranoid about kicking up any water that might jump into my snorkel and drown me. As my view changes from pale sand to the beginnings of craggy beige coral, my first fish whizzes by: a tiny blue fella who takes one look at me and darts in the opposite direction.
‘MMMMM!’ I sound into my snorkel, pointing at where the fish was and turning my head from side to side to see if any other snorkellers are around for me to show them what I saw. This action, unsurprisingly, causes my snorkel to scoop out a lungful of sea water, a little of which trickles into my mouth, and next thing I know I’m doggy-paddling back to the shallower part of the beach, coughing and spluttering, my mask fogged up like I’m on stage at an old Top of the Pops taping. I sit down in the sand and catch my breath. That was BRILLIANT.
Wiping off a trail of snot and gobbing into my mask again (maybe it’s not such a bad thing this isn’t happening on my honeymoon, after all) I head back in.
This time, I don’t bother trying to alert anyone else to the fish I see, instead I just ‘MMMMM!’ and point for my own benefit. I could spend every hour of the rest of this whole trip doing this. I could travel to every ocean and never do any other activity ever and just float about being part of their world. I wonder if Adventure Awaits would like a snorkelling correspondent on their books.
But after a while someone taps me on the leg and I look up to see that Yuya is waving for us all to come in.
‘Did you see the fish the colour of rainbows?’ I ask one of the little boys who I’ve fallen into step next to as we reach the shallower water and push our legs to reach the shore.
‘Those are called parrot fish,’ he tells me in a loud, happy voice. ‘They poop sand and they save coral because they eat the algae off it. They spend all day eating.’
‘That’s a nice life,’ I reply.
‘They’re my favourite.’
I agree. ‘Mine too.’
&
nbsp; Up on the beach, Yuya is handing out chocolate bars, and I realise I’m famished. So is everyone else by the looks of it, because we all sit facing the sea, sand in our bottoms, and chomp down on our choccie.
‘How did you like it?’ Yuya asks, taking a seat next to me and handing me a bottle of acai berry juice.
‘I liked that …’ How do I put this into words? ‘I liked that so much that for every minute I was out there it felt like I was cancelling out an hour of anything bad. Can we go back in?’
‘Yes,’ he says, but reaches out to stop me as I stand. ‘But not here.’
A short drive back on the bus, at which point I remember to stop filming on my phone (oops, that would take some editing this evening before I run completely out of storage), and Yuya files us all onto a little boat for a trip out to Manta City!
I know this sounds like a shopping mall, but it’s actually an area with a really high concentration of manta rays off the northern coast of Ishigaki Island. Yuya warns us that it’s not quite prime manta-viewing season yet, but the warm weather has brought a few in early, so we might get lucky and, if not, it’s another place to see fish.
