life: February 2008 Archives

Here I am, standing in my trunks on the side of this swimming pool which is no larger than a dozen of feet in diameter. The warm water bubbling at the surface could lead to believe that this is a Jacuzzi of some sort. But it is not. I am approaching the edge and stare hypnotically at the water which I cannot see the bottom. What looks like a tiny pool is actually an impressive tube of water, which disappears in the deepness, like an infinite column of blue fizzy liquid. This is a proper scuba diving training pool, with 15 meters of depth, the equivalent of a 5-storey building. A few minutes before my first dive, a strange feeling of vertigo takes me…

I have been thinking about this moment for the past few days with a mix of excitement and apprehension… And the closer I got to the crucial moment, the more my anxiety grew and I tried to think of an excuse that would postpone the experience. Actually, I do have a little cold these days and diving with a cold is against safety rules. But my instructor accurately assessed that this pretended cold was only as important as a couple of sneezes a day and replied wisely that I’ll be alright… Nice try… However, I’m sorry to insist but I forgot my diving license today, and it is mandatory to have it on you for any dive… you know, in case of accident for the insurance and so forth… I was hoping for a little bollocking followed by something along the lines of ‘sorry sir, the rules are the rules. I’ll let you dive next time when you have all your documentation with you, but we gonna have to cancel your dive today’. Instead, my instructor gave me a sympathetic glance. He went to his office, looked up on the internet and checked on the official website that I indeed had a licence. Then he came back to me and ‘exceptionally’ accepted that I dive without my licence. Damn it! I ran out of ideas, and accepted the fact that today was going to be the day.

I am now all equipped in my diving outfit, which makes me look like some futuristic frog - typical for a Frenchman! Before getting into the water, Christian, my instructor, reminds me the basics: ‘Remember to breath normally, to balance the pressure in your ears while going down, not to do so while going up, to exhale when you go up, to deflate your jacket as you go up'... It seems to me that there are a million things to remember and I am far too busy being nervous to be able to do so…

He jumps… And then I jump…

Wow! I love this weightlessness sensation in the water. After a few seconds at the surface, I deflate my jacket, which makes me go down in the deepness instantaneously. I feel like an astronaut. Christian and I meet at 5 meters of depth where we settle for a while, checking that everything is okay. He asks me to perform a couple of stupid exercises like taking my nozzle off or undoing my goggles and put them back on again… I perform them. No problem. I am actually much more relaxed now. The fact that we need to communicate with our hands is good fun too. From those signs, I imagine us talking like little Indians. You looking. Me going down. You following. If you problem, you telling me. Roger? Roger.

We hover around in the water and decide to carry on our descent along the vertical rope. I am really surprised by how everything is slow and blue and peaceful down here. And the deeper we get, the easier it becomes to go down. Within a few minutes, we are at the very bottom of the pool where we settle and ask each other again if everything is all right. I am happy to be here. Christian makes an applauding mime, which is no proper scuba language sign, but I understand he congratulates me for having made it. I am very proud.

We remain at 15 meters of depth for about quarter of an hour, performing various exercises, before we start moving back up again. I am very concentrated on all the safety measures during that critical phase of the dive. Not that any of it is difficult, but the fact that most incidents turn into major traumas is a good motivator to do them all properly.

As I come out of the water, I am very much aware of my weight and of the surrounding noise. It takes me a while to actually want to talk. Undoing my equipment requires a lot of effort after thirty odd minutes of lightness. Christian debriefs me on the time spent under water. Apart from a couple a minor points, he is fairly positive about this first experience.

I have a big smile on my face. I am pleased that I managed to overcome my anxiety and made this happen without any trouble. Already, I cannot wait for my next dive to occur! The real thing this time, into the wild blue sea. Le Grand Bleu…

Clearly I didn't have much to say about the ferry crossing from Barcelona but Mallorca is without a doubt a beautiful place to find yourself.

Day 3 - 5th May

The sun rose into a clear sky over the beautiful mallorcean skyline of rugged mountains and my mood continued to brighten. The people of Palma were friendly and helpful, indulging my faltering spanish (even though mallorceans speak catalan most assuredly). Since I was last here it's clear that a lot of work has been done to improve the infrastructure of the island. From the taxi driver who drove me from the port to town to the ticket clerk they were all proud of their new subterranean train station, and rightly so. It's an austere minimalist place but relaxing to be in and easy to navigate. Also, I was able to buy a ticket to Sa Pablo, on the other side of the island near Puerto de Pollenca, for less than half the price of reserving my ticket on the train from Perpignan to Barcelona. Mum, who was planning to pick me up from Sa Pablo, was held up finishing off some work so I ended up getting the bus instead - getting the hang this malarky. Everything is easier when the sun is shining.

I met Mum at a cafe where she was having a coffee with one of her ex-pat friends and she proceeded to embarrass and fuss over me. Some things will never change but seeing mum always awakens uncomfortable feelings and memories. So much has gone wrong with our family over the years.

There was a massive thunder storm in the afternoon that put the keibosch on any grand plans I had for sitting on the beach. It was a cracking storm though, with the sound vying with the visuals for top marks in texture and quality; deep and long rumbling booms contesting with sharp crackling forks of lightning goring the ground.

I recently heard this song by Cy Coleman and it reminded me why I love dancing.  There aren’t many places where you can go these days, meet thirty strangers and come away feeling somehow more alive, more present and that you have had another wonderful night.   You go to bed with aching feet and wake up feeling refreshed becuase you've slept the whole night through.  There is no terrible hangover as you have drunk only water all evening. 

It doesn’t really matter the dance, whatever dance evening I go to, I tend to love it.  I love picking up the rhythm in the music: the fast pulse of a Latino beat; the slow curvaceous sounds of a crooner; I love spinning around, skirt twirling, catching a hand before being spun again; hundreds of pairs of feet moving in time.  You don’t know the person you’re dancing with, you might not say anything but a ‘Yes’ and a ‘Thank you’ all evening but it doesn’t matter, indeed verbal conversations sometimes lessen the experience, because you have conversations through dance.  You swiftly get to know who you naturally dance well with; who is energetic and loves to move quickly; who likes the slow dances and will move elegantly and with confidence and who likes to laugh, sing along and enjoy the music.  After a few weeks of dancing regularly, you feel very comfortable in the dance hall as you have danced with or watched most people there.  I also think that human touch is really important and certainly in London, one can too easily go through the whole day with the only human physical contact being a shove on the tube or a business hand shake.

There are of course, as in any society, your share of idiots: the man who is too sensual for comfort (everyone will have different limits on this); the jokester who extends a hand for you to grab and then whisks it away like he’s played a hilarious joke, or the man who’d rather focus on his own balletic gestures than admit he’s dancing in a pair. I am sure there would be a similar list of undesirable qualities in female partners, but someone will have to inform me of these.  But these are the minority, I always come away and feel I have met a wide range of society and a lot of interesting people away from my normal circle of colleagues and friends.

British men all too often seem to have this fear of dancing; they need to be utterly paralytic and surrounded by similarly drunken mates to venture a foot onto the dance floor.  They scoff and smirk at the man who likes dancing while they down another pint of beer.  It’s a shame.  Is this a recent phenomenon?  Dancing seemed more part of the culture in British society certainly in the older generations who seem to know how to do the waltz, the foxtrot and a variety of other dances.  I think an important social interaction has been lost.  Now, we pay money to go into impersonal gyms and sweat in silence with i-pods and television screens as our company, twelve hours indoors working, now in your leisure hour, go indoors again.  There can be a danger of loneliness, and dare I say it, isolation, in our society that dancing helps to combat.

Some might complain this kind of dancing is incredibly sexist or that they don’t like having to follow a set routine or pattern, they are too individual.  Rubbish!  If you get any good, there is tremendous freedom in dance, it’s only for those of us learning the ropes that it’s terribly structured and that helps give you some security when dancing with someone you don’t know.  Sexist, well yes it is I guess; the man leads and the woman follows but to be honest, I don’t give a damn! I like losing myself in the music and not having to worry about what move I should do next.  I have to concentrate to make sure I am following and there is still freedom in the movements. 

Have I persuaded you to get on the dance floor?  If I have, have a look on the web at your nearest Ceroc venue or salsa dance night.  There are usually beginners and intermediate classes followed by ‘freestyle’, you can just go for a one off try, it's usually about eight pounds but that's all you spend.   As Cy Coleman and Dorothy Fields wrote,

‘And The Rhythm Of Life is a powerful beat,
Puts a tingle in your fingers and a tingle in your feet,
Rhythm in your bedroom,
Rhythm in the street,
Yes, The Rhythm Of Life is a powerful beat’