I TRIED TO LEAVE MY SADNESS IN SILFRA

Mother Earth’s crust has cracked, and now she is a famous tourist spot. Her water is two degrees
Celsius. She is broken and cold. I want to check my phone. I am going to snorkel in between the
Eurasian and North American tectonic plates. I struggle to pull my drysuit hood on my head. The
guide tells me I have spaghetti arms. How will you swim? Can you make it across with those
arms? He dresses me while the other tourists watch. I feel like a little girl that can’t tie her shoes.
He promises to show us where the tectonic plates split. He says we might see Dwarf Char, but
it’s rare. He wades in without flinching and demonstrates how to roll on our backs to signal for
help. Please don’t drown. The guide blows his whistle for us to file in. I cannot feel a thing in
this suit, so I dunk my head. The cold deafens me, shocks the tips of my ears. This is exactly
what I wanted. What if I never come up? I don’t want to kill myself, but I don’t want to live.
What’s the word for that? The last time my ex-boyfriend and I spoke he said he didn’t love me
anymore. I tried for two years. His eyes were lifeless. His walls eggshell blue. I remember
helping him choose the color. A light blue to inspire. And what if I lived here? Could I hide my
shame between the rocks? Every year the plates drift about two centimeters. My home would
always let more water seep in. With the snorkeling gear, I could do it. Don’t just float along! The
guide yells. Kick, swim, explore! But I don’t know how to do anything that involves moving
forward. I don’t know how to encourage myself to start to let go. The drysuit is heavy and so is
my chest. He said I always wanted comfort. I want to ask him what was wrong with that part of
me. Also, where do you put your sadness when you go to sleep? Have you been sleeping? Have
you considered taking a swim? Have you looked at your reflection in clear water? Water gets in
the snorkel and into my throat. I aspirate. The guide swims over to help me. Strong exhales!
Push the water out. My ears are numb, but they still work. I fix my mouthpiece and struggle to
breathe, but I breathe. My instincts for survival are still here. From the corner of my goggles, I
see a small fish with an orange undertone bouncing off the rocks. A char! A char! A tourist
chants. Is it trying to enter its home? Tourists stick out their GoPros and swim toward the small
cavern. What a privilege to be so absorbed in a fish. What a privilege to be the one who swims
away. I stay behind because that’s what I always do. I watch the fish find its entry point. If nature
finds a way, then so must I. I can’t feel my cheeks, but the only way out is through. I kick my
feet. I grab the rocks. I drag myself forward. My legs burn. My shoulders ache. My eyelashes are
frozen. My heart is narrow, like the pain is seeping through a very small hole. I want to open the
crack, let the pain pour out, let it all pour out, to be like Silfra—a small fissure that opens and
opens and leads to a lagoon. Love given is never wasted, love given is never wasted, love given
is never wasted, I chant in my mind. When I come up for air at the other side of the lagoon, I
almost believe it. The guide pulls me out of the water. He says this is the end of our journey and
mocks my chattering teeth. He tells me Silfra is a myth. The continental edges are actually
several hundred yards apart.