I have spent most of my life trying to learn how to be on land. My body feels designed for the water, although I know it isn’t, because of all the extra steps I must take in preparation to slip under, and the way it makes me bone-tired-ecstatic when I finally resurface. 

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Take, for example, my day job: I work as an aquarium diver. I spend up to 6 hours underwater per day, usually in 3-4 hour chunks, with a lunch break between. 

In the morning I climb into a 5 millimeter wetsuit and spin my hair into a tight bun at the nape of my neck. I wear a swimsuit and a rashguard underneath, but still end up with marks rubbed into the front of my throat by tight neoprene. Before I can enter the shark tank, I float in a warm plastic tub and plaster any stray strands of hair back from my face with a bit of the tub’s contents (freshwater-mixed-with-just-a-little-bleach, the soak we use to decontaminate our gear between exhibits) so that when I put my mask on, nothing will be in the way of its rubber seal. If the seal is broken water will leak in, make my eyes sting, make it hard to see. And if water gets in, although I can tilt my head back, press the mask to my forehead, and blow the liquid out from beneath my nose, that air will steam up the lens afterward, so it’s best to avoid letting water enter at all. 

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I clip on ankle weights and buckle a bright pink weight belt above my hip bones. They will bruise. I shrug into the rest of my gear. I pull all the straps on my buoyancy control device tight, over my shoulders and across my chest and stomach, like securing a hiking backpack, and lurch to my booted feet. My shoulder blades will bruise too. Altogether, I wear more than 50 extra pounds. On land, this is a struggle to carry, but after an hour or so in the water, I’ll be fighting not to float to the top as I work. The more air I breathe out of my tank, the less there is to hold me down. 

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I kneel on our entry ledge, and scrub my lenses clear with defog solution, which is just baby soap, really. I pour a jug of steaming water into the space between my wetsuit and my rashguard, an extra layer of warmth that burns the skin of my collarbone red. The saltwater will soothe it. I pull on holey gloves, but the holes don’t matter much. I just want to protect my land-creature skin from being nicked on the rocks. It’ll happen anyway, but the salt water soothes those too, although being wet all the time makes it difficult for cuts to heal. 

I press the button on the back of my regulator and listen as a burst of air whooshes free. Assured that my tank is turned on, I bite down on the rubber mouthpiece, which I will chew habitually until it breaks and needs replacing. I breathe in fresh oxygen. A nurse recently told me I had the highest blood-oxygen level she’d seen in a while! I put my face into the water, look both ways for sharks, and launch myself out into the exhibit when the path is clear.

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I will vacuum the sand, scrub fake rocks and corals, and wipe down our acrylic viewing panels. I will use the amount of air in my lungs to control how high I float, much like our main attraction, the sand tiger sharks. Sand tigers are the only shark species known to rise to the surface to gulp air. The air is not pushed into their lungs. Instead they store it in their stomachs, and use it to control their buoyancy. For this reason, unlike other sharks, they can hold still in the water column while they seek prey. But our sharks are always well-fed, so they always keep swimming. In my gear I’m too heavy to actually swim. Instead, I walk on the sand like a particularly clumsy spaceman. Once when our male shark came right at me, I just stepped out of his way, and he went on by politely. 

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At lunchtime, I sit in the employee dining area with wet hair and a cozy fleece jacket, (aquarium-issued). I’m freshly showered. My hair is slick with conditioner. I scarf down every bite of food in my galaxy-print lunchbox (my coworker tells me her son has the same one, which makes sense, since I bought it at Target during their back-to-school sale) and then drink a cup of warm milky tea, made with Lipton, brown sugar packets, and creamer, all provided by management. Then I take out my journal and scribble down a few thoughts. I have a lot of time for thinking, underwater where all I can hear is bubbles, and the occasional thump created by our black drum fish. 

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In the afternoon, I will dive again, or maybe stay topside and run safety coordination. If I dive, I’ll take a second post-dive shower. Before I leave, I always break down my equipment. Decontaminate it, reshelf it, refill the air tank I’ve breathed empty. I’ve slathered the contents of our communal coconut oil all over my face and neck and hands, but my skin still feels dry. My fingers are pruny and my taste buds are grated down by salt. I am exhausted and elated. I can appreciate being on land after having had my day underwater. 

I will go home and nap and eat a snack, maybe write a poem. I am a writer and an aquarium diver. I didn’t realize how well these jobs would suit. All this to say that, whether it be in words or in water, I spend most of my days happy, trying not to drown.