shark ... zooxanthellae ... & ear juice

As I descended, the pressure in my ears worsened. I pinched my nose shut, keeping my vision transfixed on a black-tip shark, which was moving with the current. After a moment, I forced my breath through my nostrils. There was a loud pop. I felt better but paused to wonder if my left ear drum was supposed to pop the way it did.

Was it?

I looked around. My classmates swarmed me, fins akimbo. Like me, they were alternating between dropping and equalizing. They seemed perfectly fine. In that moment, so was I.

I looked back at the shark, secretly hoping a bigger one would come along.

***

By the time we had finished out dive, it was lunchtime. Naturally, my classmates had turned their noses up at the packed lunches our teachers had prepared. We all went to a private school. I didn’t mind biscuits and egg sandwiches. Plus, I had already ran out of South African rand. In any case, my classmates had gone to the restaurant near the dive spot. It was a two-story hut that was impossible to find on Google Maps. Its upstairs patio was shaded by towering palms. That’s where we sat. My classmate, Mark, was tucking into a dagwood sandwich.

In addition to three dozen high school students, the restaurant was being terrorized by its regulars – mongooses. They had black and white stripes and more personality, I wagered, than any other living creature. Two of them were scrapping over a bit of tinfoil. A third came barreling in, snarling like a marble trapped in a vacuum cleaner. Instead of braking, it smashed its face into the fencing around the restaurant. It shook itself down, nipped at the tinfoil, then ran off with it. Its family members followed suit.

I would’ve laughed and pointed it out. Only, I felt sick. I looked down at my plate. I had barely touched my egg sandwich or biscuits.

Funny. I usually have a formidable appetite.

***

The dive center consisted of one main building, which was made of brick and mortar and had a crinkled metal roof. When it rained, which it seldom did, every drop could be heard. During the daytime, it relied on natural sunlight. At night, the fluorescent tube lights came on and insects would attack them with dogged determination. I was glad that they could take their grievances out on lights and not me. The building housed a dozen picnic tables, each boasting sloppy coats of cobalt blue. My classmates were feasting on dinner and chatting loudly, but I sat by myself, facing the northern wall.

I was, once again, transfixed on a shark. This time, it wasn’t real. It was illustrated. It was curled up, in a C-shape, on a Smithsonian-esque poster. Surrounding it were more sharks, dispersed in a way that was harmonious and uniform. The name (both scientific and conventional) of each shark was printed underneath.

I ought to line up for dinner, I thought. But, when I turned my head, it was apparent my condition had worsened. Nausea swept over me. I closed my eyes. I felt like that mongoose – the one that had smashed its face into the fence. Only, I couldn’t shake off the impact. I groaned, feeling something in my ear… twinge? Throb? No… it was worse than that. It was a bloating sensation. It was as if someone had stuffed a water balloon into my ear canal and had succeeded.

“Molly,” said a familiar voice. “What’s wrong?”

There was something hot and sticky on my cheeks.

Tears.

I opened my eyes, suddenly face-to-face my high school science teacher, Mr. Cultrera. We had a nickname for him - Chef. His nickname was Chef because he once mentioned he might audition for Hell's Kitchen.

“I don’t feel so good, Chef.” I explained. “I can’t hear anything out of my left ear.”

Mr. Cultrera patted my shoulder and told me he would get David, the doctor we had hired to tend to our ailments. We connected with him in Heathrow. His accent was incredibly posh. Within five minutes, he was sticking an otoscope in my ear.

“You’ve perforated your ear drum,” he told me. “In fact, the corner has torn off.”

I stared at him. Meaning what?

“Did you notice any popping during your dive?”

I nodded.

“Yeah. That will do it.”

David gave me a cocktail of pills – the only thing that would make sleep attainable. As I downed them, he explained that diving was no longer possible.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What about my PADI certification?”

David sighed. “I’m sorry.” David thought for a moment. “I was going to suggest snorkeling, but I think it's best if you don’t submerge it at all."

I was crushed.

All my classmates would get their Open Water certificate, and I wouldn’t. Normally, I would’ve sulked all night about it, but the pill cocktail did its job. I was in my tent, drifting off to sleep, when my classmate, Kaitlyn, unfastened the entrance.

“Molly!” she said. “Are you awake?”

“Barely,” I mumbled. “What is it?”

“They want you to make a coral reef. In the main building.”

How odd, I thought. The lesson that day was all about coral reefs. The information was still fresh in my head, so I had no choice but to employ it.

“But Kaitlyn. Coral reefs takes hundreds or thousands or tens of thousands of years to grow. That’s impossible.”

Kaitlyn laughed. “I mean with paint, Molly.”

Her voice was backed up with Mr. Cultrera's. “There’s some paint in the shed you can use.”

I turned my nose into my pillow, my mind plunging into darkness. Is everyone out of their fucking mind? They were both at the lesson! They should know this. Hell, Mr. Cultrera is a science teacher. “Coral needs zooxanthellae to grow,” I grumbled.

That was the last thing I said. Then, I was a goner.

***

               I ate breakfast alone the next morning, for my classmates had already gone to the beach. I had a bowl of corn flakes but not before a ramrodded a second cocktail of pills down my throat. It was a lonely, desperate feeling - sitting by myself in the main building. But it wouldn’t last, for Freedom entered. He was a local and our security guard. When I got up in the middle of the night to pee, the whites of his eyes were barely visible in the darkness. Despite being nocturnal, he never seemed to grow tired or weary.

“Are you Molly?” he asked me.

Freedom led me around the side of the building where Rafika, the marine biologist, was waiting. She was in her early twenties, a jet-setter, and a confidence-oozer. I liked her. She and Freedom led me into a shed. Indeed, it was full of paint.

The primary colours: red, yellow, and blue. There was some white, black, and green as well. There were two brushes - a thick one and a more detailed one.

They explained that they have always wanted a mural on the eastern wall of the main building. When Mr. Cultrera mentioned that I specialized in fine arts, they figured I could redeem my trip.

I agreed.

In fact, the opportunity enthralled me. I spent the next two hours studying the Smithsonian-esque posters and deciding on which coral and fish to include in my design.

Of course, the focal point had to be a shark.

***

By dinnertime, I had already mapped out my design with white paint. It was easy to paint with zero eyes on me. But now my classmates had reappeared and there was nowhere to hide. My soul was on the eastern wall for everyone to see. If I’m being honest, I was already the outsider of the group – eardrum perforated or not. Throughout my time at Appleby College, I never truly fit in. I was excluded from parties and ridiculed for having acne. I was always on the outside looking in. In that moment, I felt as if I were wearing something silly – like a spacesuit or clown shoes. Each tiny glance or twitching smile from one of my classmates resulted in another knot in my stomach. I stopped by a Smithsonian-esque poster, considering the way stylophora pistillata catches the light. My hands were trembling, so I must’ve caught the attention of Mr. McFarlane, my Scottish chemistry teacher. He was on the brink of retirement, which meant his speech was refreshingly candid. He placed a hand on the poster, forcing me to look up.

“You’re shaking, Molly.”

“I’m really nervous,” I explained.

“What’s wrong?”

My eyes darting around the room. “Everyone can see what I’m doing.”

Mr. McFarlane raised a finger, prompting me to listen closely. “Don’t pay attention to anyone else,” he said. For a moment, I had tunnel vision. It was as if the Holy Spirit needed me to listen to what he was about to say:

Do the thing you were made to do.

***

And so, my classmates got Open Water certified.

As for me, I worked on my mural.

I was on the outside looking in. But my insides were coming out – figuratively and literally. It was all over that eastern wall in broad, rough strokes. It was pooling in my ear canal. When I tilted my head, ear juice came out.

Ear juice.

If you ever visit the KwaZulu Natal region in South Africa, stop by the Sodwana Bay Lodge SCUBA Centre. There’s a chance my mural is still there.