Blue Spaces

So come on, come on, I’m ready now
Go get your things out, honey, let’s get ready to roll
Oh, I can feel a wave coming over me
I’ve been waiting for this day too long just to let it all go

Boy & Bear. Southern Sun.

Never had I seen blue contain this many colours.

Beneath me, blues, greens, browns, and oranges formed the foundation, with spots of bright colour here and there—the vibrant green of fleshy lettuce coral, the acid yellow of a fish swimming by, the orange and pinks spotted over brown boulders randomly. The deep purple of the giant clams opening up beneath me—plump lips speaking to me without making a sound. Electric blue fish with yellow and black stripes, silver waves of schools of fish swimming by. The colours of a painter’s palette generously splashed beneath me, on rocks and boulders and animals alike.

The shapes of the coral were amazing—branches and plates, mushrooms and pumpkin-like domes that reminded me of Kusama’s dot art floating in front of my eyes. A city of miniature castles and labyrinths, of claws and tentacles, soft coral hairs swaying in the water’s breeze. The scene beneath me was like a Where’s Waldo book page—my body slowing, my eyes scanning patiently for every intricate detail, watching for every small movement that I might miss. Like miniature flashlights, the rays of white sunlight filtered and danced through the turquoise-tinted water, revealing the deep dark blue spaces, shadows of small places hiding from me.

Slowly, I allowed myself to be absorbed not only by the landscape but by the sounds around me. I dared to swim further beneath the water’s surface, drowning out the above-water sounds—people laughing, calling out, the rubber dinghy circling about—to make space for the sound of my rhythmic breathing through my snorkel, the sound my body made moving along the surface of the shallow water. The faint splashing of swimming. Once in a while, a small giggle or “wow” would escape my mouth, not wanting to interrupt the peace around me.

Years ago, when my second son was in Grade 5, he wrote a speech about the Great Barrier Reef. Well, okay, maybe I helped him a bit. I remember writing about the beauty of the reef, the effects of pollution and coral bleaching, and how to protect it.

Never would I have thought, as we sat together writing that speech (ok, maybe it was actually me who wrote most of it – but he gave it, I swear!), that I would be swimming right here one day. Life has a funny way of surprising you like that.

Before this trip, I had never been on a sailboat. And after my experience with that crazy whale watching speed boat in Sydney back in 2019, I was more than a bit anxious about going out on the open ocean. The boat, the waves, the deep water, the things living in that water – it all made my stomach a bit queasy.

The first time I went to the Whitsundays was Hook Island, and it was everything I’d imagined and more. The water was calm, almost no waves and still. We anchored in a protected bay, and once I was in the water, mask and snorkel in place, I entered that magical underwater world I’d only helped my son write about all those years ago.

How did I enter the ocean from a boat? How did I overcome that fear? I didn’t just jump in. I went backwards. One foot finding the first rung, then my second foot searching for the next. I felt for the cushiony edge of the rubber dinghy and lowered myself down slowly. Spat in my goggles, adjusted the mask, and trusted that the simple rubber straw I placed in my mouth would provide me with enough air to breathe. And then I let go, gently gliding into the water. Into all the blue spaces around me.

This was exactly the kind of snorkeling I liked—the peaceful, meditative kind. The water was so clear, so calm, that floating face-down felt like slow-motion dreaming. And there it all was – everything I’d written about in that Grade 5 speech. Time stopped. There was only breathing, floating, watching, wondering.

And then there were the sea turtles. We saw them several times in the open sea—cruisey and cool, gliding through the water with an effortless grace that made everything else seem crazy by comparison. They didn’t give a damn about us overly excited tourists on the boat, frantically calling out “A turtle! A turtle!” They just carried on with their business, surfacing occasionally to breathe before diving back down to wherever sea turtles go when they’d had enough of us humans.

Three days later, we sailed out to Whitehaven Beach, and the weather had changed quite a bit. The winds were strong—really strong. White-capped waves in every direction, and our sailboat leaned dramatically to one side, then the other, cutting through the waves at great speed. And I loved it. The power of it, the wildness, the way the boat danced with the wind and water. Maybe I had taken one too many of those seasickness pills or maybe it was the glass of bubbly they offered us aboard (or maybe both) but I loved sailing along the islands.

Whitehaven Beach itself was gorgeous, as beautiful as everyone said it would be. It actually made me speechless for a moment when we first saw it from the lookout point. What the ….! Never had I seen something so beautiful. That famous silica sand, those impossible blues, the crystal clear water. Paradise-like!

But when it came time to snorkel, the conditions were completely different from Hook Island’s tranquil waters. The ocean was rough, churning, and challenging. You could hardly see anything through the stirred-up sand and surge. The current pulled and pushed, the waves tossed you about, and staying in one place long enough to observe anything required real effort and determination.

And I loved that too.

Because swimming in those rough waters, holding my own against the current, not panicking when a wave pushed me off course—that was its own kind of win. It was exciting, exhilarating, and wild. I was so proud of myself. I had come a long way from being scared of the ocean.

I’m not a sea turtle—not cool and careless like them. I know that. But maybe I am a sea lion. Curious and fun-loving, intelligent and playful. Minus the thick hair and big chest and belly though.

Today, I went to the local markets, soaking up the early morning moments of island life. Among the stalls of handmade jewelry and locally roasted coffee, I found myself suddenly standing across from a tarot card reader. Half an hour for $75 bucks – why not. After all, I was on holidays.

The cards told me what I probably already knew but needed to hear: Relax more. Breathe more. Sit at the beach and stop overthinking.

Fair enough, universe. Message received.

So on my last morning, I plan to wake early (as if I ever not wake up early) and walk down to the water’s edge. The marina will be quiet, just the gentle clinking of rigging against masts, the soft splashing of water against hulls. The sun will be just beginning to paint the sky in shades of pink and orange, and the blue water will reflect it all back like a mirror.

I’ll think about all the blues I’ve seen over the past few days. The deep navy of open water, the turquoise of shallow reefs, the pale aqua of sand-filtered shallows, the silvery blue-grey of early morning. Each one different, each one beautiful, each one part of the same blue ocean.

I’ll think about the sea turtles, cool and graceful. About the wild winds and the calm waters. About my son’s Grade 5 speech and how far I’ve come from simply reading about the reef to actually swimming in it.

And I’ll think about the tarot reader’s advice. Relax more. Breathe more. Sit at the beach. Stop the overthinking.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll spot another sea turtle. Gliding along, not giving a damn about anything or anyone. Or even a sea lion or two. You never know.

Cheers.

Item 43 on my never-ending Australia bucket list: Complete. ✓