Cape Town: Below the Surface
Originally published in Betty Zine, Issue 6
“The mark of a wild heart is living out the paradox of love in our lives. It's the ability to be tough and tender, excited and scared, brave and afraid -- all in the same moment. It's showing up in our vulnerability and our courage, being both fierce and kind.”
Brene Brown
I am on the bottom of the ocean and my lungs are screaming. The current is sucking me back into an underwater cave, forcing me to push hard against the swell with a dwindling air supply. The need to breathe is coming urgently, but my mind remains calm. If I keep swimming towards the surface, I will be able to breathe. Like a pendulum, the current shifts, pulling me upward to the oxygen my body so desperately wants. The sea exhales, and I pop up with my own short exhalation before drinking in the sunny air. Above me, blue skies crown the rock-ribboned mountains of the Cape Peninsula. Below, the kelp canopy sways in the swell, like prayer flags caught in a sea breeze.
Freediving is blissful, but it is not comfortable. It goes against all survival instincts to spend minutes beneath the surface on only one breath, denying your body the air it asks for. The first thirty seconds are easy but request turns to demand, and your lungs start to burn, as if the last of their oxygen is set aflame in rash protest. The diaphragm begins to throb, like an impatient hand repeatedly pressing elevator buttons, desperate to ascend. Tension travels through the core and up to the neck and face, forcing you to swallow in order to quell the reflex to breathe. And then, there is the fear: of heavy seas and powerful currents, of predators that may be lurking just out of sight, of the thought that perhaps you won’t make it back to the surface in time.
But the bliss! To experience the undersea forest like a bird, flying over the canopy through groves of kelp, over anemone meadows and sea fan gullies. There are introductions to make and neighbors to visit; lawn-mowing limpets and rockfish on their rounds and seal pups at recess, showing off their backflips. It is a realm of magic that exists right here on earth, though it can only be accessed through surrender to the sea. The swell will scrape you across sandpaper barnacles, your lungs will bite for air and elbow you towards the surface. But it will all be worth it to witness the enchantment: lingering comb jellies refracting at golden hour, starfish chasing snails in slow-motion, cuttlefish changing the texture of their skin right before your eyes. Freediving encapsulates the paradoxical nature of living with a wild heart: to feel the fear but do it anyway, knowing that with risk comes wondrous reward.
Cape Town is a city best experienced with this sort of wild heart. Driving back to my flat in Muizenberg, a small surf village south of the city center, requires passing both the lush greenery surrounding well-secured compounds and the dusty garbage deserts that surround impoverished townships. Dens of safety and predatory planes interlock in urban wilderness. Violent crime is a very real threat, and studies show that most South Africans experience multiple traumatic events in their lifetimes. The city is an ecosystem out of balance but despite the grave inequity, life shines brightly. The jazz bar trumpets poetry and cigarette smoke into Friday night alleys. Children race scooters in the street while their parents debate the merits of Paul Simon’s Graceland. Hibiscus shrubs drop color bombs on the sidewalk. Minibuses careen through red-lights, shouting their final destination at passersby. The local baker serves coffee with a wink and invites me to dinner, while his wife prepares pap and beans and fish marinated in chili oil. Surfers in wetsuits wander the village like lost sea lions, bare feet impervious to the broken glass scattered by drunks. Neighbors scold me for staying out so late, warning of thieves while escorting me home from the bar, only to turn into the darkness alone once the gate is locked behind me. Though socially divided, Capetonians unite in their display of constant vulnerability, defying the risks associated with their city by daring to live big lives. Every person I meet is both fierce and kind; there is no other way to survive.
The South African marine ecosystem is equally unique. The cold Atlantic and warm Indian oceans exchange currents in False Bay, cross-pollinating to create nutrient-rich waters that support a diverse underwater jungle. While most other kelp forests are in decline due to global warming, the Great African Sea Forest continues to thrive, at least for now. The freediving scene is growing here and for good reason. The kelp beds brush the shoreline, and points of entry are plentiful; all you need is a mask, some fins and a borrowed car. The Cape Peninsula reaches into the southern Atlantic like a giant finger, and the tradewinds strip through it like wrinkles. Depending on the season the wind will arrive from the southeast or northwest, meaning that visibility is almost always good somewhere. Push some swell into the mix and, with some astute research, one can either surf or dive any day of the year. Yet while surf spots on the peninsula are often crowded with gatekeepers, dive sites are enthusiastically divulged. Even before My Octopus Teacher won the Oscar for Best Documentary, aquatic explorers roamed the waters of the Cape Peninsula, searching for its brightest nudibranchs and deepest portals.
As its popularity grows, I wonder if the mental challenge of freediving resonates especially with Capetonians. In a city that has experienced so much collective trauma thanks to apartheid and other forms of systemic inequality, perhaps opportunities for personal triumph are good medicine. Experiencing success while overcoming fear equips people to face inevitable challenges of life, while experiencing the traumatic effects of fear can lock away hearts and minds. Diving into the gentle rhythm of the kelp forest, what was once feared becomes a mystical reservoir of peace, and an inspiration to push further towards joy. Freediving requires one to be both soft and rigid. The more relaxed the body, the longer a diver can stay underwater, but the longer one stays underwater, the more difficult it becomes to stay relaxed. Overcoming the physical pains and mental difficulties of freediving requires commitment to the wild heart paradox. Tough and tender, excited and scared, brave and afraid; South Africans are culturally trained to live these dualities with grace. In a nation where a short walk home can be a high-risk activity, freediving mirrors the courage that binds the fabric of South African society.
Keeping the body relaxed in an unnatural environment becomes even more challenging when fear strikes, yet it’s usually when I am most afraid that I encounter the most rewarding magic. Approaching my first deep water swim, I floated in trepidation amongst the fronds of the kelp canopy, gazing out into the open water column and abyss, where I would be the most vulnerable to sea monsters. My destination was a large rock some ten metres away, where I would again press to safety against a wall of starfish. My overactive imagination penetrated the murk farther than my eyes could see, but before I could invent any sea monsters, I plunged away from the net of kelp, concentrating only on taking strong broad strokes towards the rock wall. It was then that I saw it—like a hovercraft, a giant stingray descended from the canopy next to me, beckoning towards its deep-water landing zone. From a respectful distance, I followed it into open water, and like an escort sent from the higher powers of the kelp forest, it led me straight to my intended destination before bowing away into the depths. This chance encounter buoyed me beyond my boundary. All it took was a deep breath, and saying yes to the risk.
The greatest teacher of balance, the ocean’s rhythm is like breath—it inhales into itself and exhales towards shore. When the ocean breathes in it pulls you towards its heart, and when it breathes out it releases you. It can hyperventilate surging waves of anxiety, and bring the calm stillness of a yogi’s ohm. Floating in the azure sea, I am at once exposed to its fury and cradled in its spirit. The ocean inhales, and I inhale again to plunge into its inverse world, unseen yet inseparable from ours.
