A Different Kind of Wave: A Creative Essay

“The ocean is at its best today.” It was hard to believe how this sentence which, on the surface, seemed so optimistic, could be so depressing.

An individual’s engagement with creation is inherently personal. For some, the idea of creation is deeply embedded in religion, art, science or politics. For me, creation is felt when I sense the existence of something more profound than my own being.

The first time I went scuba diving I was intensely fearful, unwilling to trust the breathing apparatus or my ability to remain safe underwater. In spite of this, it remains one of the most important experiences of my life. I became aware of the magnificent structures and the enormous amount of life that had been created in this space which I had, relatively speaking, once presumed empty. I couldn’t believe that something so enormous could be hidden beneath the surface, a secret preserved exclusively for those who venture deeper. I loved everything about it: the beauty, the sense of adventure and discovery, all in a weightless world where real life seemed far away and trivial.

Today climate change and marine conservation are becoming increasingly prevalent issues in scientific debate, the media, and everyday life. Those who choose to address this issue do so in a number of ways. Two common approaches are scientific research, and political activism. A great example of the latter is the “Raise the Heat” campaign, run collaboratively by the Australian Youth Climate Coalition and 350.org. This campaign was designed to encourage The Commonwealth Bank to pledge not to finance Adani’s Carmichael Coal Mine, set to cause immeasurable and irreversible damage to The Great Barrier Reef.

Ten months after I first tried scuba diving I had obtained a professional accreditation and was working as a diver, taking people diving, sometimes for the first time. Being able to introduce people to the ocean was a privilege. I saw fear transform into awe just as it had for me, and I enjoyed being a part of that process. Through diving I felt engaged and connected with life, like I was bridging a gap between naïveté and understanding. I saw creatures I never knew existed. I watched cuttlefish change colour to communicate; I learned about colourful butterfly fish who swim in pairs, and how they mate for life.

It was during this time that I had a conversation with one of the instructors at the dive center. His name was Matthieu, and although France was his country of origin it hadn’t been his home in years. The minimum age for diving is eight, but Matthieu’s father, an instructor, had ignored this limit and had taken him diving anyway. Matthieu said he couldn’t remember a time before he had been diving.

For artists, writers and others, creation involves the production of something that didn’t exist before. This perfectly encapsulated how I felt about diving. Although we were visiting the same places no two dives were ever the same, and the sites would exist brand new every day, as if reborn. I had a desire to capture this. To create memories for people who couldn’t experience it first hand. After some time working I was fortunate enough to land a job as an underwater videographer.

My conversation with Matthieu took place in the bar above the dive centre one afternoon. Our working day was over and we were relaxing. Although he was young he had been diving for longer than most other instructors at the shop, and so I had been asking him about how diving had changed over the years.

“I mean, it sucks to say, but the diving now… it’s shit.” He said casually.

This was something I was used to hearing, and it majorly irked me. People who had been diving for years frequently made this call. I knew what was coming: romantic descriptions of underwater scenes, fish everywhere and endless corals. But to me diving was perfect, and I found any notion that it might once have been better unfathomable. I didn’t like to think about everything I had missed.

Twelve months ago, when I returned from my life on the island, my hair was lighter and my skin was darker than it ever had been before. I was happy. I felt motivated to pursue my studies in psychology. I settled back into student life and would daydream about scuba diving while watching diving videos on YouTube.

It surprised me when Matthieu didn’t describe the oceans of the past. He didn’t offer elaborate accounts of abundant fish species now dwindling in numbers. Instead he said, “But you know, the ocean is at its best today.” And somehow this was even harder to hear.

I took my new job as a videographer seriously. I was determined to do a good job for my customers. I spent months watching footage shot by Nico, a former videographer at the shop who I had met briefly and idolised. Nico’s skill was flawless. He appeared to have boundless intuition when it came to marine life and its movements. Fortunately, the shop had archived many of Nico’s videos, so I was able to review hours of footage. He had worked at the shop for about five years. As I worked my way back in time I was able to see how much the diving in the area had changed.