Stubbornly Stuck

I open the Ziploc bag

shake it, clouding the ocean,

The contents stubbornly stuck,

like the large man

whose ashes filled four Ziploc bags.

The Marine Congregation of divers

accepts the others curious of this underwater ceremony.

Dad, still seeking an audience,

would have loved this moment.

The peaceful, clear waters of the Keys

filled with a murky mess

from 4 Ziploc bags,

a massive cloud of underwater smoke.

The sun shines from above,

where other family members 

are voluntarily secluded

from this underwater funeral.

Kneeling above the ocean floor

suspended in prayer

I try to let go.

floating,

hands clenched,

head bowed,

trying to be still,

but still a newbie.

Prayers said.

Reality realized.

Tears and sobbing,

the regulator slips.

My instructor

wordlessly gestures,

"Okay?"

Like Hell, I think, I just shook Dad out of a Ziploc.

"Okay," I answer back with the hand signal.

I cry and swim, in a daze.

Another diver, concerned,

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Daddy's little girl,

fatherless in this big ocean.

Daddy's little girl,

on her checkout dive.

I look around,
Dad's spirit is here.
His underwater church,
the place he knew God, 
even if he wouldn't admit it.
I feel my prayers answered.


A check out dive,
for me newly certified,
for Dad many years ago,
and for Dad again,
the ultimate check out dive.
We are connected in this dive,
as Dad wanted us to be.


An eel poking out of a crevice 
like the beginning of my healing
finally emerging from the dark shadows.
I swim off with my brother,
feeling the peaceful warming 
embrace of an underwater current.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Prose Version Written June 2012

Wordless Gestures

Reaching into his vest, Dave pulls out four large Ziploc bags, hands one to me, one to my brother John, one to his wife, and keeps one for himself. We gather in a circle, Dave gives the signal, and we all open our bags. Shaking the bag, I watch the contents slowly disperse into the ocean. Some of the contents are stubbornly stuck in the bottom, and I find myself struggling to empty the bag. My dad was a large man, and his remains from the four Ziploc bags cloud the once clear water of Winch Hole in the Keys. The dive club suspended just above the ocean floor is ceremonially huddled around the winch, with additional random divers joining the marine congregation in curiosity about this new underwater event. Even after his death, Dad is still seeking an audience. He would have loved this moment, I think. The absurdity of it all—my brother and I and two of Dad’s diver friends shaking these bags while disturbing the peaceful, clear waters of the Florida Keys.

Looking beyond the massive cloud of underwater smoke, I peer above to the white light shining from the sun and the bottom of the dive boat where my sister, niece and mom sit, voluntarily secluded from this underwater funeral. Looking back down, my thoughts return to my dad and I think, “He is dead. He has been reduced to a cloudy, murky mess.”

Returning to my sadness, I fall to just above the floor of the ocean, remembering my training I am now completing and realizing I must pray without letting my knees disturb the ocean floor. Floating on my knees, donned in scuba gear, I clench my hands together and bow my head in prayer, trying to say goodbye to my dad, trying to be still and relax in this moment of sadness.

Prayers said, reality realized, the regulator almost slips as I find myself sobbing in sadness and almost laughing in amusement at this moment of intense underwater emotion that I must control. What a spectacle this must be as I try to breathe and cry simultaneously.  Looking up, I see my ever-present instructor, Richard, beside me wordlessly gesturing, his face full of empathy, questioning, “Okay?”

I gesture back. “Okay,” I think, “Like Hell I’m okay; I just shook my dad out of a Ziploc bag.”

I swim and cry, swim and cry, trying to keep my mask on, my regulator in place, and my head up.

David, the scuba club president sees me swimming in sadness and signs, “Okay?”

“Okay,” I sign back, in reality wanting to flip him off for asking. “Whatever Dave—how can I be okay? My dad’s remains are spread throughout this water, and here I am Daddy’s little girl alone, fatherless in this big ocean.”

I think to myself, “What would Dad want his little girl to do?” He wouldn’t want me to be stubbornly stuck, hanging on to my last bit of him, wasting a precious dive on my tears and mourning. He would be proud of his little girl, finally after all this time, a certified diver honoring his dying wishes and becoming a scuba diver. Dad would want me relish in the moment,  follow my big brother, and enjoy the beauty of the ocean. He would want me to honor him in my check out dive, at the same dive site where he had his check out dive, and ultimately where he had just had his true ‘check out’ dive.”

I swim on for a few minutes and finish my check out dive with Richard. He shakes my hand while another diver takes a picture, recognizing that I am officially a certified diver after my 20 minutes with him on the last dive of my training. He gestures to my brother that we will now switch dive partners, so I swim off with my brother, and Richard swims off with his wife.

Released to my brother, no longer crying, I am comfortable following John through the water and begin to see the beauty that made this the place where Dad wanted his ashes spread. John and I swim together in peaceful silence. I follow him, and he points out all the beauty he sees: an eel poking its head out from under a crevice, a vibrant blanket of coral, a school or two of fish in an array of colors.