Dive Monkeys

On the 6th of this month, I dropped two carefully selected car motors off the side of a small boat into the big, blue Pacific in the name of science. I never thought I would write that sentence, but in any case, the dropping part was fun, the preparations were not so much. If I could liken the whole experience to a jungle, then I would be the dumb-ass monkey who pukes up bananas before figuring out that you can't eat and swing from vine to vine at the same time. Except in a wetsuit.

Evaristo and I departed for our little adventure early in the morning from the port of Ensenada in a small fishing boat with a 75 horsepower engine. Our boat Captain was not what you would call "talkative" and I suspect that he was not too thrilled with his morning assignment. However, he was a good guy and a big help, albeit a rather quiet one. No matter, Evaristo and I did more than enough talking for the three of us.

It was a short ride out to our drop site, but by the time we got there, Evaristo and I were green, literally green. Like let's-just-call-it-a-day-and-see-if-Oscar-the-Grouch-has-any-rooms-for-rent-in-his-trash-can green. A word of advice to anyone who will ever be in a small boat on the ocean for any length of time—eat oatmeal before you go. Of all the things in this world that I have been unfortunate enough to throw up, oatmeal ranks as number one on the list of "If I had to choose something to puke, I would choose _________". Seriously. Oatmeal, it's the breakfast of champions or at least the breakfast of champions with weak stomachs. As I was hanging off the back of our boat heaving away, it dawned on me that I was very glad our Captain was of the silent persuasion.

The engine blocks were prepped and all the lines were double checked. The three of us put our backs into it and dumped the first block overboard. I found myself watching with glee as the block rapidly vanished out of sight, like a little kid who knocks over a block tower and laughs because sometimes it's just fun to wreak a bit of havoc and knock things over. The Captain even found the words to express that he really didn't think that that metal bastard would sink so damn fast, or something to that effect. I felt like yelling "Again!", but I held off because the waves of nausea had once again turned me a nice pea-soup green. So instead, I just got to work on prepping the second engine block for it's trip to the bottom of the ocean and left the talking up to the now vocal Captain. The second block sank just as quickly as the first and we all watched it disappear with smiles on our faces.

Evaristo and I were scheduled to dive down to the first block to check it's position and to review the line attached to it. By the time we got geared up, I couldn't hold out for another minute on the deck of the boat. I had to get below the surface, into the cold and oddly comforting dark water, to stop the acrobatics my stomach was performing and to clear my head. Every minute above was a mixture of too much light, heat, motion, heaviness, nausea and aggravation and I needed to get as far under the boat as possible. Below was peace. Finally, I couldn't handle it any more and I rolled backward into the water. As I hit the water, I could feel the stress stay behind in the air, almost as if the surface of the water had filtered it out. I let myself sink backwards and watched the water above me rush together to fill the void left from where I had passed through the surface. In a few seconds I was completely closed off from the world on the boat, from our fearless Captain and from everything that had just gotten to be too much. Hearing the air rush from the tank on my back into my lungs put me in another mindset, one that was calm and relaxed. I headed over to meet Evaristo and we began our descent down the line.

On the bottom, 84 feet below, we quickly did what we were there to do and then we looked at each other and had a moment that reminds me of the aquarium fish in Finding Nemo, when they finally execute their elaborate plan to roll down to the sea in plastic bags, only to reach the ocean and then say "now what?". Now what, indeed. With nothing pending, Evaristo and I hung out on the bottom for a while and had a conversation that was apparently pretty funny and then we headed up the line to double check that everything was where it should be. We got to the surface and swam back to the boat. The day had been successful and on the way back to Ensenada in the boat we were tired but happy with the dive and a job well done.

calendaRio for June 2009

I love this dog. Like a lot. Rio has such a kind spirit, but above all, he's just a good guy. He has been nothing but gentle and patient with the new kittens and they have responded by adopting what can only be described as barnacle-like behavior towards Rio. Wherever Rio goes, the kittens follow close behind, stuck to his sides like little cyprids. As it would with anyone, this totally freaks Rio out. I imagine the classic "eee eee eee" sound from the movie Psycho often pops into Rio's head when he notices that the kittens have appeared out of nowhere right behind him. The poor boy's nerves are shot.

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Language Woes Part II: ¡Y Mole Doña María!

When I moved to Ensenada in 2007, I once again felt intimidated by language. It was frustrating trying to communicate what I thought and felt in Spanish, knowing all the while that I could have done so perfectly in English. However, it was not an unfamiliar feeling. On the contrary, having lost my ability to speak Spanish when I moved to Canada, I had become accustomed to feeling incompetent and frustrated during my subsequent visits to Mexico. I loved being in the country of my birth, eating my favorite foods, participating in once-familiar customs. Still, the experience of being in Mexico was for me incomplete in some way. Without the ability to express myself, I essentially could only take on the role of an observer, held back by an invisible wall from fully immersing myself. I was not an active participant, which meant that I didn't belong. I can only describe understanding the majority of what was said but being incapable of responding as absolutely maddening and I wanted nothing more than to break down the proverbial wall that held me back. As it turns out, I would get my chance when I moved to Ensenada. Except this time around, there was no escaping the frustration—that would only come with time, practice, and effort.

A year after moving to Ensenada and struggling with language yet again in my life, I started school, essentially landing me back at square one in Ms. Z's third grade classroom all those years ago. Except this time around, I knew what to expect and how to go about unlocking those little doors in your head that prevent you from communicating in a different language. I still have a long way to go, but I can see progress, which is very encouraging. While my propensity to say bad words in Spanish is high, there is still hope that I will eventually be able to communicate in Spanish as well as I do in English.

A couple months ago, some of my classmates started throwing around the idea of me giving them English classes. I confess that I had thought about giving English classes in Canada when I knew I would be moving to Ensenada, but I really didn't have a clear idea of what they should be like or what group of people I should be designing the classes for. After some interest from my classmates, I decided to give it a go and I opened up my first English class to a group of nine students. We met for two hours, twice a week, and over coffee they struggled to unlock those little doors in their heads that prevent them from communicating well in another language. At the end of the unit, I could see improvements in everyone. The classes seemed to be fulling their purpose. It was very satisfying to see the students improve and I decided to continue with the next unit.

We finished our second unit two weeks ago. I had a great mix of students, some returners and some new. They are a great bunch of people and I look forward to our classes together. Each one of them is there to get better and it shows in how they approach each exercise and how closely they pay attention. Based on my own personal experience, I believe that if your are not struggling, then you are a not learning very much. Therefore, the classes are designed in such a way that a lot of effort is required on the student's behalf to get what they need out of each class. The course is marketed as intensive for a reason: it's only when you challenge yourself that you get better. It's in those moments when the students struggle to find the right words, looking up to the ceiling and perhaps wishing the words they needed were painted above, that they are opening those doors in their heads a bit wider. It's then that I can see them improving. And it's then that I feel we are getting somewhere.

Looking through the class worksheets the other day, I was actually surprised about the amount of material we have covered in a relatively short period of time. For me, the classes have been a great opportunity to review what I know and to learn some new tricks. It's true what they say, the best way to learn something is to teach it. I started out as an English major in college and then switched to Biology in my second year. These classes have definitely woken up the part of me that loves language and for that I am more than happy to continue offering them.

Being misunderstood in another language has consequences, some mild and some not so mild, but that shouldn't prevent anyone from trying to get better. If I have learned anything from my struggles with language it's this: dive in head first and make mistakes. Make lots of mistakes. But put in the effort and learn from them.

Language Woes Part 1: A Series of Successful Gestures