Reef Snorkeling in Yap, Micronesia

The curfew starts on Thursday. A man dies in the hospital of pneumonia. It is consistent with the virus. The test is not yet back. The governor here in Yap sets a curfew. No one can be out past 7 pm until the following morning at 6 am. I think the curfew lasts two weeks. The man who dies is a drinker, and isn't one of those who are off-island and in quarantine.

But the curfew makes people aware of the government. It gets people ready to follow instructions. If the virus comes here, the outcomes will be very difficult. People in Yap live communally, in villages, and sharing is a natural part of life. There are no nuclear families on an island of 8000 people. We are all in this together. It takes an hour before my thoughts clear. I ride home from the faculty center and finally settle down.

I awake early for a video conference, and then head to the community association store to look for reef shoes. It is the day before, and a friend invites me to go snorkeling on Saturday. It is my first time in 35 years. But on Thursday, I run into him and Su at the same store, and he is telling Su about my interest. She runs a dive shop here, and we make an appointment to talk about equipment.

I ride my bike over and find her shop. It is on the water of the lagoon's south shore. I take off my sandals and knock. We talk for about two hours, about vegan diets and travel and diving. Su is a generation older than me, and has been on the island for more than a decade. We talk about the natural rhythms of life, and get lost in the joy of it.

I buy a mask and snorkel, and I like them. They are not expensive, and are high quality. Normally, Su leads scuba dives. If there is another person who wants, I will do a certification with her. But that may not happen, with the virus. I am not focused on recreation, but on work and research. Another article makes it to publication this month. It is my second of the year, and adapted from a chapter of my master's thesis. It is the third chapter now to be published.

This one is on earthquake prediction, and reviews a research group's work in Greece. They try to predict earthquakes based on changes to the electric field of the ground. Most important, the changes they note do not occur during the seismic events, but some time beforehand. Perhaps they are related to changes in groundwater, which can occur around the time leading up to earthquakes. But their technique produces a lot of false positive results, so it is not usable.

The article is contentious to people who work with that research group, and it has failed peer review twice after several rounds. I refuse to make changes that would falsify the scientific record. This time around it passes through, and I'm surprised that it is online now in April, after a January submission. That is blazing fast in the world of peer review and academic publishing.

I am pleased to be invited, and feel relieved that I have a good reason to explore the marine habitat. I decide against buying reef shoes, instead opting to take along fins Su loans me, and will tie my flip flops around my waist when the time comes to swap foot gear.

Saturday comes and I am up early. Su and Tom and another friend join me at the park while the Sun is still very new. I start teaching a yoga class in the park a few weeks earlier. It is at Tom's request. We ride bicycles together once a week, and he is curious to invite his son Theo to practice, for help with a back difficulty. But practicing in the park is too much for a teenager's modesty. Tom and I are the only two until this week.

The class goes well. I teach a very gentle style, and we spend about an hour going from pose to pose and calming our minds with slow breathing. The view across the park to the sea is breathtaking, as usual.

After class, we make plans for the trip. I ride a bicycle down to the south end of the island. I want to be responsible and not ride in anyone's car. I arrive about 40 minutes late, and Tom is waiting patiently for me. I can just see the other folks far out at the reef break when we walk to the sea wall.

The barrier reef is maybe a couple of football fields wide. There is deep water between the shore and the reef again, and I get practice putting my fins on and then taking them off. It is a good 30 minutes later and we still haven't met up with the rest of the people. We are at the wave break. The air is beautiful, and the waves are a bit rough, maybe three feet. I don't see anyone else, and we both wonder where our party is. We head west along the coral, since we are now a bit east of where I spotted people earlier. Tom is concerned that the water looks rough, and perhaps this is not a good spot for snorkeling.

But then off to the left we both spot some friends with masks and snorkels, several tens of yards away, bobbing up and down in the waves. We head over. It still seems odd. I put on the mask and snorkel and put my head in the water, and it is another world. What is shallow enough to stand in now has bright details of reef fish and beautiful corals. I swim off and soon spend hours floating and staring downward at the drama beneath me. It is a location with fissures in the native rock, and there are areas with some submarine gulleys that cut through the coral shelf. The fish are beautiful and colorful, and dart around below, sometimes chasing each other between periods of feeding on the reef. I recognize parrot fish and other salt water beauties. It seems I am in a large aquarium for a brief moment. I wonder at the beauty of it.

It is so peaceful. We spend hours floating and swimming, enjoying the wildlife and the view out to the deep blue. Visibility is good. The mask and snorkel work well. A thought of myself as a child watching the Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau comes to mind, and I wonder at how I am here, enjoying a tropical ocean. Life is often much more vivid than television.

The waves provide a rhythm to the view, and the scenery is spectacular. There are neons and bright colors, and beautiful green seaweeds in some places growing delicately among the abundant corals. It is warm and beautiful.

Tom and I are the last ones back to shore. We traverse the shallow, then deep, then shallow water again. In places the water is strikingly warm, even hot. It is low tide, and the Sun's rays are strong enough to be surprising. I wear an undershirt for the dive, and also a shirt to cover the top of my head, but my arms and legs are exposed to all. The next day sees my arms and legs full red with burns.

I return the fins to Su, and we talk for another two hours. We talk about the culture of dogs in various parts of the world. In Santiago, Chile, they wait for the light signal to change before crossing the roadway. We talk about penguins in Japan where she is from. It is a fun exchange. My bicycle when I leave her shop has a flat tire. I am glad it happens here, only minutes from my home, and not when I am riding back from the ocean reef. It would mean walking for hours.

The next day also sees me very grateful to find a shop selling aloe vera gel. I am responsive to the needs that arise. I work on my bicycle. I rotate the tires, and change one of the tubes. I hear a pop when I pump up the rear one, and it goes flat some time later. I am glad for that, since it is better to fail now. I can get another or patch this one. But on the road it is more difficult.

I am grateful for the curfew, since it means that there is a coordinated response, and an honest attempt to make things better. I don't know when things will return to normal. I am here for a three-year contract, and am unconcerned with the future. I just know that I have work to do and am happy.