by Tim Ecott

Four days after my mother died I went 1）scuba diving for the first time. Indirectly， it was her death that led me to take up diving in the first place. Going underwater seemed like a way to displace the emotional 2）turbulence of my grief. It quickly became an obsession. In that alternative， liquid world I found freedom and 3）tranquillity， mixed with excitement and the stimulation of discovery. That obsession became the focus of my life： I moved countries and jobs so that I could dive regularly in warm tropical water. I took my wife and three-month-old daughter to a small island where surface life posed many challenges： practical， financial， emotional and spiritual. Going underwater kept us 4）sane， and all other problems were subordinated to the short but frequent doses of 5）euphoria delivered by the ocean.

Almost 15 years after my mothers death， I was the sole passenger on a seaplane over the Indian Ocean when my father died. We landed in a 6）lagoon where a 7）rubber 8）dinghy collected me and ferried me to a larger boat where I was to spend a week cruising the outer 9）atolls of the 10）Maldives， diving four times a day.

Mobile phones did not reach to that part of the islands at the time， but the cruiser was equipped with a satellite phone. As I carried my luggage to my cabin， I was summoned to the bridge. On an echoing， static line my wife broke the news. Before I could ask for any details， the connection was broken and I was unable to speak to anyone in the outside world for another five days.

The shock was immense. But I was surrounded by people—ships officers， diving staff and a handful of other passengers—none of whom I had met before. There was no point in trying to return home， and I had no means of reaching any members of my family. I decided that there was no one aboard the boat in whom I could confide. It seemed rude to impose my grief on strangers who would inevitably feel awkward at the situation. My loss was a painful， private wound that could not be exposed.

Two hours later I was in my diving kit， sitting on the side of the boat ready to plunge. The dive leader explained that we were heading to a 11）reef 12）promontory that was swept by a strong current. We were to follow him， swimming as quickly as possible to the deepest part of the reef， about 36 metres down. The speed of descent was meant to keep the current from forcing us apart. I was last into the water， and I followed a stream of silver bubbles into the misty grey-blue depths. Halfway down I could already see the other divers clutching on to the reef to steady themselves. Surrounding them were dozens of grey reef sharks， the object of the dive. Keen as I was to join them， I paused， sensing a presence behind me. 13）Swivelling in the water and looking back towards the pale surface of the sea， I stared into the eyes of an ocean giant： a sailfish.

I abandoned my descent and finned towards the lurking presence. For a few moments the giant fish hung there， suspended like a 14）mounted trophy. It was the kind of encounter that is so immediate and thrilling that time and action seem compressed. For no more than five or six seconds we watched one another， then the sailfish shimmered， sideways， downwards， blending again into the darker water beyond my vision. None of the other divers saw my encounter， though the dive leader did， and we talked about it privately that night. I wanted his affirmation that I and the sailfish had really just been metres apart. I did not， could not， tell him about my father.

I have had hundreds of special underwater experiences， but I have never again seen a sailfish underwater. I know from other dive masters that such encounters are rare. I cannot shake the idea that， for many people on earth， this would have been a clear example of shape-shifting： my fathers only opportunity to say goodbye. My father was not a 15）spiritual man. Indeed， he revelled in denying the existence of God—partly， I think， in order to 16）infuriate my mother who， frankly， believed in everything.

And yet， how strange， in the hours and days following the loss of both of my parents， that I was able to be underwater， the place where I am happiest. I felt blessed by that. My mother had died without ever seeing me discover this pleasure. When I was a young adult， she worried constantly that I was unhappy. I hope she would have been pleased that I had discovered something that gripped me with such deep joy. Dad lived long enough to witness some of my underwater life. And yet his habit was to deny spirituality， to deny faith， to deny any sentimentality. But if 17）reincarnation， perhaps momentary， as a sailfish was his route to wishing me farewell， I hope it came with a sense of acceptance： that all shall be well. I take my dead parents with me still， every time I dive.

My senses were ill-suited to understanding the dark depths. I cannot say what passed between us， but as he circled me at a steady distance he inspected me closely， unhurried and calm with an eye that signalled intelligence. I have never forgotten the intensity of that gaze， and my own joy and awe.

母親去世四天后，我第一次嘗試了輕便潛水。間接地，是母親的離世促使我初次嘗試潛水。潛入水下似乎成了我擱置悲慟愁緒的一種方式。這很快成為了我的執(zhí)念。在那異于尋常的水世界里，我找到了自由和平靜，混雜著興奮和探索的刺激。那個執(zhí)念成為了我生活的焦點：我換了一個又一個國家和工作，只為時常可以在溫暖的熱帶海洋中潛水。我?guī)е拮雍腿齻€月大的女兒來到了一個小島，在那里，陸上的生活帶來了不少挑戰(zhàn)：日常雜事、金錢開支、情感掙扎、精神困擾。潛入水下能讓我們保持理智，所有其他難題都敵不過海洋給我注入的一劑劑短暫但頻繁的歡樂強心針。

近乎母親離世15年后，我的父親也去世了，那時我作為一架水上飛機里的唯一乘客在印度洋上翔行。我們降落在一個環(huán)礁湖上，然后一只橡皮艇來接我，將我送到一艘更大的船上。在這艘船上我將待上一周的時間環(huán)游馬爾代夫的外環(huán)，每天潛水四次。

那時候，移動電話的訊號還未布及島嶼的那個部分，但是游船上配備了衛(wèi)星電話。我剛把行李送到船艙，就又被叫到了船橋上。在一通回音噪聲重重的衛(wèi)星電話里，妻子把那消息告訴了我。我還未來得及問任何細節(jié)，通話就斷了，而我在后面的五天里都沒能和外界任何人說上話。

這個沖擊是巨大的。雖然身邊有著眾人相伴——游船的船員、潛水員還有一小批其他乘客——全是陌生人。折返回家是不可能的，也沒有任何聯(lián)系到家人的方法。我認定船上沒有一個人是我的訴苦對象。把我的痛苦強加于陌生人似乎不大禮貌，在那種情況下，他們總會難免尷尬。我的喪親之痛是個痛苦、私密的傷口，無法向外人展露。

兩小時后，我穿戴上潛水裝備，坐在船邊，準備下水。潛水領(lǐng)隊交待說我們將前往一個暗礁岬，那里水流急速。我們將跟著他，盡可能快地游到暗礁最深的那個部分，大約36米深?？焖傧聺撌菫榱朔乐顾鲗⑽覀円唤M人沖散。我是最后一個潛入水中的，追隨著一連串銀色氣泡潛入那片迷蒙灰藍的深海中。在下潛的中途，我已經(jīng)能看到其他潛水員在抓緊礁石以固定自己了。在他們的周圍，有幾十條灰礁鯊，那正是我們這次潛水的目標。盡管我渴望加入他們，但是我停住了，因為我感覺到自己身后有個東西。我在水中轉(zhuǎn)過身，回過頭看那片暗淡的海面，發(fā)現(xiàn)我正盯著一個海洋巨物的雙眼：旗魚。

我放棄了繼續(xù)下潛，而是游向了那條在身后虎視眈眈的旗魚。有好一會兒，那條巨魚只是懸在那里，像是一個被裱好的戰(zhàn)利品。這種偶遇是如此的突然和令人興奮，時間和動作似乎都被壓縮了。我們僅僅對視了五六秒，然后那條旗魚就閃著微光，向一旁的下方游去，融入了在我視線以外的更為黑暗的深海里。其他潛水員都沒有看到我這次偶遇，除了領(lǐng)隊，那晚我們私下聊起了這件事兒。我與那條旗魚相距真的只有幾米遠，我希望得到他的確定。我沒有，也不能，告訴他關(guān)于我父親的事。

我有過成百上千次的水中奇遇，但我卻再也沒有在水下見過一條旗魚。我從其他潛水老手那兒得知，那樣的偶遇是罕見的。我無法擺脫那種想法，我覺得對于塵世的很多人來說，這就是寄身托魂的一個典型例證：我父親僅有的道別機會。我的父親并非什么虔誠信徒。的確，他總喜歡否認上帝的存在——在我看來，在一定程度上，那是為了激怒我的母親，實話講，我母親什么都信。

然而，奇怪的是，在失去雙親之后的時日里，我能潛入水下，在那兒，我才是最快樂的。我覺得自己很幸運。母親生前從未見過我尋得這種快樂。當我還年輕的時候，她一直擔心我不開心。我希望母親能因我尋得并抓住了這樣的快樂而感到欣慰。父親的長壽令他能看得到我的某些潛水經(jīng)歷。而他還是慣性否認精神靈性，否定信仰，反對任何的多愁善感。如果父親化身成一條旗魚來與我道別，或許那很短暫，但我也希望自己能相信這個瞬間：這一切都會好起來。每一次，我仍然帶著我已故的父母，潛入水下。

我的感知力還不能理解那片黑暗的深海。我無法說出我們之間發(fā)生了什么，但是當他以一個固定的距離繞著我游時，他緊貼著觀察我，從容而平靜，眼神中透露出智慧。我從來都不曾忘記那種凝視的強度，以及我自身的欣喜和敬畏。