Now when he hits the water I see only primordial charm in what he does. After all, "How inappropriate to call this planet Earth, when it is quite clearly Ocean," author Arthur C. Clarke said.
When he dips below the surface he invites Freudian psychoanalysis, snakes his way downwards into psycho-geography, returns to the womb in a search for Edenic innocence and in the process teases out another conversation about evolutionary biology.
I embellish of course, but it's all there and too fascinating to resist.
By forgoing the oxygen tanks he renders the scary, unknowable darkness into something beautiful. It's no wonder Steinlager "Pure" saw an opportunity to align.
The upshot is he gets to live in the jade-like Bahamas, surfaces daily with fresh crayfish and is paid in New Zealand's finest lager.
But I'm jealous mostly of his state. While I shamble through the kelp like a yak fallen overboard, underwater he's poised, centred and childlike. Those of us perpetually exhausted can only watch on, aghast at such tranquillity.
