Fear is a strange thing. It takes on many shapes and appears in the oddest places, creeping into crevices and crannies of our lives we didn’t know existed. It’s an emotion that often manifests physically; sweaty palms, a quickened pulse, labored breathing. Some psychologists even suggest it is one of the few innate emotions, which would mean none of us are immune.
After you left, I didn’t anticipate fear to be such a prevalent force in my life. I expected despair and intense sadness, anger, panic. But not fear. It felt out of place, so foreign.
I feared a life without you. I was scared of being lonesome. I was terrified of moving forward – not “on”, but forward – alone. I feared the mornings the most, when sunlight pervaded the bedroom blinds; what was once the promise of a beautiful day became a simple reminder of your physical absence on this plane.
The things I should have feared, at least a little bit, I found no trouble in tackling. Solo travel through Europe, hiking in extreme weather conditions, speeding through fjords on a rib in the northern Atlantic donning a survival suit. They were all amazing experiences with the potential to be really scary but for whatever reason, fear was never part of their equations.
Fast-forward to a couple months ago when I was invited to join on a trip to Iceland by a few friends who had never been. With a background in geology and a love of earth science that has spanned literal decades, it’s one my favorite places on this planet. And one of the many places you and I planned to explore together, if for no other reason than you being so excited to see me in my element. So clearly I didn’t hesitate to say yes to the invitation. While putting together a loose itinerary for the group, I remembered reading about a tour that I didn’t experience my first time there. A quick pang of fear hit my gut and in that moment I knew we had to do it.
Þingvellir (“Thingvellir”) is a gorgeous national park where the North American and European continental plates meet. You can stand between them and physically see the continental plate divide. There are also multiple fissures that resulted from a series of earthquakes, one of which has been filling with glacial run-off for hundreds of years. Named Silfra, it is where the two continental plates are diverging (pulling apart) at a rate of about 2-cm/year and the only place in the world where you can snorkel (or dive) between two continental plates.
The water hovers around 35° F and is some of the purest water in the world, as it travels through incredibly porous basalt (rock that acts much like natural filtration system) to reach the fissure. This allows for visibility of up to 100m with the naked eye. While all selling points for me, this type of expedition is certainly not for the timid, but I did convince the group to book a tour with Dive.is.
Our snorkel trip was booked for 5pm on our second full day in Iceland. Our spirits were incredibly high but the entire day was infused with an undercurrent of nervous energy, and fear, both of which only heightened as the four of us met our tour guide and began to suit up.
The prep involved was extensive and included geologic explanations, safety briefings, medical waivers, and mask/snorkel instruction. It was during that briefing the group, and the guide, learned I had never snorkeled before. Everyone looked at me a little wide-eyed, considering I had been so cavalier and insistent on this adventure, and in that moment I felt that pang again.
I felt fear. Guttural and adrenaline-inducing fear. I focused and attempted to isolate the source; it wasn’t the cold, or the expansive fissure. It was the snorkeling itself; I was scared of breathing through the snorkel, fearful I would panic while soaring over an underwater canyon and suffocate within my mask. Practically impossible, I knew, but the intensity was gripping.
I suited up. A full Nasa-like jumpsuit, a scuba dry suit, hood, gloves - all the while nervous laughter and mild panic emanating from all four of us. Our guide, Fee, was patient and kind, helping us with our equipment and checking our seals multiple times to ensure water would not seep in where it shouldn’t. Our hands would likely get wet, as the scuba gloves were not part of the dry suit. Our cheeks and lips would be exposed to the water, as we would be facedown horizontal the entire time.
We began the march up to the fissure opening. Masks and fins put on, we descended into the water. Air began to disseminate throughout the dry suit and my body wrapped in what felt like a cold hug. the fear hit again as we were told to put our faces in the water, and slowly extend forward as if flying.
The cold struck my face like a punch. After the initial shock, I leaned forward, stretched out my arms, and gave in to the water. Momentary panic seized my heart before realizing how buoyant I actually was, and then I focused on my breathing. After about 30 seconds, my air intake became less sharp and I found a rhythm by singing our song in my head. I matched my breaths to the beat and thought of how proud and in awe you would be, and then I began to soar.
Have you ever dreamt of flying without wings, effortlessly careening above the clouds without a care in the world? That is the only way I can think to describe what floating/swimming weightlessly down the fissure was like. I was between two continental plates, submerged in glacial run-off, and able to see it all so perfectly clear. I have never been more in awe in my entire life.
The fear but a memory, I took in as much as I could and attempted to burn the natural architecture into my brain. Neon green algae on basalt, some oxidized into a bright orange-red hue, intermingled with the crystal clear blue water that ranged in intensity from turquoise to a deep cerulean. I couldn’t bear to take my face out of the water, and did so only to see the exterior landscape and take some photos with the group. Despite the extreme nature of the surroundings, I felt at home flipping through the icy water.
Our trip lasted about 45 minutes and coming out of the water I relished in the beauty of my environment. I felt fulfilled and invigorated. Once the fear was tackled, all the adrenaline and nerves dissipated into wonderment and awe. In a way, it amplified the emotional intensity of the experience as a whole. I pondered this as our group trekked back to the staging area, chilly and giggly and happy.
Maybe now, when that fear comes creeping in through the blinds on a sunny day, I’ll remind myself of that moment in Silfra when I heard your voice in my head, singing our song. The moment my breathing slowed and my eyes finally opened wide.
The moment I soared.