I don't know who created the notion of
the “bucket list,” but I love the idea. It says so much about us
– our dreams, our idiosyncrasies. For many, it's the pursuit of an
experience that is so at odds with our daily lifestyle that we think
of certain goals as almost unattainable. Maybe it's a trip to an
exotic location or an epic meal at a world-class five star
restaurant. Maybe it's getting onstage and starring in a community
theater production. Maybe it's learning to play the piano or, for
others, skydiving. At the risk of over dramatizing it, a bucket list
provides, in its own way, a tiny window into the soul.
In our case, a shared bucket list item
for Lily and me has been a visit to Palau, an emerald green bejeweled
set of islands that sits millions of miles from everywhere in the
western Pacific Ocean. Why Palau? Because it is the home of
Jellyfish Lake, a volcanic lake up in the hills that is home to
millions of jellyfish – the non-stinging variety. The idea is that
you jump off a pier with your snorkeling gear and find yourself
surrounded by teeming, pulsating jellyfish which create a
tickling-like massage experience that may be unique on planet earth.
That's what we had read anyway.
For the life of me, I don't know how I
came to become so enamored with this idea. As a kid, my family would
travel to south Florida from time to time. It was here that I was
introduced to the Portuguese Man O' War, a beautifully
translucent blue jellyfish with, what I led myself to believe, was an
excruciating and mortal sting. My father and I would walk along the
beach, he with a piece of sharp driftwood in his hand and me with a
look of abject horror, as we went out on a mission to kill these
outwardly beautiful creatures – to literally pop them like a
balloon – before they got us. Later in life, both Lily and I would
experience the painful, red striations that are the universal tattoo
of the jellyfish that just added to their legend as things to be
avoided at all costs. Kind of like the plague. And yet, despite
this uninterrupted history of freakish fear and terror at the thought
of all things jellyfish, I not only begrudgingly tolerated Lily's
idea, but I embraced it with a passion. Life is so strange
sometimes.
When we told folks of our plans to swim
with the jellies, the reactions were both amusing and predictable.
Most folks would instinctively curl their lips and wrinkle their
noses and let out an extended “eeuww!” Others would hurl
epithets like “weird” or “creepy” or some colorful
combination of both. Our neighbor, Jan, said (with just the
slightest hint of exasperation), “Why don't you just fill your
bathtub with jello and jump in? Why go halfway around the world to
do this?” Okay, okay, I get it. It's not for everyone!
Our visit to Jellyfish Lake was part of
an all-day excursion to the southern region of Palau. It would be
our boat with a guide and just the two of us. We would visit three
or four snorkeling sites, apply soothing (and comical) ocean-bottom
mud at what they call the “Milky Way,” and wander secluded
beaches. But, in our minds, this was just prelude to the
unchallenged star attraction of all this, Jellyfish Lake. To get to
the lake, we needed to hike up steep steps, climb over some volcanic
rock, and then do the same down the steep path to this mysterious and
secluded lake sitting in a totally uninhabited primeval jungle
environment. When we arrived, we were the only persons there. We
got our snorkeling gear straightened out, and we jumped in.
I expected, of course, to be
immediately engulfed in a blizzard of jellyfish. But, we weren't.
The water on this day was bathtub warm, but seemingly without any
visibility beyond our noses. And, no jellyfish! Joe, our guide, had
told us that the jellies move around and are mysteriously affected by
changes in the lunar cycle. He urged us to press on and swim to the
center of the lake. As we neared the center, everything changed. At
first, it was just the spotting of a jellyfish and then two or three.
The water cleared. And then, it was as if the curtain rose and we
were permitted to enter a region of planet earth reserved for a
select few. The handful of jellyfish we had seen now turned to
hundreds and then thousands. They were everywhere. And, they were
so beautiful. With the sun's rays reaching down well below the
lake's surface, it was as if some of these jellyfish were in a
celestial spotlight eager to perform. There were different sizes,
none much bigger than the spread of the fingers on one's hand. They
were domed on one end with their thick tendrils laying underneath.
Imagine a large mushroom cap with stunted multiple stems reaching
down below it. But, instead of the mundane earthiness of the
mushroom, see instead a translucent figure that lets the sun shine
through and which gives it a most definite feeling of lightness,
delicacy and grace.
I was giddy and I was awestruck. I
felt stoned. I would reach out and gently touch these marine life
wonders or cup them in my hands. They were soft, softer than a
baby's cheek. They were tinged in a brownish orange, but you could
see right through them. And, when we found ourselves surrounded by
thousands of these lightly pulsating life forms, I felt like we were
in the midst of an incredibly choreographed ballet that, in that
moment, was just begging for a soundtrack.
Did we ever get so invaded that we felt
the massage-like experience we had read about? Sadly, no. But, what
we saw and what we felt was nothing short of magical – even
spiritual -- that will forever be hard to replicate.
We'll have to dig deeper into our
bucket list for that.
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