Dark waters and the dark night of the soul
by Brad Nixon
I’m eighteen, working in the British Columbia bush with a bunch of guys. Wild and carefree, full of crazy and adventurous energy, we worked hard and played hard.
Late one evening, following a trip to the local bar, on our way back to camp someone suggested a swim — skinny-dipping. Being the height of summer in the interior of BC, despite the lateness of the hour, everyone agreed this was a truly excellent idea.
Adjacent to this town was a small lake featuring a small resort with a beach and a pier. As quietly as a bunch of fairly drunken young guys could be (i.e., not very quietly), we sneaked through the resort grounds and ran stumbling down to the beach.
Along with the others, I dropped my clothes as I ran. Stark naked, I plunged headfirst off the end of the dock into the black and murky waters.
Believing I had made a relatively shallow dive, I expected to return to the surface almost immediately. I was mistaken. I found myself swimming upwards, upwards, upwards, and still upwards.
Some moments passed, I really have no idea how long, then panic set in. I was overtaken by an overwhelmingly frightful thought: What if I was swimming in the wrong direction? What if I was swimming downwards, instead of upward or even horizontally?
In the darkness of the night, I had no sense of up nor down — or any other direction. I realized that if I kept swimming I could be taking myself downwards to ever darker and colder waters, ultimately, quite possibly, to my death.
Somehow, into my cloudy mind drifted the thought that was my salvation. Stop! Stop swimming. Stop everything. My own buoyancy, my own lightness would carry me back to the surface and life-giving air.
My lungs were now already desperate for breath and I knew that, especially if I had been swimming downwards, it could take some time for me to drift back to the surface.
I forced myself to be still. I stopped the desperate and frantic clawing at the water. After a very long time, I did eventually break out once again into the cool night to inhale the most beautiful lungful of air I have ever tasted.
Years later I’ve came to look back on this experience with new eyes. What a beautiful and almost perfect metaphor for those dark nights of the soul in my life.
To the extent that I thrash around desperately trying to find my way out of the dark waters, there is a good chance I will remain there. I might even die. To the extent that I allow myself to be carried gently by and through such waters, I just might eventually re-surface — somehow reborn, transformed.
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Brad Nixon is an aspiring writer and poet. Canadian born and raised, he has lived in Europe for the past twenty years where he worked as an pilot for KLM Royal Dutch Airlines. Now retired and resident on Salt Spring Island, he spends his time outdoors in the mountains and on the water, or else indoors reading and writing |
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