I’m sitting alone in a waiting room that I’ve never been in before, nor thought I’d need to.
There’s a sliver of light from the outside world peering through the small glazed window of the door into the clinic. It’s almost like any other waiting room – lifeless overhead lights, slightly comfortable seats and perhaps a painting of a boat. It’s utterly silent aside from the occasional bursts of clicks and clacks produced on a keyboard by the receptionist.
After filling out my initial paperwork, I sit and think of what led me here. Was it the last two years or the last 24? The simplest and most absurd answer pops into my mind: it’s not age; it’s not an early childhood memory… it’s a shark named Buster. After I smirk lightly to myself, the receptionist says that the therapist is ready to see me for the first time.
One Monday morning, about a month earlier, I was slightly caffeinated, tired and a bit queasy onboard a large charter boat headed to South Australia’s Neptune Island. The point of such a journey? To get up close and personal with a great white shark.
This time, I wasn’t alone. I was seated beside Emma, a friend of mine whom I’d been reunited with after two years. We were at the front of the lower deck and, due to the cooking and the glaring morning light that blasted through the windows, it had gotten quite toasty. Emma had decided to get us psyched up for the experience, so exposed me to her chaotic playlist of anthems. Blueface blared into my right eardrum as she mouthed along to it ferociously. This particular track was a favourite of hers, as she’d rapped it to me on several occasions well before she pressed play on her phone.
Despite the thrill of being in the nosebleed section for such a performance, I felt off. I’d never been seasick before and wanted to keep it that way.
“I need some air,” I said, before handing back the earphones and exiting. Emma nodded and finished the chorus.
On the top deck, my mind distracted me so I wouldn’t chum the water with breakfast. I’d thought about what a bad idea wearing shorts was, as the cold sea breeze hit me, followed by something that had become foreign – nervous excitement.
I never had an innate fear of sharks, so my knees did not wobble at the thought of getting in the cage. The opportunity to see such a creature in its natural habitat without posing an extreme risk to myself in a place I’d never been before seemed too good to pass up. Or at least, this is what I’d decided a week prior when Emma rang me and said she was coming down for a long overdue trip.
Emma wanted to go cage diving with great whites since I met her, and when she said she was finally doing it, I asked if I could join. It was literally the most impulsive last-minute decision I’d made in quite a while. I couldn’t wait to see some sharks and hang out with a friend I hadn’t seen since December of 2019. It was the perfect way to end my summer break before I returned to the grown-up world of full-time employment.
But there was a slight issue. We had been at Neptune Island for a while at that point, and there was not a shark in sight. No signs of a fin, not even a splash. It was a ghost town. We tried manifesting, talking to Poseidon and even making that “psst psst” noise at the ocean (you know the one you do to attract cats?) – we were desperate.
After lying in the sun on the top deck for what seemed like hours, we had almost given up. But then the lull of anticipation was broken as the lower decks gasped in harmony.
“LOOK – THERE IT IS!”
“Okay group two – you are ready to go.”
The cage diving was well underway. We had not been lucky enough to see multiple sharks, but at this point, we didn’t care. We were so glad just to have one: Buster. Buster was not the biggest male, but boy was he still incredibly tough looking. He was covered in scars and scratches, and after a comment was made one day about how busted up he looked, he gained his namesake. This shark was doing laps around the boat and glided through the water as if he owned it. Buster had to get himself in the mood for the show he had to put on.
Suited up in a wetsuit, mask, boots and weight vest with an oxygen tube, we entered the cage. The ocean swallowed us whole, its icy cold waters piercing the remainder of our exposed skin. Buster was ready to begin his next act for the insulated meat popsicles who had come to see him.
At first, he kept his distance and was pretty casual. But Buster knew what his adoring fans came for, and started ominously drifting closer.
Not that I could really feel anything at the time, but I could tell I had a big smile on my face (or maybe a gleeful pout, as I still needed to keep the oxygen tube in my mouth).
Then, slowly but surely my mask began to fill with water in what I now call the moustache-induced baptism (I promise this will make sense soon). I had to surface a total of four times, with each bringing a new revelation.
Surface #1
A bout of anxiety: This should’ve been simple – empty my mask, push it back on hard against my face, and go back under. But what if they think I’m panicking? Or trying to leave the cage early, despite absolutely loving it?
Surface #2
An epiphany: I realised how fortunate and happy I was to be there. I wondered why I stopped pushing myself from doing anything new, knowing how much at that moment I was thrilled to be in that cage.
Surface #3
Buster was well and truly giving us his greatest hits at this point, so I was in a panicked rush to get back down. I thought about how isolated and detached I had become. I then became annoyed that I couldn’t just push these thoughts to one side – the way I had been doing for quite some time.
Surface #4
The fourth was less of a revelation and more so salvation. Every other time I surfaced, no one saw me, but this time, a fellow brother was looking out for me: not by blood, but moustache. He had noticed my struggle and extended his arm out to me:
“It’s the stache bro – it’s not giving you the right seal!” He switched my mask over for me – this one was moustache resistant and made everything look 100 times better.
Emma does not have a moustache, and as a result, was underwater the whole time loving it. Wholly in the moment, she had fulfilled her long-awaited great white experience.
The last 10 minutes in the cage, I took a moment and admired Buster. He was battered and riddled with scars, yet seemed calm, confident and present. On the other hand, something was off in me, but I didn’t know what and I didn’t know if I wanted to find out.
When our time was up, I barely processed what had happened inside my head, instead reverting to my usual method of pushing everything aside. I wanted to focus on the week ahead, and thought if I just ignored it, I’d be fine. But it would be a lingering thought – one that hung around, one that would have to be confronted once Emma left.
The following Sunday, Emma and I sat near her gate, sheepish and exhausted. Being a tour guide and hanging out for a week had been a lot of fun – I’d seen the place I grew up in through her eyes and it made me appreciate it more. The amount we managed to see and experience in one week showed me just what I’d been missing out on in many ways.
For a long time, I’d been running on autopilot and hadn’t done enough to put myself out of my comfort zone or just revel in new experiences and embrace the opportunities that came my way. It was all work all the time, and when it wasn’t, it was all rather isolating. I wasn’t happy with how things were going.
The airline made an announcement that Emma’s plane was now boarding. I took a deep breath in, half knowing what would follow once I left her there.
After we said our farewells and hugged goodbye, I watched Emma line up before turning to make the long walk back to the car. Almost as if on cue, it all came crashing down on me. The realisation had been put at bay long enough.
The week that followed was rife with intense nihilism, anxiety and plenty of overthinking with no idea what to do or how to address any of it. There were intense bouts of feeling that I’d wasted the last two years and lost sight of who I was. I felt completely lost. I questioned everything, and tried to work out why I had shut myself off so intensely. I had returned to the life which had been titled ‘normal’, and it wasn’t working. I was the piece of a jigsaw puzzle that didn’t quite fit. With fresh eyes, it all seemed so strange.
Something, anything had to be done to help this. I couldn’t sit idly by and just wait for it to improve. This process would take time; it would be tough. It could only be started by admitting to myself that I needed help.
Now, as I venture down the hallway hesitantly trailing behind a therapist, unsure of what to expect, I start thinking about cages. I’d been in a mental cage – detaching myself and denying that there was anything that needed fixing, letting everything build up inside before it simply couldn’t fit anymore. But by entering a literal cage – one that was beyond my comfort zone – I came face-to-face with a great white and felt utterly free.
I need to be getting into the right cage and out of the wrong one.
Collage by the author