There is something fresh and full of potential in the Atlantic air of the Azores. I feel it blowing on my skin as soon as I step off the plane on the landing strip that kisses the coastline of the largest island called São Miguel.
The island is awash with blue and white – skies and clouds, waves and foamy crests, walls and windows, porcelain tile paintings… A generous immersive gallery by majestic Nature and skilled local craftsmen.
And the green, all the hues of green – lush blankets of greenery that roll down the mountainsides offering cover to all manner of birds, and wonky fields where so many crops grow, from pineapples to tea leaves! The lakes in volcanic craters have a distinct green tone to them too, whether viewed from a long hike around the high rims, or from a kayak crossing in the face of the winds that pick up every afternoon…
The energy of the Azores lends itself to physical adventures – leaving me wondering whether I won’t need another holiday after coming home, just to recover from these islands!
Among all the horse riding, trekking, hot pool swimming, cliff exploring, along with sampling the local seafood and ubiquitous pineapple desserts, something is stirring in my subconscious mind, as one particular excursion draws closer.
There is fear in my body.
It is not at all about what I am doing on the island, or even about the local driving habits, no matter how quickly they speed their coupés around the narrowest roads lined with stone walls or sheer cliff drops… It is about something moving through the waters all around. And I am going to be exposed to it very soon.
I know it, and I know a time comes for fears to be faced. A literal turning in the direction of the fear, after running or hiding from it since so long, and looking at it face to face.
My time comes as I jump aboard a speedboat, wearing a borrowed old wetsuit and an even older life jacket, and head out onto the open and vast ocean. With my Viking roots and upbringing sailing around the fjords of Scandinavia, I have no fear of sailing or the sea in itself. But some of what lurks beneath the surface of this ocean stirs fears in me that may well be older than this lifetime alone.
The excursion sounds innocuous enough: we are heading out to swim with dolphins off the coast of the beach village called Caloura. Spotters with military-grade binoculars have seen several pods of dolphins splashing in these waters, and we are going to try to get up-close and friendly with them.
As we speed away from the coast, battering through rolling waves with small white crests, my heart is pounding, and there is no ignoring it. Something primeval is taking over in me. Flashes of scenes come to my inner eye where the huge tail of a whale breaks the surface of the waters and comes crashing down on a small boat…
Marine biologists and cetacean enthusiasts alike flock to the Azores from all over the globe to see the migrating schools of whales. Sperm whales, false orcas, even the rare blue whale pass through these waters.
The further we get from the coast, the more I feel like I am being taken to a sure and certain death in the depths, with the battered pieces of a boat wreck sinking around me. Actually, I do not “remember” the sinking part – it is the sight and impact of the whale tail, from somewhere deep in the memory banks of other lifetimes, or perhaps collective consciousness, that is making me shiver with cold sweat under my wetsuit. I have heard that the soul often leaves the body before the moment of physical expiration in dramatic death scenarios, to decrease the trauma that would otherwise be imprinted upon the soul… Perhaps my soul flew off once the whale tail smashed down, and it was “just” the physical vessel of the body that sank to the depths of the ocean, after doing my soul such gracious service in whatever lifetime this happened in.
Back in the so-far-unsunken speedboat, the skipper spots the pod of dolphins up ahead, and cuts the engine gradually to make a laid-back approach. We see them cruising through the waves, riding up and down through them, sometimes even jumping out and gracing us with a full flash of their colourings. This gorgeous sight brings on excited squeaks from the dolphin fans in our boat, which is to say: everyone in it.
With almost military precision, we line up along the edges of the speedboat, don our masks and snorkels, and sit astride the sides, ready to slip in… Well, “ready” is an overstatement. I am not a big fan of swimming, particularly not in water where I cannot see the bottom. Floating is not my body’s forte, and I feel like I am constantly battling drowning. I wish that I could keep even this patchy old life jacket on to bring the buoyancy odds to my side. However, the dolphin pod is not waiting for my water anxieties to subside, so the guide gives me an encouraging push. I slide in through the surface of the water, trying not to splash.
It is so cold that I can barely catch my breath.
The taste of salt in my mouth with the fumes from the boat engines in my nostrils is overwhelming. The guide shouts to look under the surface to see the dolphins swimming around and below us. The water feels icy, and pours in through my leaky snorkelling mask. My legs are kicking the water to keep me afloat, and my arms are flailing to catch the sides of the speedboat again. All the while I am trying not to go into full panic mode.
With as much dignity as I can muster under the circumstances, I climb, shivering, back up the retractable steps in to the speedboat. My body is giving a splendid demonstration of teeth-chattering cold.
At least no whale tail has appeared over my head yet.
I console myself with acknowledging that I gave the open-ocean swimming a try, and that was enough. That was already a major fear to face off. And there are plenty of good dolphin photos that I can take from inside the boat, as I see the pod playfully prancing by!
In my excitement, I forget about the impending doom of whale tails capsizing us, and I click away with my camera till the battery dies.
…
Later, safely back on the shore, I see fishing boats waiting for high tide to float them out on the waves. Their pious and imploring names, painted in black letters on the stern, make me smile. I recognise the sentiment that named them thus. One is called:
“Deus Vem Comigo“.
“God, Come With Me” … to meet the whale tails.
I do not yet know where that fear of mine came from, nor whether it has truly subsided, but I do know that I lived to tell the tale of the Azorean waters. And the volcanic lakes. And the beaches of black sand, the hidden trails through lush green vegetation, the sound of kooky birds calling throughout the night, the smell of tea plantations, and the taste of seafood so fresh that you can see the trawler that caught it from your seaside table.
To the blue, white and green islands of the Azores, I say:
Thank You… and I got away from you alive!
