Drowning in a Cenote with Loved Ones Nearby

A Good Metaphor for Chronic, Mild Mental Illness

About 10 years ago, I was down in Mexico for a friend’s wedding. My wife and I were somewhere or another on the Yucatan Peninsula and decided to do some day tours.

We did the pyramid and then we decided to do a tour of cenote diving.

If you don’t know, cenotes absolutely litter the Yucatan Peninsula. They are basically holes in the ground with amazingly clear, fresh water. There is no above ground water supply. It’s all underground. Some say you could swim underwater from one coast to the other.

There are different typers of cenotes. The first one we went to was open to the sky but deep below the surface, which meant it got warmed by the sunlight and the 100 degree temps a little bit. I dove in. I was a little uncomfortable, but not much, and got used to the cold water quickly.

The second one we went to was completely underground. The tour had to walk down into a cavern, inch out onto a ledge, and then take the plunge. The “tour” included sights to see at the other end of the cavern. Everybody had their snorkeling gear on and paddled away.

Except me.

I was drowning.

I think I made it a few yards away from the shelf when I knew I was in a lot of trouble. My body was spasming with the shock of the cold, my feet couldn’t touch bottom, and panic started to set in.

Nobody noticed. By this time, my wife and the rest of the tour were 30 yards away.

My wife (now ex wife) is an incredible swimmer, raised in Hawaii. Water temperature doesn’t seem to bother her. I’ve always been an okay swimmer at best, but am a total sissy when it comes to cold water. I had a slightly similar reaction a few years before in a colder bay in Hawaii. There, I was able to control myself, make it back to the boat, and get out. I remember watching my wife sport like a fish from the very warm boat.  

Mexico was different. The water that everybody else was completely comfortable with, was pushing me into shock and panic. I was taking in lungsful of water, sputtering, trying to reach out with hands and feet for something, anything, to keep me above water, and unable to call out for help.

I was drowning, with my wife and the rest of the tour now about 50 yards away, completely unaware.

Nobody saw me. I don’t blame them. If I was with them, I wouldn’t have saw me. Everybody else was perfectly fine with the water temperature and oblivious to where they had started, where I was.

Even if someone had turned around, would they noticed me? I wasn’t making noise. I’m not sure how much I was splashing. Was the amount I was splashing be considered “Help I’m drowning” splashing or “Oh this a cool thing to see” splashing?

Like a few times in my past, an inner thing yelled at me like an angry drill sergeant: “Move your ass, Gajewski! Get control and move!”

And I did. Shivering to a point where it felt like all of my bones were clacking together, I calmed myself and dove down. I could not touch bottom. There was no help there. I oriented myself to the shelf and began a very painful, slow, doggy paddle back.

I don’t know why I thought of that this weekend. I’m in the middle of getting my ass kicked by a very non-life threatening flu or some such. Like the age-old tough guy saying: “I am sick; hear me whimper.”

I do remember times, though, when I was drowning mentally. It was at family parties, completely surrounded by people who loved me. Slipping deeper and deeper and afraid to call out for help in fear that I would bring them down with me.

This is why I concentrate on what I call “Gentler Insanities.” Mild and chronic can be just as devastating, if not more so, than severe and acute. You can read more about it on my website, https://friendsofgina.com/