“Just don’t touch the dead whale”

These were not the most enticing words to hear before our first dive in Washington.

It was my birthday weekend and we were camping on the northwestern Olympic peninsula, the home of the Makah tribe. On this dramatic coastline of steep wave-eroded cliffs, long sandy beaches and rich forests, the Makah have lived a life inter-dependent with the land and sea since time immemorial.

We’d spent the morning scoping out a spot to snorkel and the excitement was palpable. For me, discovering the underwater landscape of a place is a vital part of feeling fully at home in a new environment. Learning of the creatures and ecosystems that exist beneath the waves helps me to build a richer picture and understanding of where I am.

First we checked Cape Flattery, where the Strait of Juan de Fuca joins the Pacific Ocean. We wound our way through the woods, the trail soft and spongy beneath our feet. As we approached the cliffs edge the view opened up; dramatic sea stacks topped with fir trees and the bright, deep blue water below. We watched a sea otter drift with the tide, diving every minute or so and surfacing with a mouth full of fish. The rocky coves looked so inviting, but only a little offshore we could see the tide ripping past. Even at slack tide it looked dangerous and with no easy entrance point we decided against it and drove back towards the town.

On our way through Neah Bay we stopped at the crab shack to ask where people people would go diving. The lady there told us that she’d seen people going off the jetty, or sea wall just a little further down the road. She also told us that there was a dead whale pulled up on the beach, which had been hit by a freight ship. Some members of the tribe had gone out by boat to retrieve it from where it was floating in the straits and pulled it into shore. Whales are central to Makah culture and apparently they were waiting for it to decompose so they could harvest the bones.

As we drove towards the jetty the stench of the whale greeted us; black, ballooned and full of flies, it looked fairly small, we thought perhaps she was a grey whale. The smell and the tragic death of such a beautiful creature gripped us deep in our stomachs, and the feeling hung over us long after we drove away.

We stood on the gravel of the sea wall and looked out at the grey open expanse of ocean, summoning enthusiasm and trying to quell our nerves. We weren’t feeling overly confident; the sea-wall felt spooky, like some strange unnatural limb stuck out off the land and the visibility in the water was terrible. Despite our reservations, I knew this was just our fears of the unknown and that we needed to embrace our surroundings to discover a new comfort zone in the water. First times always hold an air of apprehension, but for the same reason they can be the most vivid and exhilarating.

We finally pulled on our suits and climbed down the barnacled rocks of the sea wall. Kelp fronds swirled at the surface, revealing bursts of orange starfish clinging to the rocks beneath. We put our masks and fins on and took the plunge.

I inhaled sharply, on the exposed skin of my hands and face the water felt icy cold. The cold clenched tightly around my skull and it was hard to even keep my hands beneath the surface. I tried to relax and took some slow, deep breaths to acclimatise. The water came into focus; a milky blue green flecked with sediment, alien-like moon jellies floating all around me.

We swam out from the rocks, finning towards the kelp forest just offshore. Moving through the water intensified the cold, giving me brain freeze. I had been fixated for months on exploring kelp forests, it was a beacon to look forward to amidst my sadness at leaving the tropics behind. But now I was here, in my thin 3mm wetsuit, I felt ill equipped to enjoy it. I was so cold I couldn’t begin to appreciate or dive down amongst the kelp and see what creatures lived within.

Despite the bad visibility the water had a certain beauty to it, the soft muted dullness of the rocks and kelp, accentuated with bright gleams of green from the sea grass and anemones. I tried to take some photos, my finger trembled on the shutter and I struggled to find the presence of mind to properly frame the scenes before me.

We both looked at each other, then at the shore, we nodded, we were done.

It had been less than 5 minutes.

Normally I leave the water elated and fulfilled, but today I felt deflated and defeated. As we got back in the car and drove back to our camp spot my mind tumbled into negativity.

The disappointment brought so many feelings to the surface. I felt so far from where I want to be in my practice as a freediver and photographer. Thoughts of not being good enough circled through my head.

I felt like time was passing me by and that each new day was bringing me no closer to my goals and dreams. I felt impatient and a little hopeless.

These thoughts are not comfortable ones to feel, but of course they are all part of the journey. I often have these moments around my birthday; milestones of age provide these moments of reckoning.

As quickly as these thoughts came they then began to dissipate as I reminded myself of all I had to be grateful for. I thought of little me, and she would feel about what I was doing on my 27th birthday - I think she’d be pretty stoked.

Even if I’m no where near as accomplished in my career and skills yet as little Georgie might have expected, I think she’d be thrilled by all the adventures and that I get to spend my time with such a wonderful partner. Through some mental re-framing I began to feel excited again for all the learning that is to come; my dreams morphed from insurmountable mountains to climb, to a gradual and winding hike through the valley.

As I toasted my toes on our camp fire that evening my mind drifted into feelings of contentment and hope for what this next year brings. I felt full of inspiration and the intention to chase after my goals and make little Georgie proud. What is life if not a journey of continually shifting baselines and dreams?