Introduction to Scuba Diving

For the past two winters, I have attempted to enroll in a SCUBA experience class at Westfield Water Sports in Southwick, Massachusetts.  The class is offered as an introduction to SCUBA, so that individuals may get a feel for the sport and determine if it’s something that they enjoy enough and feel comfortable with, before pursuing the formal certification course.  The introductory class is only offered every first Friday of the month, and it seems that there is little interest in winter weather pool time, as oftentimes, the classes that I have signed up for have been cancelled, due to too few participants.  However, I can’t place all of the blame on others for how long it has taken for me to get into this class, since my own plans or reservations regarding cost and my level of comfort have also kept me away.

Finally, last Friday was the night.  There were enough people interested and I needed to do this for myself.  My initial interest in trying SCUBA developed as I encountered various marine biology internship postings that listed SCUBA certification as an application requirement.  I decided that the certification would make me a more attractive and qualified candidate for such positions; however, having never even been snorkeling, I figured that I should find out what SCUBA was all about.

The class began with the typical filling out of waivers and signing one’s life away.  We received an overview of the functions of the essential pieces of SCUBA equipment, and were ingrained with the three basic rules of SCUBA; breathe at all times, ascend and descend slowly, and equalize early and often.  The slow ascent and descent and frequent equalization are safety precautions, which are intended to prevent pressure from building in the lungs and ears, reducing the potential of serious injury.

We reconvened at the pool, at which SCUBA equipment was distributed and we suited up.  By this time, I was becoming somewhat anxious, as I sat on the edge of the pool, fiddling with my face mask, so that it didn’t feel like it would either constrict the blood flow to my brain or allow water to seep in.  Breathing with the mask on felt strange, as I struggled for air in its confined space.  Finally, I slid hesitantly into the warm water and was equipped with an air tank.  I found it amusing that the tank felt lighter than my frame pack often does when I’m traveling. 

After, a few more instructions and a final review of the three rules, it was time for the moment of truth.  I purged my regulator of any water that might have entered, stuck it in my mouth, and began insistently negotiating with myself to go under water.  My less logical side soon won out and I plunged my head in.  We had been told to take five breaths before resurfacing; however, mine felt more like hyperventilation, as I continued to struggle with my logical side telling me that humans can’t breathe underwater.  I quickly popped up, breaking rule number two and tried to get my wits together.  Fortunately, the second attempt was far more successful, and I gradually became more comfortable with this crazy concept. 

As a group, we slowly made our way from the shallow end to the eight foot depth at the far end of the pool, from which we commenced our free swim time.  I found the experience to be thrilling and I felt more at home in and in tune with my element, as I darted around the perimeter of the pool. 

Now, I just need to save up for the formal SCUBA certification course; perhaps, next year.

Uncovering the Past

My grandparents on their wedding day

Several years ago, I began to wonder about my heritage.  My father’s mother had already traced his family’s lineage back to the time of the Pilgrims, so that she could attain membership to the Daughters of the American Revolution organization.  I have bound copies of her findings, which I scanned through at that time, and found to be quite interesting. 

My mother’s family lineage is another story.  We know that her grandparents, my great-grandparents, immigrated to the United States from Poland.  Her parents, both of Polish descent, were born and married here.  As a result, she is a full-blooded Pole, and I am half-Polish.  Yet, in spite of this strong blood connection to the culture, we know little about it or, even our more recent ancestors, their lives and circumstances. To further complicate things, of my grandparents’ generation, there is only one survivor left, whose memory
                                                                  continues to fade with age. 

My great-grandparents (grandfather's parents) on their wedding day (left)

Still, I had this urge to know, to learn, from where I came.  I started my initial search by utilizing the free two week trial from Ancestry.com.  I found the sheer number of available documents and routes to take overwhelming, and this feeling was compounded by the fact that, with all of the similar names of Polish immigrants in Massachusetts and the likelihood of significant name changes, I could not be sure who was actually an ancestor of mine.  It also did not help in trying to differentiate among individuals, when neither I nor my mother knew the first name of her mother’s father or the maiden name of her father’s mother.  Birth dates and death dates were obscure, and much of this common, critical data, which we take for granted may have been incorrectly recorded, due to the language barrier, since, I believe, none of my great-grandparents spoke English, fibbing about their ages, or, perhaps, simply not knowing.  Thus, the two week trial period concluded my first attempt at genealogy research with little to show for my efforts.

Recently, I have returned to this question with renewed determination to uncover some answers into the past.  My thought the other day was to go back to the basics, mapping out all of the known individuals of my Polish family tree and noting any bits of information that might help me to discover links to more distant relatives.  I’ve figured that if information regarding my great-grandparents is too sparse or inconclusive to locate key documents or relations, then, perhaps, I may accomplish this in a more round-about way through my grandparents and their siblings, especially since my mother has a greater knowledge pertaining to them. 

I’ve also found other useful resources this time around, including the Bible, in which my mother, and presumably her mother, retained obituaries and memorial prayer cards of family and close friends.  It was in the pages of this book that I spotted the obituary my grandfather’s mother, containing her lost maiden name.  From these clippings, I recorded all the names, dates, ages, places of residence and birth, and children’s names of my grandparents’ and great-grandparents’ generation that I could, even if I already had the information stashed in my binder.  I didn’t want to miss anything. 

In addition, through Family Search and Census Finder, I have found links, to U.S. Census records; however, these censuses are not free for public access online from 1930 and upwards.  I’m hoping that I may have better luck with accessing key documents at the Springfield Massachusetts Family History Center that I stumbled upon in Ludlow, of all places, about a twenty minute drive from home.  The hours are limited, as it is only open on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.  Unfortunately, since I am working both of those days this week, I will have to wait until next week to explore the documents and services offered there.

For more specific information regarding Polish genealogy, the Polish Consulate in the U.S. doesn’t offer any kind of services or assistance with such research, but its website does provide links to other resources.  It is recommended to contact local historical societies, the U.S.National Archives and Records Service, and the genealogical division of the Library of Congress, the latter two being located in Washington, D.C.  The Polish Consulate also suggests sending a request for information directly to the Polish National Archives, but one must first determine, in which country their town of origin now resides, since the country has undergone so many divisions over the course of its troubled history.  Through the Consulate’s website, I also linked to a Polish digital Archival Internet Forum, which may be promising, but I have yet to explore it.

Reuniting with an Old Friend

I set out with my friends and a birding acquaintance of theirs to northeastern Massachusetts, so that we might get a glimpse of the reported rarities and, for us, being from a land-locked part of the state, the equally obscure coastal birds.  We witnessed some beautiful birds, including the west-coast Townsend’s warbler, a lost Cassin’s kingbird, which should be in Mexico right now, an elegant great blue heron, and the strange-looking surf and white-winged scoters.  The hotspot for observing the coastal birds on our trip was the Park River National Wildlife Refuge on Plum Island, for which we bundled up to keep the chill of the frigid sea wind at bay. 

I strolled along the boardwalk, whose construction seemed to match that of the steady rise and fall of the sand dunes over which it was built.  As I neared the end of the boardwalk, I kept pausing to stand on my tip-toes and peer over the last row of sand dunes in anxious anticipation of the sight of the vast, blue ocean.  Finally, I saw it, but only a slight glimpse.  My heart skipped a beat; I felt like a kid in a candy store, exhilarated over what was at last within my grasp.  In between my last few peeps over the dunes, I jogged to the end of the boardwalk, past the birders on the landing, and down the sand-covered stairs.  I could barely contain my excitement with a broad smile stretched from ear to ear, as I stumbled through the shifting sand. 

As I approached the compacted, ocean swept stretch of the beach, I slowed my pace and heartily greeted my long-lost friend.  I stood as close as I dared to the incoming surf, inhaling that brisk, salty air and allowing the power of the wind and waves to reinvigorate my soul.  I fancied the waves instigating a chase, as they crashed into the shore and the bubbling, white foam glided up the beach towards my feet.  Instead of permitting such an attack, I crouched down just out of reach, and extended my arm to gently caress my friend, letting it know that I’m here, that I care, that it’s been missed.

With no end in sight over the horizon, the great, expansive ocean always serves as a reminder to me how insignificant myself and humanity, in general, are, and how mysterious life can be, full of secrets and unknowns.  Yet, there is a beauty in it that extends to humanity and to life itself, which trumps the negative that we might find in them.  It opens our eyes to the endless possibilities and the wonder of uncertainty; it humbles us.  I find the ocean to be inspiring and revitalizing, seeming to change who I am and how I reflect upon this life.  And so, once again, I long to be reunited with that friend, which has so dramatically affected me and changed my frame of mind, my outlook on life.

West to East Coast Travel

I am grateful to have a home, a place to come back to when there is nowhere else to go, where I receive constant love and support, and have time to regroup.  I was better able to appreciate it upon this homecoming for at least two reasons that I have identified.  Firstly, the culture shock is significantly less, as Salt Spring Island was not nearly as isolated as Sherkin Island, complete with shops, traffic, and crowds of people, especially during the summer months and at the Saturday market.  Salt Spring seemed somewhat similar to Western Massachusetts, perhaps like the Hilltowns or a smaller version of Northampton, except surrounded by water. 

Secondly, I keep forgetting how much I dislike the traveling part of traveling.  The flight out of Redmond, Oregon was quite nice, during which I was able to gaze in awe upon the landscape, since the plane was at a low enough elevation.  It passed over some of the snow-capped mountains, most likely those a part of the Cascade Mountains’ chain, which gave me such a different perspective of them, seeing the topography from above, which looked as if the ridges and divots of the mountains had been chiseled into the rocky, nearly deserted landscape.  I had become so accustomed to looking out at the horizon, where these giant formations hold their ground, yet I still felt intimidated by these pronounced forms surrounding and looming over the town.  I am more familiar and at ease with the hill-like mountains of the east coast.  I am still unable to comprehend elevations at which snow exists on top of mountains and they seem like giants even from hundreds of miles away.

On the second flight, from Seattle to New York City, I was hoping to sleep through the majority of it, being overnight travel.  Unfortunately, it was quite uncomfortable seating for a cross-country flight, I was freezing even with three layers on, and I kept having this internal dilemma about whether or not to wake up my seat mates to use the bathroom.  As a result, I slept for less than two of the five and a half hour flight.

When the plane landed in New York, it was raining as the weather report had predicted, but fortunately not down-pouring, as I made my way to the airtrain pick up spot.  The airtrain ultimately went to a couple of stations outside of the airport grounds, but there were two or three stops before that at different sections of the airport.  From the location that I had gotten on at, anyone could ride the airtrain, and since people who are transferring between flights use the airtrain between terminals, I do not believe that there is any kind of established security check.  Who’s to say that any random person could walk into an airport terminal and avoid security?  Maybe there is something in the system to prevent such an incident that I do not know about, but it seemed pretty sketchy to me.  Other than that little detail, the airtran was pretty low key, since few people tend to be up before the sun.

I transferred to the subway at Jamaica Station, and as soon as I saw those Metro Card machines, I knew that I was going to have troubles.  I am not at all a big city girl.  The last time I took the subway into Boston for a Peace Corps interview, my greatest difficulty was trying to figure out how to get the entry machine to read the Metro Card.  I felt like I had tried it every which way, but then one of the workers, I think, got the thing to work.  I felt incredibly silly, just as I did now in New York, with my huge pack and too exhausted to fully understand the picture instructions for how to insert the Metro Card.  That’s what my excuse will be, exhaustion.  Anyways, somehow, I finally figured out the machine all by myself and escaped through the gate into the railroad terminal.

Descending from here to the subway terminal was quite a shock to my system, as it was deathly hot and incredibly stuffy.  Of course there were already no seats once the subway pulled up, so I got amazing workout trying to hold myself upright with my pack against the momentum of the train.  As more people entered the train at each stop, I think I became a bit claustrophobic.  It was crowded and breathing became more difficult; I felt light-headed and nauseous; I was sweating profusely.  I had to get off of this train, otherwise I was sure to black-out, as these were the tell-tale signs.  I tried to hold out through a couple more stops, but finally decided that it wasn’t worth the risk, and so, I burst out of the train doors at the Queens stop, dropped my pack, stripped off my layers, and plopped down on the floor.  I was in no state to care what the people around me thought or what disgusting things had been on that floor.

After watching the E train pass by four more times, I mustered up the courage to get back on and ride it again, even though, I still didn’t feel quite right, but this probably wouldn’t be remedied until I got away from the subway system completely.  It was now rush hour and the trains were packed so full that people literally spilled out of the opened doors onto the platform, but managed to stay on their feet.  I chose a subway car that seemed slightly less crowded and I was able to at least prop my pack up against the wall where I stood.  Eventually, a seat became available and sitting down helped me to keep my horrible physical state at bay.

The subway finally reached Penn Station, where throngs of people were milling about in every direction, making it difficult to navigate around them or at least to avoid getting in anyone’s way.  I ducked into the nearest restaurant/café that offered seating, where I ordered a light breakfast and tried to calm my stomach and my nerves.  I decided that I was in no shape to go wandering around the city, and instead, I would simply remain at the station for the hours until my bus departed.  I learned that the seating at the center of the station was only for Amtrak and New Jersey transit customers and the unfriendly woman at the information desk seemed to believe that I was crazy for thinking that there could be a waiting area for bus patrons, since the busses didn’t stop at Penn Station.  Neither she nor anyone else could tell me about the location of the Megabus stop and all I had to go on was that somewhere between 31^st and 33^rd streets on 9^th Street, there it was, but that would be quite a distance to cover.  I decided to not worry too much about it until the time came closer to noon. Instead, I sat on the floor, propped up against a wall with one arm through the shoulder strap of my pack and my hat pulled far enough over my eyes, so that I could nod off occasionally without anyone suspecting that I was actually asleep.  This is how I spent about four hours waiting for the bus.

Finally, the time came and I suited up in my rain gear, while still sporting my crocs, and hiked over a block to 9^th Street, which seemed a lot longer than the distance in the station between 7^th and 8^th streets.  I was quite relieved, as I approached the next intersection, to see the obvious Megabus logo on a parked bus and signs around a fenced in area with tarp tents inside, just across the street.  I was even happier once I actually boarded the bus, knowing that I was on my way home, and cuddled up with my daypack and fell asleep.

Unfortunately, the combination of exhaustion, hunger, dehydration, and residual subway effects were taking their toll on me with a painful headache that lasted the entire ride home.  I felt horrible that I wasn’t able to express much gratitude for or excitement at seeing my parents when they picked me up at the terminal in Holyoke.  I shared with them some of what I had done in Oregon and they updated me on the happenings here, and soon after arriving at the house, I ate a banana, guzzled some water, took and ibuprofen, and fell asleep for a few hours to remedy my current health issues.  Amazingly, the headache was gone when I awoke, so I was better able to appreciate the comfort of home, after that long and uncomfortable trip.

Now, I find myself trying to regroup.  I had left my room in chaos when I left in May with half of my things packed into boxes, partly from moving back home last spring and partly anticipating my next move out, and the other half of my things set in random places, as an attempt at organization.  I don’t think I would have remembered exactly where I had left everything, even if my roommate hadn’t reorganized the room. It looks much tidier now, but the set up will make it difficult to live out of the boxes, as they are all now stacked upon each other.  I am also having difficultly remembering what little projects I had started or where I had paused with them.  I know that I was trying to get rid of unnecessary possessions, condense my life, but how far I got or what still needed to be sorted, I couldn’t tell.

Yet, even though I have this disoriented feeling, it also feels like I never left home.  For the most part, everything and everyone is the same as when I left.  All of the things that I’ve done and seen and the people who I’ve met seem like part of a dream, like some kind of time warp.  Maybe I fell asleep one night and entered into this alternate universe, also known as Canada, where five months is the equivalent to a matter of hours in my reality.  In spite of the strange feeling, I think that it’s pretty cool to have really lived a dream.

Tornado Strikes

It seems so unreal.  I cannot quite grasp it.  A tornado in Western Massachusetts; it’s unheard of.  This occurrence is common in the Midwest, where they are equipped with storm cellars to cope with a hard hit, a significant time spent underground, and a developed warning system.  The residents know how to react, they know what to do, how to rebuild.  Watching the news footage made my heart skip and my stomach turn.  How could this have happened?  Familiar places in ruins, family and friends isolated, stranded without utilities by downed trees and debris, unsure what to do next.  I did not have much of a reaction to the earthquake/tsunami in Japan, most likely because it is so far away, and was too catastrophic to even begin to comprehend, just like something out of a movie.  This feels like yet another natural disaster movie, but it is right in my own backyard, making the storm and the destruction so much more real.  What can I do?  What is my responsibility?  Rebuilding will happen with or without me, and the news reports may be hyping up the the damages sustained by the hardest hit sections of cities and towns.  My home did not incur any damages, in spite of two separate tornadoes touching down on each side of the city.