Black man and the sea: the ocean has always beckoned him
© Essence written by Michael H. Cottman
Descending through a brilliant world of blue below the ocean's surface, I
stared into an abyss so vast that even with a high-tech dive computer
cradled in my hand, I couldn't begin to calculate the depth. For 12 years
I've explored the underwater wilderness and now, through my travels, I'm
sharing lessons about the sea with my inquisitive 6-year-old daughter,
Ariane.
Scuba diving is a hobby that has become my passion, not only for the
extraordinary sense of adventure, but also because in the still of the ocean
I draw spiritual strength. I've seen the deep coral wails of Grand Cayman,
sharks and octopuses in West Africa, sea horses in Barbados, wrecks in
France, barracudas in the Bahamas, dolphins in Belize, and sun-lit caverns
off the coast of Cuba.
But the underwater sight that made me feel most reverent was the wreck of
the Henrietta Marie, the only slave ship in the Americas to be
scientifically documented and excavated and have artifacts recovered.
Archaeologists believe its 16,000 artifacts represent the largest collection
of tangible objects from the seventeenth-century maritime slave trade.
Nearly 82 sets of shackles were recovered from the wreck: larger shackles
used to bind men and women, and smaller ones to handcuff children. Yet,
through exploring the ocean realm--and experiencing the emotions associated
with encountering a slave ship--comes a sense of peace, as well as purpose:
to share stories of our struggles, triumphs and enduring faith with our
children.
I was a child myself when the ocean first beckoned me. I was a 10-year-old
growing up in Detroit. In the evenings after my homework, I would watch Sea
Hunt, a television program starring Lloyd Bridges as an underwater voyager.
He wore a black rubber suit with double tanks strapped to his back, and he
introduced me to the wonders of scuba diving. I knew even then that I would
not settle for a vicarious experience with the sea. I also knew I was
unique: Black boys in 1960's Detroit weren't talking about scuba diving.
There were no Black role models in wet suits in my neighborhood. I played
basketball and football with my running buddies, but I also wanted to learn
about the ocean.
My mother supported my quest and taught me to swim. She and my father took
me to museums, bought me books about adventure and faraway places, and
encouraged me to dream. Because of my parents, I now have more special
moments with my daughter, Ariane. We read children's marine-science
magazines and flip through my amateur underwater photos.
Last year I took Ariane to Cozumel, Mexico, for the annual summit of the
National Association of Black Scuba Divers, an organization I joined more
than ten years ago. At the pool one afternoon, I watched as my child was
welcomed by several African-American women, many of whom have earned
advanced certifications in scuba diving. Ariane listened to these smart,
self-assured women talk about their own underwater experiences, and, more
important, she studied their poised, topside behavior throughout the summit.
"It's good to see a brother with his daughter," said one sister, as she
stepped into a wet suit. "I enjoy watching both of you together. We need our
fathers."
As I climbed off the dive boat with my gear bag slung over my shoulder,
Ariane was waiting near the dock. Before the sun set, I taught her to
snorkel. Maybe she'll choose to scuba dive, maybe not. But whatever she
decides, we can always walk through the waves and share stories from
yesterday and plan for tomorrow. I had always imagined the ocean shore would
be an ideal place for a father and daughter to talk, to laugh and to learn.
I was right.
© Essence written by Michael H. Cottman