The Dead Sea is different. It spits up black asphalt. The Egyptians trekked far to get their mummification balm there. Some say it’s haunted by fish spirits killed by high salinity. Occasionally, things are born there, after heavy rain. Propelling themselves to life before the salt levels rise.
The Dead Sea is a brilliant turquoise. A floating machine. But, in the wet winter of 1980, it bled deep crimson. An explosion of red algae, dancing in the rain.
We all come from the sea, really.
Glistening humans, feeling for gills.
Seventy per cent water.
Shimmering foetuses.
We are clumsy on land.
We are clumsy in water.
And don’t get me started on what we’re like in the air.
We’re an embarrassment.
We are so insignificant.
Did you hear about that hotel in Florida where you can get married underwater? Wedding vows as bubbles and chlorine shooting up your nose. And, did you know, in Argentina, a baby dolphin was washed up on the shore? Sunbathers passed it around the beach, taking selfies. Hugging it close.
Put on a show!
Smile for the people!
And the dolphin died, right there, surrounded by humans. Far too over-exposed.
We all come from the sea. Just some of us more than others.
Once upon a time, a girl jumped into the sea.
There wasn’t anyone around, so she might have made no noise.
If a girl falls down.
If
a
girl
falls
down.
Does anyone hear it?
It was in the days before the sea and sky had been sliced in two, so no one knew if she jumped up or down, or in or around, but she jumped well.
And the air and the sky slipped through her fingers.
And the limpets were stars that clung to her knees.
And the sun bubbled like a blowhole in a far-off galaxy.
This girl was from an island that no one had left before.
And she was strange. And she was different.
And everyone was scared of the way she talked, which happened to be not at all.
They called her many things, and they named her many times.
And, then, when they were done, they told her to swim.
Swim into the nameless colour, and tell them what was there.
Whether the world was flat, and if water dragons were fierce.
And if a space whale had once fallen into the sea in a shower of liquid stars.
They packed her a lunch, and watched her go.
And prayed she’d never come back.
So, off she went
a
girl
pushed
into
the
sea.
She swam until her skin turned blue.
She swam until her feet were webbed.
She swam until she saw a light, lurking, far beneath her feet.
A light that buzzed and hummed and sang within a gigantic shell of bone.
The girl tapped it once. She tapped it twice.
And on the third tap it opened, like a broken jaw.
When the bubbles cleared, she saw a cushion there.
On it were pearls.
No, not pearls.
Teeth.
Rows and rows of strangers’ teeth.
The teeth flew out of her hands.
And clung to her neck.
And locked themselves into place there.
And then she could see all the colours.
And then she could hear all the stories.
And then she knew that she was not alone.
Welcome to our night-time aquarium.
We’ve turned the underwater tunnel into a cocktail bar and by ten p.m. it’s packed with those clamouring to see. Men below, looking up, and men above, looking down. We have glasses with umbrellas and Mr Farani serves grilled shrimp. The men in the tunnel are banging the glass.
Put on a show!
Smile for the people!
Let’s talk about butterfly stroke. I am not very good at butterfly stroke.
Are you? Is anyone?
Sea butterflies are pteropods and they are nearly invisible to the naked eye. They have feet that they use as wings to swim through the ocean.
Some pteropods are called sea angels.
Sea angels.
The love of my life is called Melissa Singh.
Melissa Singh is our underwater ballerina.
Our in-house evening mermaid.
My job is to hold Melissa’s inhaler. I help her get into her costume, too. I have to sew the sequins back on if any of them fall off. They fall off quite a lot. It’s a very important job. It is also very difficult to walk with a tail. Melissa makes it look easy, in her cheap bubblegum bra. She poses for the punters and they throw silver in the water; they shower her with stars and she pretends not to mind. Then she curls her pink tail (this shade of pink is called flamingo), shoves her hair behind her ears and dives into the tank.
I hold my breath in solidarity. My lungs a burning coral.
The world record is twenty minutes and, after that, you disappear.
In Eastern Europe, some mermaids are called rusalky. They are dangerous, demonic creatures who love to dance and drown.
Russia has a proverb: ‘Not everything is a mermaid that dives into the sea.’
Melissa has a scar.
A big one, on her right leg. It runs all the way from her ankle to just inside her thigh. It’s a glistening constellation. It matches my hands. She caught me looking one time, and gave me a look of defiance. Perhaps we are the same, I thought. Perhaps we come from a similar home.
I’ve spent all this week reading up on Sirenomelia. Babies born into this world swimming, with their legs fused together. The likelihood of this happening is the same as conjoined twins.
We are all born with our shadows underwater.
Tiktaalik are the first fish that scientists think could crawl.
Melissa surfaces, gasping, as though unused to air.
Lungfish are ancient species that used to be everywhere.
Now you can only find them in the Southern Hemisphere.
Melissa floats, symmetrical.
Sequins falling from her tail.
She is our only northern lungfish.
I hold tightly to her inhaler, and recite species off by heart.
Plankton have such ridiculous names:
The Spiral Curvydisc
The Potbellied Gravyboat
The Necklaced Ladderwedge
Until the 1880s, anyone born with a deformity was medically called a monster.
What is the etymology of etymology?
Google says it comes from etmos, meaning true.
How hilarious our world is.
Melissa’s hair billows like seaweed.
In Siberia, rusalky look like yetis.
In West Africa there are water gods with snake bodies called Nommo.
In the 1780s, Charles Byrne was born in Ireland, and it was rumoured he grew up to be eight feet tall. People called him The Irish Giant, and he travelled across to London. He’d heard he could make money in the city’s bizarre sideshows.
Scientists loved Charles Byrne. They said he’d grown so tall because he’d been conceived on top of a haystack.
They said Madam Howard was born with a mane because her father was eaten by a lion.
They said the Lobster Boy had a mother who’d craved shellfish when he was in her womb.
The Irish Giant drank himself to death at the age of twenty-two and, not wanting scientists to dissect him, he paid a fisherman in Bristol to bury him at sea.
The fisherman faked a water funeral and sold his body back to science.
He’s still on display, in London, for anyone to see.
It is uncomfortably hot in here.
I watch the Raja Binoculata float by. A flat fish, skimming, with the face of a startled human.