Jellyfish stings and being mrrr

I'm extremely mrrr today. Mrr, a word I picked up in college, is commonly used to indicate a feeling somewhat similar to "blah," "meh," or "giau," (pronounced 'goo') indicating that there is a source of great malcontent or displeasure in the mind of the person emitting the sound.


Right now, I'm mrrr.  I realize after a week in Grand Cayman that I miss the ocean life desperately.  Like most teenagers, I took my youthful environment completely for granted - I failed to understand that not everyone went to the beach every weekend, that not every teen had a boat in their backyard, that not everyone made haste down to the Keys for the lobster mini-season every July for scuba diving and lobster hunting.  I was more likely to complain about my Olympic-caliber track coach making me do 15 600-meter repeats in 90 degree weather with 90% humidity, or to be frustrated that the seas were running 5-7 feet in the bay, thus making it too choppy for a friends and family day on the ocean in our 24-foot Grady White (aptly named "Su-Kay" after my Mom and I).


After joining the Air Force, and seeing quite a bit of the other landscapes the good ol' US of A has to offer, I realize that I'm happiest in one of two places: either an ocean or a mountain range.  I take the mountains second to the ocean, because the one place I feel truly me is in the water.  When I'm scuba diving, for instance, I feel completely at peace.  There's something truly majestic about the world that exists beneath the waves, something that puts me in touch with a part of my soul that stays dormant when I'm away from the water too long.  Likewise, if you put me on a beach at sunrise or sunset, I'll tap into creative energies that seem to wither and go into a semi-permanent state of hibernation when surrounded by dirty snow and ice in the Midwest winter.


As I sit here in my office in South Bend, enjoying the ability to write my feelings at will and to ponder what really makes me happy, I have but two physical reminders of this amazing trip to the islands - a tan (which is still pretty dark, thanks to my genes, I suppose) and the remnants of my jellyfish sting.  Even a day where I was attacked by a fairly blobby, tentacled, gooey undersea native beats a normal, jellyfish-free day in a landlocked environment in sub-freezing temperatures (see below for picture of the offending creature - let's be honest, though, I was on his turf).  The sting is fading, although the series of brown spots left behind look suspiciously like scars. I suppose they will go away, too, although if they don't, I won't mind.  I could consider it my all-natural tattoo, a permanent reminder of a temporary feeling at 60 feet below the surface of the ocean. 

Truly, it's no wonder that one of my favorite quotes is simple: "The cure for anything is salt: sweat, tears, or the sea."  I leave you with a picture of me where I feel happiest (and where, 20 minutes later, Mr. Blobby Tentacles would latch onto my right hand for 10 seconds of pure stinging ouchiness.)