Winged Migration of the Flightless Bird

Two.

Alright, so I didn't exactly climb the highest mountain, but I rode an elevator through one of the strangest ones. I guess that means that the second adventure should involve swimming the deepest sea. That will take every bit of bravery I can muster or perhaps every bit of distraction I can give my brain.

As much as I have the rather common fear of heights, I also have a great fear of the ocean. The depths terrify me. No matter how rational my foggy brain tries to be, deep below the surface of every great body of water lies a thick cold soup of tentacles and teeth.

First there is the layer of pretty fish and gentle whales. Then sharks and eels and sea snakes wriggle their way up to gobble up all that pretty and gentle...and below that? Shoulder to shoulder teeth and gelatinous monsters.

I stated before that I'm not really afraid of the dark. I should clarify that I feel this way on land, where I can hear and openly breathe without an apparatus. Underwater dark is a new level of dark. It's a new level of fear. It's not just "lights out" like in the caves; it's walls-closing-in-until-there-is-no-room-for-light.

Yet I see little other recourse. This ridiculous journey must continue, and I find myself standing on the edge of a cliff, looking over the nightmare sea. If I believed in Hell, I'd think I was hovering above it now.

It's nighttime because it might as well be. It's raining because my brain tells me it is.

Rain and waves are the only sound as most of the screaming seagulls have already gone beddy-bye, though my imagination tells me I can hear a low bubbling growl from below the freezing cold ebb and flow. I'm not sure I've ever been filled with this kind of dread. I am a lucky fella for that.

I picture emotionless eyes staring just below the surface, looking up at me as if I were a piece of popcorn. I picture super wide mouths. I picture huge hungry bellies and slithery parts. Worse, I will have to do this alone. I can't take Dewdrop with me. Tuna is the chicken of the sea, not dodo. He can travel on a boat, but not dive into the terrifying abyss.

I'm not going to jump in right now. I need to think this through. I need to figure out where to start. How I'm going to breathe underwater. How I'm going to stay warm. Perhaps I need a ship or a submarine. I have heard tell of many shipwrecks and subwrecks in this area, which is why I picked it. Hopefully the ship or sub I board won't wreck as well.

From behind me in the dark and fog I hear a voice addressing me. Perhaps it's the tone, but Dewdrop seems unphased. Neither of us are startled. It is a gentle and friendly voice.

"Have you seen where I parked the ship?"

A very pale man steps out of the shadows. I wouldn't describe him as albino; I'm not sure that's it. It seems as though he is a different species than I, a species where pale is the norm. You wouldn't call a polar bear, a snowy owl or the white bits of a zebra albino, in the same way calling this man albino seems inappropriate. He looks far too young for the white hair sticking straight up from his head, and he is wearing odd aviator-style goggles. He smiles at Dewdrop.

"Wow! What is that?" he asks, astounded, excitedly pointing his index finger at Dewdrop.

"It's a dodo. His name is Dewdrop."

"I love it. I love that Doughy-drop. Is he a vicious murderer or can I pet him?"

"You can --" Dewdrop shuffles behind me, perhaps a little wary. Not scared, just wary. In the same way that an old dog is often weary of poking children.

The man gets distracted by his surroundings before he can feel insulted by this reaction. He looks around in a panic. He looks over the cliff side into the water, and then back at the rocks and shrubs behind me. He checks his pockets. He lifts his goggles for a clearer look. When he turns to me I almost jump out of my shoes. His eyes, pupil, sclera and iris are all such a deep navy they may as well be black. They give him a certain cartoon baby animal look.