Backyard Snorkelling
18" X 72" oil on canvas
Original art art is sold
Here, my daughter Sarah, age 11, is test driving a diving snorkel for the first time. We’ve chosen to spend this hot July afternoon in the backyard urban oasis known as the “INFLATE-O” pool. Sarah’s an experienced swimmer – a veteran of many a swim lesson, graduate of Guppy, Tadpole, Salamander, Dolphin and Otter levels, and holder of the coveted Level 8 certificate.
In our plastic paradise there may only be a foot of water, but there’s a definite sense of freedom and exploration involved in breathing underwater for the first time. Perhaps spending all that time in swim lessons heightens the experience of cheating the elemental rules.
My diligent parents spent the best part of my formative years building a healthy fear of and respect for this exciting yet dangerous medium. Once, when I was four, they rigged me in a life jacket that, when called upon, held my head underwater and my flailing feet in the air. Luckily, someone was watching ... just one of a number of close calls.
I recall my attempts, at age 12, to breath underwater. We had a pool in our backyard, and I spent much of the summer in it. I soon realized that, if you descend beyond “snorkel-depth,” breathing, say, with the garden hose, the pressure of the water on your chest makes it impossible to inhale. Turns out that we have the ability to exhale with considerable force, but we can’t inhale with much power at all. It must be an evolutionary option that we didn’t need. Air must be under pressure and forced into the lung – Cousteau would have been proud.
After a few experiments and time spent reasoning out a number of buoyancy issues, I emptied a beach ball, swam to the bottom and jammed it under the swim ladder. I then went back and forth, fetching air from the surface and slowly blowing up the ball. Once filled, I could sit on the bottom for quite a while, squeezing recycled air into my lungs “bagpipe style,” while wedged under the ladder. It never occurred to me that passing out underwater, pinned by the ladder, was probably a tad risky, but it was all in the name of exploration and science. Who needs all those brain cells anyway? Mark Heine
18" X 72" oil on canvas
Original art art is sold
Here, my daughter Sarah, age 11, is test driving a diving snorkel for the first time. We’ve chosen to spend this hot July afternoon in the backyard urban oasis known as the “INFLATE-O” pool. Sarah’s an experienced swimmer – a veteran of many a swim lesson, graduate of Guppy, Tadpole, Salamander, Dolphin and Otter levels, and holder of the coveted Level 8 certificate.
In our plastic paradise there may only be a foot of water, but there’s a definite sense of freedom and exploration involved in breathing underwater for the first time. Perhaps spending all that time in swim lessons heightens the experience of cheating the elemental rules.
My diligent parents spent the best part of my formative years building a healthy fear of and respect for this exciting yet dangerous medium. Once, when I was four, they rigged me in a life jacket that, when called upon, held my head underwater and my flailing feet in the air. Luckily, someone was watching ... just one of a number of close calls.
I recall my attempts, at age 12, to breath underwater. We had a pool in our backyard, and I spent much of the summer in it. I soon realized that, if you descend beyond “snorkel-depth,” breathing, say, with the garden hose, the pressure of the water on your chest makes it impossible to inhale. Turns out that we have the ability to exhale with considerable force, but we can’t inhale with much power at all. It must be an evolutionary option that we didn’t need. Air must be under pressure and forced into the lung – Cousteau would have been proud.
After a few experiments and time spent reasoning out a number of buoyancy issues, I emptied a beach ball, swam to the bottom and jammed it under the swim ladder. I then went back and forth, fetching air from the surface and slowly blowing up the ball. Once filled, I could sit on the bottom for quite a while, squeezing recycled air into my lungs “bagpipe style,” while wedged under the ladder. It never occurred to me that passing out underwater, pinned by the ladder, was probably a tad risky, but it was all in the name of exploration and science. Who needs all those brain cells anyway? Mark Heine
