Our mermaid’s tale
Reporter with an affinity for the assignment makes quite a splash
My Memorial Day weekend was better than yours. Whatever parties you had or barbecues you enjoyed, you did not turn into a mermaid — and I did.
Unfortunately, as it turns out, mermaiding is not easy, so I feel like I got run over by a truck — in part because I managed to fall out of an inground pool. But it was totally worth it. My quest to become a mermaid started about a year ago, when I first heard of the existence of professional mermaids. At the time, I lived in the New York City area, and the logistics of neophyte urban mermaiding proved a tough stumbling block.
But after moving to Houston in September, I hooked up with the mermaiding community in Texas and eventually snagged a swim invite from Moira the Mermaid at Adventure Scuba and Snorkeling Center in Plano.
(Yes, that is correct — in Plano. I drove more than four hours to be a mermaid. I even persuaded a photographer to come with me.)
My mer-venture started with a mundane human need — legal waivers. I promised not to sue, and they forked over a fabulous rainbow tail and two hours of pool time.
Sitting at the side of the pool, I slithered into the cloth tail, pulling it up over my hips and leaving the thinnest part at my ankles. A secret opening in the bottom let me slip in a monofin to put my feet in. It took a few minutes of awkward wriggling, but finally I got everything in order. And I was a mermaid. The first order of business was learning to tread water with a tail. You can stand on the floor of the pool, but if you move at all, it rips the tail fabric.
If you’re hanging out for a while, you need to do a “chair tread,” with your knees up near the surface, as though you’re sitting on a really short chair.
I kept jetting backward, but after a few goes I basically got down the treading part with some level of success.
Then I learned swimming sideways and waving and was substantially less successful at that.
I couldn’t keep one hand out of the water and still manage to move sideways, so I guess I will have to settle for being the sort of mermaid who doesn’t wave at people. And that’s fine, because anyone who knows me would probably recognize that a friendly wave would not be my hand gesture of choice.
Next, Moira laid out the instructions for flipping up my tail to splash people, which is way harder than it seems — not just because of the pressure of the water pushing down on a large tail surface area, though that’s part of it. But it’s tricky to get underwater far enough to flip up and make a splash. In costume, the water pushes you up, so swimming is a constant struggle to stay underwater.
Thus, when the merfolk taught me the belly-dance slither that is underwater swimming, I could not manage to stay horizontal, as my tail kept floating upward as though it were looking for land.
Evidently, I’m not the sort of mermaid who swims straight, either. Also cool by me.
Despite not being able to swim nice and straight and stay horizontal, the mermaid taught me to do a little corkscrew spin.
As our pool time drew to a close, I attempted to do handstands underwater, which turned out to be much, much more challenging than one would think.
The experienced mermaid advised me not to flip the whole way around into a somersault afterward, advice that I promptly ignored when my tail went over my head. My handstand lasted all of maybe half a second before the awkward weight of my new appendage pulled me over.
My second attempt was even less successful as half of me (the fish half ) fell out of the pool and flopped onto the concrete, presumably looking like the mer-community drunk who had too many mer-garitas (because merfolks don’t drink regular margaritas).
So, whatever, I’m not the most graceful mermaid. But I looked fabulous, and I didn’t drown.
And, if journalism completely falls apart, I know what my backup career is.