I’ve taken all the necessary precautions, I’ve listened to every bit of advice. I didn’t shave the night before, I hadn’t had any coffee or eaten anything heavy this morning. Mask on throughout except when in the room…as if that needed to be told to me again.
“First time?” she asks me.
Clearly, it’s written all over my face. I’m new to this.
I let her lead me into a dark, narrow hallway; closed doors camouflage themselves into the walls beside me. The lighting is warm, and there is a light fragrance that carries through the entire centre. There’s two rooms with infrared saunas, a room for massages, and two float rooms. She takes me to the ‘Ocean Float Room,’ hands me a set of orange ear plugs, leaves me with a boat load of instructions and is off on her way.
The room around me is dimly lit. It’s a strange alchemy of neon blue and a light purple in colour. It smells like incense and bath salts. To my right is a giant chamber; it looks big enough to be a bedroom. Half-expecting to freeze in the water as I step into it, I’m pleasantly surprised by its lukewarm temperature. The water comes up just past my ankles, below my upper shin bone. I sit down first before extending completely, lying on my back, stretching my arms above me. There’s just enough space in the chamber for me to stretch completely. I pause and shift uncomfortably as I get used to this strange feeling of floating. A part of me expected that my weight would carry me underneath the water before I rose back out, similar to something you would experience in a swimming pool.
But I just lie there, on the surface of the water, my mind and focus rapidly shifting from inside of my head to the sensations of my body.
I had practiced meditation consistently in anticipation of first float. It was time for lift off.
“God, I feel hungover. My brain feels like mush, and the bottom of my eyes feel tired. I must’ve looked like death walking in here. This feels nice though, splashing around in this kiddie pool. Why can’t I fucking get comfortable though? Maybe, if I put my arms this way instead.”
“Why did I have that last drink of whiskey last night? Never go more than four, you know this.”
“But I hadn’t seen these fellas in so long, and alcohol is a really fun lubricant, especially when you’re with the lads.”
“Tell that to yourself now, you piece of shit.”
“What happened to all that ‘I’m not going to drink anymore, I’m going to take a break, really focus on myself?’”
“There’s really nothing like a crippling hangover to remind you that no matter what you try to do to escape your past, to run at speed towards this idealized future where everything you dreamed of has come true, and you’ve finally found that true, everlasting happiness, you can never really leave behind what and who you are: a fortunate son of a bitch, ridden with guilt, constantly trying to escape.”
*SPLASH*
I jerk my eyes open in a panic. I try to sit up; it takes me a few seconds to remember that I am in fact still floating.
How long has it been since I drifted off? Surely I was halfway through. That was an interesting train of thought.
For half a second there it felt like I was watching myself think. Is this what an out of body experience feels like?
“Okay, deep breath, stay calm; let’s try that again. And remember, if you catch yourself starting to panic, try and sink into it, see where it leads you.”
***
‘Halsa,’ is located on fourth avenue, shoehorned in between and blended together in the long line of shops. If you weren’t looking for it, you probably wouldn’t find it.
The first time I step in, the thing I notice immediately is the strange, calming scent of the incense. Not even the mask blocks that out.
The woman behind the counter looks like what I had always imagined the stereotypical white hippies of the 1960s San Francisco Summer of Love revolution to have looked like. She has long, light brown flowy hair tied up in a messy high ponytail. She wears a loose-fitting blue-ish grey top. She has very intense eyes that stare right through mine, and she has a fixed, plastic smile you see celebrities wear on talk shows.
To the left of the front desk is a pristine white shelf of books on alternative medicine, breathwork, kundalini yoga, astrology (I roll my eyes).
“Give me a fucking break.”
Despite its best intentions, the whole environment makes me want to throw up on myself. This all feels so weird to me.
Ayurveda, and kundalini I can get on board with. There is some science to that. But seeing “scholarly texts” on astrology makes me want to run for the hills.
Astrology is a pseudo-science set up back home for us to make money off hippie foreign tourists that travel through India trying to find themselves. It’s hard to believe people actually take this shit seriously.
I don’t believe in cultural appropriation. I think it’s premise is faulty, cultures are meant to be shared, experienced, connected with. I like it when people adopt parts of Indian culture to their life. When they’re curious about it, when they want to find out more.
Yet, this all felt strangely insulting.
What the fuck did yoga and breathwork have to do with Thai massages, infrared saunas and float therapy? How are any of these things linked together and why are they being shoehorned in as one?
More importantly, what the fuck was I doing here?
If my younger self could see me now, he’d probably sneer at me in disgust.
My conflict of course, was deeply personal. It had nothing to do with Cynthia, the lady working behind the counter, or the fact that a business is set up to provide alternative forms of therapy to those looking for it.
Why did I have such strong opinions about something I barely knew anything about?
Before my first session, I had done no research about the benefits, or potential harms that float therapy could have on a person. I had heard somewhere, on some obscure podcast I was listening to way back in 2015 that float tanks have the potential to create very trippy, psychedelic experiences. Stimulants weren’t needed. The idea was by de-stimulating your mind and body, you are allowing your core being to come forward. Often, this could result in very interesting if slightly traumatic moments.
All I knew before stepping into my first time floating, was that float tanks were a good way to meditate. They were supposed to provide lasting effects on happiness, joy, contentment and were said to have deeply relaxing effects on the body and mind. Float therapy is being studied on its benefits on stress, physical and mental. Supposedly it can positive benefits ranging from physical injuries and ailments all the way up to PTSD.
How one measures this, I can’t quite say for certain, but clearly scientists and researchers who know what they are doing, whose livelihood depends on the scientific method, experimenting and chasing a hypothesis to its conclusion seem to think that there is a future in float therapy.
I wanted to find out how much of this was true.
On the ‘Halsa’ website, they write that by “taking time away from our daily routines, shutting out sensations and reconnecting inwards allows us to step back into the world feeling more whole and connected.”
It’s easy to feel sceptical.
But I’ve been a student of meditation for years now, having a daily practice for myself since my undergraduate days. I also do yoga, for its functional benefits and the emphasis on breathwork. I practice the Wim Hof breathing technique every day. I take cold showers. I’ve tried holotropic breathing, I may have experimented with psychedelics, I’m an avid reader of Taoist philosophy, a believer in the Yin and Yang.
I’m already part of the New Age alternative medicine movement. It hasn’t been a conscious decision, and I would never say that these things define me, but actions often speak louder than words.
I swear by these things. I believe in therapy, all forms. I am a willing experimenter. I take pride in using my body and mind as a tool to try out things. I am not an ideologue, I won’t dig my heels in the sand over any particular issue. I believe in practical application and finding what works best for you as an individual.
Yet, I feel uncomfortable. I feel like a traitor. I feel as though I am betraying my past self, my culture, my people.
Here I am standing inside the lush spa in one of the richest neighbourhoods in the world, about to take my first plunge into the universe of float tanks, and I still find myself deeply in conflict about my intentions. What was it truly that created this strange chaotic paradox inside of me?
I don’t know if I'm going to find any answers, but I step in anyway.
***
“How is this place still open during COVID?”
“Why is this any different than a yoga studio or a spin class? Isn’t this more dangerous since I’m lying in a pool of water probably shared by many, many others?”
“If all they're looking for are whether or not you have symptoms, what does that mean for the potential for asymptomatic carriers?”
“Ahhh! It’s so hard to care when I’m so relaxed.”
I splash around a little moving my hands, imagining myself creating a snow angel. My body feels so unbelievable relaxed.
“How much time has it been? I can stay in here for an eternity for all I care.”
Suddenly, I panic and sit up again. I’m in complete darkness. My eyes are open, but I cannot see a thing. This is scary. Where is that light switch again? I reach to the side and my heart skips a beat. I can’t find it.
“Shit!”
I’m sitting up now. I’m splashing around in dread, feeling my heart rate pick up. I’ve lost all sense of breath control.
“I need the light, now!”
There it is. I switch it on. The calming, dark neon blue light pops on along the borders of the tank. A serene sense of calm takes over me again.
“Ahhh!”
I start to laugh maniacally. I can’t for the life of me understand why I dissolved into that panic a few seconds ago. Nothing bad could’ve happened after all. Everything remains in the same place. I was the one that had floated around the tank without realizing it.
“Maybe this is a metaphor for life? There have been way too many times in my life I have projected my fears and insecurity forward rather than simply accepting them. I’ve lived in fear so much that this projection made them manifest into an actuality.”
There was some weird connection between what had just happened and my train of thought.
I’m not entirely sure what it is just yet.
I turn the light back off and begin to drift off again, but my tranquillity is broken by the faint sound of the gong warning me that my time in the tank is about to come to an end.
In the shower outside, I scrub off all the salt. Cynthia had told me to wash myself down well after the float. I’m scrubbing and rubbing and lathering myself with “organic” soap.
Sandals on, hair done up to the faux-pompadour a-la Alex Turner of the Arctic Monkeys and I’m outside back near the reception.
“How was it?” Cynthia asks.
I recount to her my experience, leaving out the details where I had prematurely judged her and the setting. I tell her about the mini panic attack I had, and how it all felt like a silly moment.
She sits there listening intently.
“It usually takes three before you feel the lasting effects,” Cynthia says.
I don’t roll my eyes this time. Maybe there’s something to that.
As I say my goodbye and step outside, I reach inside my long, thick winter pea coat for my earphones.
“Do I really want this right now?”
I leave them lying safely in the depths of my pocket and set off down the street wondering if I feel more whole and connected to the world around me.
***
Cynthia isn’t at the counter this time. Christian sits there. He looks even more like the stereotypical white hippie of the 1960s Summer of Love revolution. How is that even possible? Long, light brown hair tied up into a bun (of course it is); Christian wears a denim blue shirt on denim blue jeans. He could be the male version of Cynthia. He has the same intense eyes, and speaks in that slow, measured speech pattern that can be associated with people who are on a ‘spiritual,’ path. Every word is carefully chosen.
I ask Christian about how they have managed to stay open during COVID. He explains to me that the tanks go through a deep cleanse after every session. The rooms are wiped down by the employees after every session. There are fewer appointments set up. The fact that floats, massages, saunas are by nature isolating experiences, works in favour for the business. There’s not much socializing going on here.
I like Christian. I’m once again proven wrong. My judgmental nature took over and was swatted down easily by the genuine, straightforward presence of Christian. I ask him how often he gets to use the tanks, if there are any employee benefits that make it worth working here through the pandemic.
“I don’t take advantage of the perks as much as I could,’ he says.
“It’s a job, I’m usually exhausted by the end of the day. Staying in here any longer would just feel like work.”
“He is human after all.”
I don’t need any direction this time. I walk down the dark alleyway on my own, and allow myself to enter another room. This one was different. Instead of a chamber, there is a pod. It feels like a hibernation pod you see in science fiction movies; astronauts enter these things and fall into hibernation while the spaceship heads towards its destination.
The pod is smaller than the chamber. I cannot stretch out completely. My arms are to my side in an “L” shaped position, my forearm having just enough space above my head to lie completely flat.
It feels like I’m Jesus on the cross. Except instead of being crucified and bleeding to death, I start to feel myself relaxing, my senses gratefully accepting the warm water caressing my back.
“Why did she text me this?”
“How do I feel about this?”
“How am I supposed to feel?”
“Is it okay that I feel angry? Do I have a right to feel angry? She doesn’t owe me anything. We’ve not even met up, why do I feel like she’s taken me for a fucking ride?”
“Just feel man. Feel whatever it is you feel.”
“Okay, let’s try that. Mmmm, it’s so hard to be upset when I feel so fucking relaxed.”
I open my eyes and feel a fat smile come over my face.
Maybe there really is something to the “lasting effects on happiness.”
I don’t know how long it’s been since I entered. The last thing I remember is reading the text Kayley had sent. It didn’t make pleasant reading. She told me that she was bailing on me. Again. Third time. I had felt angry. I had planned for it today. Float first. Pizza after. Now everything’s ruined.
“But it isn't really ruined.”
“My afternoon’s opened up. I can do whatever I want. But let’s worry about that later. Enjoy the moment.”
I drift off again, feeling electric impulses pulsate starting all the way up from my toes, slowly creeping their way up to my shins, my calves, to my knees and thighs, through my abdomen and stomach. When they make their way up to my upper chest and down my shoulders and arms and reach my fingertips I feel this shiver run up and down my spine. I’m used to this feeling. I let out a slow controlled breath through my mouth making a “whoosh,” sound. The shiver slows down in pace and I feel myself enjoying it. It tingles, but I feel alive.
I had again followed all the instructions prior to entering this space like journey. No caffeine, no food, a good night’s sleep the night before.
The first time had proven that these floats were really trippy. My panic attack was a world within itself, lasting a few seconds, but feeling like it was never going to end.
My second time had proven that floats have a profound effect on physical recovery. I had scheduled this session to be right after my most intense snowboarding session. When I left, I had felt like a million bucks, completely refreshed, alive to my surroundings, no stimulant needed.
Now as I lie here in the pod for the third time – supposedly the one that breaks all barriers of scepticism and doubt, I can feel myself surrendering completely.
I drift off into complete, utter darkness. No freak outs, just bliss. I try to visualize something, anything, see how far I can push this. My brain has completely shut down. If there was ever a time to measure pure, absolute, serene joy and contentment, this would be the time. I don’t want this to end. I never want this to end. I want to stay here in this perfect moment for the rest of eternity, until my soul leave, and my body goes back to its creator: the cosmos.
Cue the sound of the gong.
I’m broken out of my trance, both saddened by the indication that this moment has come to an end, and in complete understanding that it had to end.
The shower after feels like an eternity. It’s barely five minutes long, but it felt like 20. Out into the dark hallway, and into the light, I emerge out into the reception. Christian sits, back straight looking at the computer screen in front of him. He hardly notices my re-emergence. This must be another normal day to him.
I sit down, lace up my boots and give him a nod on my way out. No words necessary.
I feel like all eyes are on me as I walk up 4th avenue towards my house. It’s as though I’m radiating something magnetic, attracting people towards me rather than repel them the way I thought I used to.
I feel everything around me; the child’s innocent, unbridled happiness as he eats his ice cream; the mother’s concern and restraint as she watches him do so, edgy for she doesn’t want it all over his shirt, yet letting go of any outcome.
I feel the happy couple’s love as they walk down the road arm in arm, sinking into a unifying, everlasting glow.
It’s overwhelming and beautiful. I feel superhuman.
I’ve always been on a journey to find catharsis, release, radical self-acceptance; all of it in hope to achieve a kind of everlasting happiness. When I catch a glimpse of it and feel it slip between my fingers, I slip back to my former, more stoic, cynical self.
I went in to these floats sceptical. My three very intense experiences in the tanks showed me that there are forces so powerful that they can convince a rigid and stubborn mind that there is another way to look at things.
Yet, do these realizations mean that the somewhat haughty hypotheses proposed by researchers hold true? That remains to be seen.
If there is a takeaway (and for the life of me I didn’t want to end it this way) it’s this: these floats have in one manner or another helped me realize that the cynical is as important as the empathetic.
There is no right or wrong, there isn't a good or bad. There just is, and I feel I’ve gotten closer to true understanding and acceptance of this absurd fallacy, this blip in the vast cosmic ocean, that life is imperfect. And that might just be the reason why it is perfect.