Trip Notes: Free Fall
It all began with a small impulse—before I knew it, I was on a hiking tour in Guatemala, a small country in Central America, climbing to see an active volcano up close. I found myself already above 3,000 meters in elevation, higher than the clouds. Having never climbed a mountain before—let alone without any training—this might have been the most physically demanding experience of my life. For nearly ten hours, I chased after the local guides—small in stature but unbelievably tough, with endless stamina.
It wasn’t just a physical challenge. Along the way came rain, wind, landslides, steep slopes, thin air, altitude sickness, hallucinations, and even clashes between fellow climbers. At times, I had to crawl on all fours like a baby, just to keep moving. I was desperate.
Over and over, I asked myself, “Why am I doing this?” “What’s the point of dragging my body up this jagged protrusion from the Earth?” I regretted it every single time the question crossed my mind—and it crossed hundreds. But by then, I was already too high up to turn back.
But when I finally reached the summit, and that moment arrived—suddenly, all thought vanished.
BOOOMMM!!
...BOOOMMM!!
A deep, thunderous roar echoed across the sky. The neighboring active volcano was erupting, launching glowing red magma high into the night air. The shockwaves and pressure hit my body like the blast of fireworks exploding right beside me—vibrating deep into my bones. It felt like the Earth itself was growling. The other tour members shouted with joy. I think I said something, too. But strangely, in contrast to all the noise—my mind was completely still.
Maybe it was because my body had passed the point of exhaustion, or maybe the scene before me was simply too vast, too majestic. Inside my mind, it felt like a lake without a single ripple—a silent, crystal-clear stillness spreading out into every corner.
Eventually, I found myself sinking into that lake—fully immersed. My body gently descended toward the depths, slowly, peacefully. I surrendered to the pull of gravity. That sensation of falling felt so natural, so comforting—so beautiful.
Free Fall.
In freediving, there comes a point where water pressure overcomes the body's buoyancy, and you begin to sink automatically. They call that moment the “Free Fall.” Someone once described it as a feeling of becoming one with the Earth. And in that quiet haze, I remembered those words.
I took a deep breath and floated back up to reality. The volcano before me was still active. Consciously, I opened my eyes wide, took a few slow breaths, rolled my neck. Shifting my gaze away from the eruption, I looked around. At the foot of the other mountains, cities stretched out. Like constellations or scattered illuminations, tiny specks of light dotted the land.
As I stared at that beautiful scene, I found myself sighing deeply—realizing that within each little light was a completely different life, a different story. A quiet tenderness filled me. A soft, melancholic feeling. A desire to hold it all gently in my hands.
From even higher up, I suppose I’d look like nothing more than a tiny ant. Even this 3,000-meter mountain might seem like a small bump. And the Earth itself—seen from the far reaches of space—must be just a little blue dot. Still, for all of it, I felt that same quiet tenderness… that same wish to care, to protect.
...Let’s cherish it all. Each and every one. Gently, gently—once again, I fell into a deep Free Fall. And the Earth’s electric, rumbling voice echoed on for a while longer.
