peekachoo
Oct 24, 2009
Undergraduate / essay on Scuba Diving(rough): Common App Essay [5]
This is a rough draft of my common app essay. Please critique it because I wasn't sure about the topic
It was merely a tickle at first. I didn’t even notice its presence until it sent a wave of pain across the nerves of my hand. Yet, that wasn’t even sufficient to snatch my attention away from admiring the view. I was too entranced by the atmosphere, floating off into a celestial cosmos of abstract beauty. Pigments of all sorts, painted on the portrait of my surroundings. Sculptures presented a very ethereal radiance. No, I was not in Vegas. And no, it wasn’t love at first sight. It’s much better. I was among the friends of the Little Mermaid, Nemo, and our beloved Steve Irwin. In the deep blue abyss.
However, the tickle on my hand did not surrender its attempt to concern me. It continued to crescendo, eventually reaching an excruciating result. The sensation knocked me out of my trance and back down to reality. I blinked my eyes a few times to shake off any remaining daze. I was underwater in severe pain and had no idea of what just happened.
Curiosity turned over my hand and I grimaced at my discovery. My own bodily pigments began to blend into the vast blue canvas. Blood from my hand crawled into the formation of a crimson nebula in the water. There was an artistic quality to it that was almost mesmerizing, but I panicked. I signed up for this gig for the adrenaline burst, expecting nothing to bypass my security. But, scuba diving at the age of ten is no merry-go-round.
As a typical child, my first instinct was to find my family for help, but they too seemed to be drifting off into their own worlds. I shouted for help, but as soon as I opened my mouth, the mouthpiece came off and I felt the entire ocean rush into my throat. Water seeped into the back of my tongue and caused a salt overdose in my taste buds. I fought against the ocean’s vehemence by blowing bubbles, a skill acquired in a time when I barely reached the bottom of the shallow end of the pool.
Instantaneously, I waved my arms frantically in hopes of grabbing the mouthpiece. As soon as the tube of the mouthpiece hooked around one of my arms, I grasped it and shoved it in my face. Yet, that didn’t seem too work out too well. Instead of inhaling delicious oxygen, I suffered from the ocean’s aggression and it reached further into my throat.
I palpated the mouthpiece with my right hand trying to determine the correct button to press. Like snipping the correct colored wire when defusing a bomb, I felt the pressure of imminent doom. I blew defensive bubbles calculatedly to avoid oxygen deprivation. Fortunately the instructor’s pre-diving lesson just a few hours earlier resonated in my mind, a phenomenon not unlike that of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s conscience in Luke Skywalker’s head.
After pressing the button to expel the water and wrapping my lips over the mouthpiece, I was relieved with the gift of breathing. Yet, all was not won. During this struggle, I forgot the original predicament. The real issue at hand was the slight laceration on my hand.
My hand and the ocean had a sort of parasitic business relation. The amount of lost blood was compensated by the diffusion of burning, salty seawater. I wasn’t particularly content with this transaction. In fact, the pain had heightened to an extent where I would scrunch up my face in an attempt distract my mind from my hand.
My family had not seemed to notice my suffering, not only because of their enchantment under the spells of the aquatic mystique, but also because these events spanned over a matter of a few seconds. Regardless, my “widdle boo-boo” really wanted attention.
For a moment, I pondered the correct hand signal to call for help. The instructor snapped back into reality to check up on me. He turned toward me and gestured an “O.K?” Immediately, I started flailing my arms, deciding that at this point, evacuation was more crucial than fluency in scuba sign language.
We ascended to the surface and one of my cousins dragged me on my back toward the docking ship. As I glided across the water, the ocean gently brushed against my ear, much calmer from when I was twenty meters below. I observed my new surroundings and the glimmer on the blue canvas was not enough to entrance me, but the sun blinded me with its beauty.
What caused the cut on my hand is insignificant. It’s the scar produced that illustrates the fascination of the marine world. I felt the rough coral with my hand to experience beyond what I saw through those foggy goggles.
In retrospect, fearing the dive itself would have let the opportunity slip through my hands. As we went back to the Shang Ri La resort of Cebu to go to the nurse, I held my hand high. High enough to keep the blood from dripping down my arm, but even higher to boast of my adventure.
This is a rough draft of my common app essay. Please critique it because I wasn't sure about the topic
It was merely a tickle at first. I didn’t even notice its presence until it sent a wave of pain across the nerves of my hand. Yet, that wasn’t even sufficient to snatch my attention away from admiring the view. I was too entranced by the atmosphere, floating off into a celestial cosmos of abstract beauty. Pigments of all sorts, painted on the portrait of my surroundings. Sculptures presented a very ethereal radiance. No, I was not in Vegas. And no, it wasn’t love at first sight. It’s much better. I was among the friends of the Little Mermaid, Nemo, and our beloved Steve Irwin. In the deep blue abyss.
However, the tickle on my hand did not surrender its attempt to concern me. It continued to crescendo, eventually reaching an excruciating result. The sensation knocked me out of my trance and back down to reality. I blinked my eyes a few times to shake off any remaining daze. I was underwater in severe pain and had no idea of what just happened.
Curiosity turned over my hand and I grimaced at my discovery. My own bodily pigments began to blend into the vast blue canvas. Blood from my hand crawled into the formation of a crimson nebula in the water. There was an artistic quality to it that was almost mesmerizing, but I panicked. I signed up for this gig for the adrenaline burst, expecting nothing to bypass my security. But, scuba diving at the age of ten is no merry-go-round.
As a typical child, my first instinct was to find my family for help, but they too seemed to be drifting off into their own worlds. I shouted for help, but as soon as I opened my mouth, the mouthpiece came off and I felt the entire ocean rush into my throat. Water seeped into the back of my tongue and caused a salt overdose in my taste buds. I fought against the ocean’s vehemence by blowing bubbles, a skill acquired in a time when I barely reached the bottom of the shallow end of the pool.
Instantaneously, I waved my arms frantically in hopes of grabbing the mouthpiece. As soon as the tube of the mouthpiece hooked around one of my arms, I grasped it and shoved it in my face. Yet, that didn’t seem too work out too well. Instead of inhaling delicious oxygen, I suffered from the ocean’s aggression and it reached further into my throat.
I palpated the mouthpiece with my right hand trying to determine the correct button to press. Like snipping the correct colored wire when defusing a bomb, I felt the pressure of imminent doom. I blew defensive bubbles calculatedly to avoid oxygen deprivation. Fortunately the instructor’s pre-diving lesson just a few hours earlier resonated in my mind, a phenomenon not unlike that of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s conscience in Luke Skywalker’s head.
After pressing the button to expel the water and wrapping my lips over the mouthpiece, I was relieved with the gift of breathing. Yet, all was not won. During this struggle, I forgot the original predicament. The real issue at hand was the slight laceration on my hand.
My hand and the ocean had a sort of parasitic business relation. The amount of lost blood was compensated by the diffusion of burning, salty seawater. I wasn’t particularly content with this transaction. In fact, the pain had heightened to an extent where I would scrunch up my face in an attempt distract my mind from my hand.
My family had not seemed to notice my suffering, not only because of their enchantment under the spells of the aquatic mystique, but also because these events spanned over a matter of a few seconds. Regardless, my “widdle boo-boo” really wanted attention.
For a moment, I pondered the correct hand signal to call for help. The instructor snapped back into reality to check up on me. He turned toward me and gestured an “O.K?” Immediately, I started flailing my arms, deciding that at this point, evacuation was more crucial than fluency in scuba sign language.
We ascended to the surface and one of my cousins dragged me on my back toward the docking ship. As I glided across the water, the ocean gently brushed against my ear, much calmer from when I was twenty meters below. I observed my new surroundings and the glimmer on the blue canvas was not enough to entrance me, but the sun blinded me with its beauty.
What caused the cut on my hand is insignificant. It’s the scar produced that illustrates the fascination of the marine world. I felt the rough coral with my hand to experience beyond what I saw through those foggy goggles.
In retrospect, fearing the dive itself would have let the opportunity slip through my hands. As we went back to the Shang Ri La resort of Cebu to go to the nurse, I held my hand high. High enough to keep the blood from dripping down my arm, but even higher to boast of my adventure.
