Everything seems to move in slow motion underwater—it's as if you haven't just dived beneath the curling waves of the ocean, but more that you've entered into another dimension; one where everything is blue, you float, and even though you're lighter than you've ever been, moving is hard work. The washed out yellow glow of chimchou's antennae lets him see—that's right, without a light, it's pitch black down here.
What a scary thing it must be to drown.
A sailor once told him it was like going home—back to the quaint town where you once resided.
Could it really be like going back to Littleroot, even as the waves lap over your face again and again? When the ocean's arms tug your body this way and that, even as you try to breathe, and the cold sea spits in your face and sends itself down your throat, and beats rhythmically against your limbs, pulling you down, down, down deeper into its womb—
Is it really like returning home?
Is straining your neck upwards, and feeling your muscles and bones begin to give way so similar to running through the forest outside your home, playing pokemon masters with your neighbor girl? Brendan is almost certain that the way the ocean cackles at you when you close your eyes and give way to the gravity of your own body is nothing like the way May once smiled at him on the outskirts of route 101.
A dull yellow glow floats on the left side of his goggle tinted vision, and Brendan's water submerged ears take hold of a small, echoing call from chimchou. He blinks slowly, lashes drifting upwards with the water resistance. The antennae bob and sway as he takes hold of chimchou's tiny, smooth body and cradles it in his arms and near his chest—she makes a tiny noise, but doesn't move—just flows with the movements like a sailing bird.
Brendan kicks his left leg and does a slow, drifty turn to face the surface of the water which looks so near at this point, that it feels like he could simply flex his arm in the appropriate direction, and he's be able to feel the salty breeze sting his hand—but in reality, it's a good kick and paddle away. Cyan light filters through the warped windows, and he can just barely make out the shadows of wingulls flying above in the other endless and blue abyss. He falls into an almost psychedelic state as he watches their forms pass over the ripples, and he wonders—
What if birds could fly in the water?
Surely, to be able to glide through water swiftly and with such grace would be amazing—but then, what would make the depths of the ocean so different from the heights of the sky?
Drowning in the sky—what a notion.