And We'll All Float on OK

          

           Years ago I read an article about sensory deprivation tanks and they immediately sparked my interest. In his piece, the author mentioned the movie Altered States, so I checked it out of the library and watched as a young William Hurt ate some hallucinogens, submerged himself in a tank, and transformed into a proto-human monkey. While most sane human beings would find sensory deprivation unsettling after watching such a horror film, personally, I just knew that I needed to try it. But then, like many of my crazy ideas, I forgot all about it.

            Years passed without the thought of sensory deprivation even crossing my mind, until one day, I was running late at night and came across a floating center in Southeast Portland. Normally I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, because, after all, we’re talking Portland, Oregon, where there are strange and unusual places on every other corner. But then something very bizarre happened—a Modest Mouse song came on the radio. I stopped in my tracks, snatched a brochure called Beginner’s Guide to Floating, and listened to the music streaming through my headphones: “And we’ll all float on OK, And we’ll all float on any way well…” What were the chances that that exact song would come on the radio just as I was running by that exact location? It was obviously a sign.

            Now I really needed to try out a sensory deprivation tank. There was only one thing holding me back—money. It’s not that I didn’t have the cash, it’s just that it’s really hard for me to justify spending a large chunk of money on something I might not enjoy when I know that for the same price I can purchase several cheeseburgers with the absolute guarantee that I will definitely savor every beautiful bite. I call it cheeseburger-logic. It’s the same reason that I have no tattoos—because I’d much rather have cheeseburgers. Now I had a major problem—life was telling me that I needed to try sensory deprivation, but I was just too much of a cheapskate to actually pay for it. So, I did what any man would do in such a situation—I constantly mentioned the float tanks until my girlfriend bought me a session as a gift.

            So, now it’s a cloudy Sunday morning and we’re sitting on a couch, waiting for our sessions to begin. An employee who looks like a barefoot Jerry Garcia tells us our tanks are ready and leads us down the hall, explaining the process along the way—you take a shower, climb into the tank, turn the lights off, and float in silence until the music turns on to let you know that your session is over. There are two different kinds of tanks to choose from. The first has a six-foot high ceiling with a door that any normal-sized human could easily walk through. The second one looks like a large coffin that was specifically designed for an obese man who had an unhealthy obsession with spacecraft from Star Wars; or an industrial oven that’s used to cremate human remains. Either way, all I can think is: there’s no way I’m climbing inside of that thing!

            “You can have this one,” I say to my girlfriend before scurrying off to the more spacious tank next door.

            I close the door, remove my clothes, take a shower, climb in the tank, and turn off the lights. With 850 pounds of Epsom salt in the water, I float weightlessly on my back. I am in total silence. I am in total darkness. I am immediately bored out of my mind.

            Flotation tanks were first developed in 1954 by a neuro-psychiatrist named John C. Lilly. Working at the U.S. National Institute of Mental Health, Lilly wanted to study the human brain while individuals were completely isolated from external stimulation. Sixty years later, the popularity of the tanks has grown substantially, with hundreds of privately-owned flotation centers operating all around the world. People float for various reasons—to recover from injury, eliminate pain, fight addiction, reflect on life, spark creativity, and relieve stress. I’m not exactly sure why I’m doing it, but none of these things appear to be happening.

            People claim to have cut strokes off their golf game from floating, to have developed scientific theories, to have drafted entire portions of books. I only seem to be getting more and more aggravated. I don’t know why, but my left foot keeps bumping into the wall. My neck hurts. I don’t know what to do with my arms. The brochure specifically said, “Being in a float tank is like relaxing in outer space.” Sure, if outer space was completely dark, with not a single star in the sky. Plus, I saw Gravity—there’s no relaxing in outer space. Outer space is a lonely, frightening place, where the ghost of George Clooney visits you just as you’re running out of oxygen. I wish the ghost of George Clooney came to me right now. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so Goddamn bored!

            Wait a second. Maybe it’s working. Maybe this is the “reflecting on life” that they were talking about. Oh, give me a break—these are the same reflections on life that I have every night when I’m struggling to fall asleep. What should I do? I open my eyes—darkness. I close my eyes—darkness. So, that’s established—it’s definitely as dark in here as it is under my eyelids. Breathe! The air is warm, warmer than the water that’s kept at 93.5 degrees—skin-receptor neutral—whatever the hell that means. Think! Who do I really hate? Yeah, I hate him alright. I really hate him. Stop! What are you doing? This is supposed to be relaxing. Don’t think about people that you hate. Think about things that you love. Like the Buffalo Bills. But free-agency starts this week and I just know that the front office is going to make horrible decisions like they do every year. Why don’t they just let me run the team? I mean I did win the Super Bowl with the Buffalo Bills in Madden 2003. I could do a much better job than those idiots. I hate the front office. Damn! There I go hating again. What can I think about that I don’t hate? What is it that I love? I got it—cheeseburgers! Think about cheeseburgers—grass-fed beef, cheddar cheese, no, wait, Swiss, with bacon and mushrooms, and all the fixings, on a sesame seed bun. Yeah, that sounds good. Imagine how many of those burgers I could have eaten for the same price it cost to be laying motionless in this dark room. This is the biggest waste of money ever!

            But wait, maybe something good can come of this. I just started an adventure blog and this would be a great thing to write about. After all, it is strange and unusual. Who the hell am I kidding? I’m lying in the dark in complete silence. Adventure? Give me a break. This is the opposite of adventure! This is anti-adventure! Just my luck—my first adventure blog post is going to turn out to be an anti-adventure.

            OK, I’ve had enough. The music machine obviously broke. It was supposed to turn on after 90 minutes. People often say that 90 minutes in a float tank feels more like ten. It feels like I’ve been in here for at least eight hours. I can’t take it anymore! Not everything is for everybody. Maybe some people are just not meant to relax.

            I turn on the lights, climb out of the tank, and stand in the shower. A half-hour later and the music finally turns on. I dry off, put on my clothes, and return to the couch in the waiting area. Barefoot Jerry Garcia walks over. “How was your float?” he asks in a relaxed voice.

            “It was OK,” I lie.

            I wait for my girlfriend, but she doesn’t come out of her room. After a few minutes I start to get really nervous. I’m waiting for Barefoot Jerry to tell me that he’s sorry, but “there’s been a situation.” This is the opposite of relaxation. Finally, she arrives and I quickly jump to my feet and rush her toward the exit. “What’s the hurry?” she asks.

           “I need a cheeseburger,” I say, “and I need it now!”