How the use of the Runes, the suggestion of a wise friend, and trust in my partner – a formidable explorer – came together to carry me from the terror of the unknown to a true miracle.
I cared deeply about that journey. We had planned it to celebrate my partner Max’s sixtieth birthday, far away from a life of constant technological connection and close only to the vastness of the Indian Ocean and the mystery of the creatures it conceals, capable of taking anyone’s breath away as they glide in countless numbers along the coral reef. I had imagined our days on the island of Huvahendhoo as a succession of adventures in which I would follow Captain Max and his indomitable instinct for exploration. I fantasised about long tandem swims, like those we had enjoyed two years earlier during another trip to the Maldives. Those steady, persistent strokes had shown both of us that, unexpectedly, I could keep up with him — amid a thousand emotions — despite my fear of deep water. Yet it was precisely fear itself that I had failed to reckon with.
With his scientific and practical approach to problems, Max had suggested over the years that I take swimming lessons in order to feel more confident in the water. I never did, convinced that the miracle of the previous trip would repeat itself. I believed I would make him happy by overcoming not only my terror of water too deep to stand in, but also my fears of moray eels, stinging marine plants, and the higher waves we might encounter during the monsoon season in which we were travelling. However, my desire to transform myself into a Maldivian mermaid for Max’s sake was not enough: as soon as we arrived at our wooden house suspended above the ocean, I realised that instead of throwing myself into the crystalline waters within seconds, as I had imagined, I stood paralysed before the beautiful wooden staircase leading directly from our terrace into that blue paradise.
Let us proceed in order. Of the moment we landed in Malé, capital of the Republic of Maldives, I remember only one overwhelming detail: thirst. I felt an oppressive need for water. Not a desire. Not the poetic urge to dance towards a spring. There was no moderation at all: I missed water the way some people miss air when they step out of the artificial climate of an aeroplane onto sun-drenched runways, immediately encountering the temperatures known only to those approaching the equator. I adore humidity, yet it was not enough to rediscover water in the Maldivian air; I longed for an endless glass of cool drinking water.
Max — as was natural for a master organiser — was busy aligning our schedule. After landing in Malé we needed to travel by bus to the seaplane terminal, where the small and delightfully noisy aircraft depart for the archipelago’s twelve hundred islands, flying over an expanse of turquoise and azure shades so mesmerising that one wishes to look at nothing else. During our previous journey, every island seen from above had appeared to me like a jewel, where golden coral tones rested upon aquamarine stone before giving way, beyond the luminous ring, to deep blue waters — the kingdom of creatures that seemed drawn from a fairy tale.
All these memories resurfaced as we searched for the resort staff awaiting us. Yet even this mental Tate Gallery of natural gems could not erase my obsessive thought: water. I found no peace until, meeting our guide, I asked her not about luggage check-in but something far more prosaic: “Where can I find a shop to quench my thirst?” She pointed it out. I practically teleported there. Grabbing two bottles, I absorbed every last drop like a sponge awarded the Nobel Prize for drought survival; then I brought bottles back for Max and only relaxed once I saw him drinking as well. I had no idea then how much that craving for water — and the urgency to ensure Max drank too — anticipated the journey ahead, almost like a symbol.
When we arrived on the island, the resort team welcomed us with percussion music, smiling young women and men dressed in white, and a necklace made entirely of woven leaves — perhaps palm leaves — arranged in a shape resembling either a four-cornered flower or a magical cross with a tiny vortex at its centre. I wore it like a jewel as we continued towards our residence resting upon the sea.
We would celebrate Max’s birthday the following day. He does not care much for birthdays; I do, somewhat more. Although I had a gift for him, I believed the greatest present would be my complete presence in the joys offered by the holiday and, as I had promised him, remaining gently disconnected from devices. Yet then the shadow appeared — dense and dark. I simply could not enter the water calmly.
Max tried everything: accompanying me, guiding me, listening to me. Yet there was a leap I had to make alone, and I did not know how. Above all, I felt saddened that it was his celebration and I could not share the swims with him. For reasons I will spare the reader, I also felt inwardly “arid”. I could not form a prayer. I felt no connection with anything profound. I saw only a vast landscape of fears linked to the fact that the ocean was the realm of the unknown, where everything I dreaded might appear unexpectedly — especially the moray eel, which, had it seen me, would probably have expressed a Roman sentiment roughly translatable as: “Who on earth cares about you?”
“I must find a way to join Max,” I thought. The book I was reading, Runecaster’s Handbook by Edred Thorsson, offered a solution: the rune Laguz. Runes — a system of Nordic symbols connected with universal principles — have always fascinated me. During our previous Maldivian journey I had immersed myself in several of them during a long meditation practice and experienced a mystical moment I still carry in my heart. So, although during this second trip I felt mysteriously unable to access anything deep or elevated, I chose the most familiar path: returning to the Nordic spiritual dimension through the rune representing Water as a natural element — Laguz.
It is something I recommend experiencing. One becomes silent within, finds a relaxed posture, and then “listens” to a runic symbol, opening oneself to whatever reaches the inner explorer while visualising or mentally tracing its lines. In my experience, few practices allow such immediate connection with mysterious contents linked to universal principles as the runes do. Laguz helped me. After barely ten minutes I began to feel it within me. It was as though it invited me to walk towards the water — along the wooden staircase — despite my fear. Wearing my mask, I suddenly entered the ocean. A thought resonated within me: When you are in the sea, you are also the sea. I continued sensing Laguz for some time, managing to move a few metres — a true miracle given my near phobia. The inner dryness I had felt also vanished. Yet when I returned to the terrace, I still did not feel ready for the long swims I wished to give my partner.
“Well, it’s a beginning,” he said.
I needed a solution. I longed to return with Max to the reef teeming with fish of every colour. Fear, however, remained stronger than desire. I called my friend Federico.
“I don’t know what to do anymore. It’s Max’s birthday and I’m here struggling, unable to enjoy the holiday with him properly. He’s an explorer, someone who always looks with curiosity. And I look with that same desire to discover — yet it’s as if I’m tied down. The Runes are helping, but I still need time before I can reach the reef with Max. And I don’t have time — we’re here for a week and this is already the third day!”
I expected a manual from Federico: advice, instructions, tricks, magical formulas. Instead, he said only: “Do you think fear itself can be desired?”
Confused, I replied, “What? I’m asking for help to give Max a beautiful birthday and you ask philosophical questions?” He remained silent for a moment, then added: “Think about it.”
I walked to the island’s tiny beach. The beauty before me was so magnetic that my eyes could not settle: the soft blanket of white sand, the intensely calming blue of the ocean shallows, the sun’s rays igniting my skin, the trees just behind me beyond the powder-fine sand. Every natural element seemed at the height of its power. I reflected on Federico’s question: Can fear be desired?
A rapid sequence of images unfolded in my mind — people skydiving, bungee jumping, climbing cliffs at the risk of their lives. Why did they do it? What were they seeking? I leapt to my feet.
“There must be something! There must be something beyond fear, and they find it only by treating fear as a door and opening it!” I said aloud. The only other person on the beach turned towards me, puzzled. In a surge of enthusiasm I told her, “At the Equator one cannot expect nature to caress you. The sun burns, the water leads you towards what you do not know and fear. Everything is extreme.” Her puzzled expression worsened. I began running back home — back to Max.
He was sitting on the terrace after one of his swims. I did not even allow him time to say hello. I was a walking volcano that afternoon, about to move from fire to water.
“I’m ready. I’m ready for the reef. Let’s go!”
In his usual caring — and perhaps cautious — manner, he asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Fear is here with me, but I want to see what lies beyond it. It hides something. It’s a door. Take me with you and let’s open it.”
Max had rented fins for me upon our arrival. It was finally time to use them. I put everything on and we entered the water, ready for adventure, when he pointed behind me.
“A storm is coming. It will reach us in minutes. You’ve decided to embrace waves, moray eels and your entire collection of fears — now the clouds want to join the party. You must decide now. If we continue, we must go all the way to the reef.”
I paused for two seconds, but I was so tired of being held back by every shadow — and so eager to discover what fear concealed beyond its threshold — that I looked at Max and said, “To hell with the storm! If it wants to come, let it come with us. I’m following you, Captain!”
I experienced one of the most beautiful sensations of my life: complete trust. At last I allowed myself to be guided by Max, who swam ahead with full knowledge of the best route through the reef entrance. It was beautiful to see him turn occasionally, as if asking whether my friendship with fear was still intact or if I was about to surrender. Precisely that acceptance — that I could not separate myself from fear — allowed me to follow his strokes with a spirit of exploration rather than dread.
First, as Laguz had suggested, when I am in the sea, I am also the sea. Then I realised that the ocean I was crossing, in all its magnificence and unpredictability, was exactly what triggered my fears. I could not control it. I could not make predictions that would not make even the fish laugh. I could not hope never to encounter a moray eel. Instead, I assumed I might see one and would simply have to coexist with fear itself.
When we reached the sandy channel leading safely into the reef, Max gestured for me to go ahead. I hesitated at first, then thought: If he suggests it, there must be a reason. I moved forward. Swimming along the coral reef required resisting waves pushing me towards the corals. Among countless beautiful marine creatures, I saw the tail of a moray eel emerging from a crevice. Was I afraid? Yes — but I had no time to dwell on it. Something sublime surrounded us. I checked that Max was beside me and continued swimming.
At one point he suddenly swam ahead, lifted his head from the water and shouted, “Turn around, turn around, turn around!”
That is perhaps the last thing one should say dramatically to someone who has just begun freeing herself from fear. Yet I turned, submerging my head again after briefly raising it to hear him. Before my eyes appeared the being that had caught Max’s attention: a gigantic ocean turtle. It was there, where we had not expected it, swimming beside us. I was ecstatic. This was who awaited me beyond the door of fear — an ancient creature which, according to Max, was a symbol meant for me, a gift received for daring to embrace my fears and discover what they concealed.
We returned home overjoyed — he perhaps astonished by my transformation, I eager to read about the turtle’s hidden meaning. Among its many symbolic aspects was one in particular: the ability to move at one’s own pace, at one’s own rhythm, without being conditioned by the speed of others.
Today I am certain of it: the immense thirst I felt upon arrival already signalled that I would encounter the element of Water. From that moment, Laguz, Federico, the turtle, and Max’s perseverance came together to help me open the door of fear. Beyond it there truly was abundance. And if I managed to open it starting from genuine terror, then anyone can open it. The desire to discover reality and its mysteries is the true guide.
