Close-up, slightly blurry smartphone photo of a forearm with dried salt crystals, catching the late afternoon sun. The background is a soft, out-of-focus impression of a cafe with hints of a red sea view. Natural, candid feel
A candid, slightly off-center shot taken from above looking down at a vibrant coral garden underwater. Focus is on the intricate textures of the coral with a few small, colorful fish darting through. The light is dappled, showing the depth and movement of the water. Shot with a smartphone
A wide shot from a slightly elevated perspective, capturing a person sitting at a simple outdoor cafe table on a waterfront promenade. The sea is visible in the background, bathed in the warm, hazy light of late afternoon. A few palm trees are in the foreground, and distant mountains are visible across the water. The image should feel relaxed and observational, as if captured spontaneously

The silence under water

It's 16:40 and I'm sitting in a café on the Corniche, watching the late afternoon light turn the Red Sea into hammered copper. My hair is still damp from this morning's snorkeling, and there's salt dried on my forearms that I keep forgetting to wipe off.

I went out at 07:50 this morning - the dive shop opened at 08:00, and I was the first person there. The instructor, a Jordanian man in his thirties named Karim, seemed unsurprised to find someone waiting at the door. "You are German?" he asked. "Norwegian," I said. He nodded as if that explained everything.

The water was 27°C, which Karim assured me was perfect. Coming from Norway, where the sea is something you survive rather than enjoy, I'm still getting used to the idea of warm ocean water. We went out on a small boat with two other tourists - a French couple who spent the entire ride taking selfies.

But then we went under.

I've been thinking a lot about silence lately. The silence of Petra's stone corridors. The silence of the desert at night. But this was different - this was a living silence, filled with the sound of my own breathing through the snorkel, the occasional click of parrotfish nibbling at coral.

The coral gardens off Aqaba's coast are supposed to be some of the healthiest in the Red Sea. I don't have much basis for comparison, but even I could see the variety - brain coral that looked exactly like its name, staghorn formations reaching up like bare trees in winter, soft corals waving in the current like underwater grass.

Karim pointed out a moray eel tucked into a crevice, just its head visible, opening and closing its mouth in that way that looks threatening but is apparently just how they breathe. A school of anthias - small orange fish - moved past us like a single organism, turning in perfect synchronization.

I stayed in the water for nearly two hours. Karim eventually had to tap my shoulder and point at his watch. The French couple had gone back to the boat forty minutes earlier.

There's something about being underwater that makes you aware of your own body in a way you usually aren't. You feel the weight of the water, the resistance against every movement. You're conscious of your breathing - can't take it for granted the way you do on land. And you're aware of being a visitor in a space that isn't designed for you.

I've been traveling for 346 days now, and I've spent most of that time on land, walking through cities and ancient sites, climbing mountains, crossing deserts. But underwater, the usual rules don't apply. Gravity works differently. Sound travels strangely. You can't speak. You can only observe.

After we got back, I walked along the Corniche for a while, still processing. The waterfront here is nothing like the austere beauty of Petra - it's all modern hotels and restaurants, palm trees planted in neat rows, families out for afternoon strolls. The mountains of Saudi Arabia are visible across the water, hazy in the distance.

I found a small restaurant near the fort and had grilled fish for lunch - hamour, the waiter told me, caught this morning. It was simple - just the fish, some rice, a salad - but perfect. The kind of meal that tastes like the place you're in.

Now I'm watching the boats in the marina, thinking about how much of the world exists below the surface, invisible to those of us who stay on land. How many coral gardens and fish schools and moray eels are going about their lives right now, in that living silence beneath the waves.

I have 154 days left. Sometimes that feels like forever, and sometimes it feels like barely enough time to scratch the surface of anything. Today, underwater, I was reminded that there's always more depth than you can see from above.

The sun is starting to set now, turning the Saudi mountains purple. I should probably go back to the hotel and rinse the salt out of my hair properly. But I'm not quite ready to leave this spot yet. The water is still there, moving and breathing, full of life I can't see from here.

Maybe that's enough - knowing it's there, even when you can't see it.