The best books where the water is a gateway to a strange new world

I blame a 90’s childhood spent devouring Bruce Coville and O.R. Melling, but I am obsessed with stories where our hero tumbles, slides, or wanders into another world. That’s why, even as an adult, I drink up the scene(s) in a speculative book where I get that first delicious glimmer of an uncanny separate world beneath “normal” life.

When it’s done well, it’s everything, and Sasha’s way-too-early morning swims in Vita Nostra evoke that feeling pitch-perfectly. I love how the authors describe the visceral discomfort of cold water, I love the industrial incongruity of the buoy she swims to, and mostly I love how they use the disorienting sensation of sneaking out to swim in wild and dangerous waters, to set the mood for the weirdness to come.

This made me feel like I was watching Sailor Moon and reading The Dark Tower again for the first time. 

I will always find an excuse to read a classic literary tome about an unreliable narrator by the British seashore, partly because I know I’m in for a gut-punch of a landscape description. Even better when it’s garnished with a few—not too many, just enough—of those ultra-evocative lines that stop you in your tracks and make you go, “That’s exactly what that’s like!” But that’s not even the best part of this five-course meal of a book.

The story becomes increasingly surreal and disturbing. At each stage, Murdoch’s descriptions of the ocean landscape shift and change with the narrative, so the water increasingly looms in the background like a living character, apparently impersonal and even more deliciously horrible for it. 

This book is claustrophobic, unflinching, and horrifying, so I can’t watch videos from seafloor subs, drones, or observatories. I’m used to sci-fi that takes place in the cold black isolation of a spaceship, but here we have the cold black isolation of the seabed, which triggers all the thalassophobia. Add the meticulous routines of a crew surviving in a place where humans shouldn’t be and, above all, the awful psychological pull of the void, and you get deliciously potent nightmare fuel.

But maybe more than that, I love that Watts is one of those authors, like Richard Morgan, who creates spec-fic characters with questionable morality, who can and do alarm the reader. Everyone I know who’s ever read this book has never forgotten it, shudders when I mention it and knows who Lenie Clark is. 

It has been years, and I cannot stop thinking about the visual this book left me with: a young woman sleeping in a makeshift plastic bubble under the sea's surface, tethered to a walkway across the Indian Ocean. I love when a speculative fiction book dives deep into exactly how a futuristic technology looks, feels, smells, integrates into life, and doesn’t just fill a plot point—which is probably why I was left with such a vivid image of this tent-bubble-habitat-material.

I am also an avid camper and know what it’s like to trust techy material in inhospitable circumstances. Take that feeling of trying to sleep while rain pours on a tent you hope is as waterproof as advertised. Now multiply it by 100 and add a violently undulating walkway across the Indian Ocean, and you get why I love this book. 

This book is a summer creamsicle of a book, melting down your fist as you devour it. It’s the sun beating down in parking lots as you run toward the water, sand crunching under your flip-flops. If you took Joan Didion’s descriptions of SoCal and crossed them with Anne-Marie MacDonald’s deft descriptions of mother/daughter pathos, then sprinkled it with 70’s childhood nostalgia, you’d get this daydream of a book.

Oh, yeah, and it’s also about a deadbeat parent who may or may not be an ocean deity. I accidentally grabbed this off the library shelf one day and loved it so much that I bought it. I take every opportunity to recommend it. It’s a beach read in the best, literal sense of the term.