What I am actually feeling, however, is completely freaked out. The sensory deprivation essential to this experience — I cannot see, hear or feel while I am enclosed in this water tank — is supposedly the beauty of it. Without being tasked with the duties of seeing, hearing and keeping my body upright, my brain is free to take up other tasks. ‘Cause, you know, seeing and hearing get pretty exhausting.
Upon being walked into the therapy room — a small, sparse space with a shower and ye holy grail, the isolation tank — my mind immediately goes to The Matrix movies. Remember the scene where Neo “wakes up” in his liquid pod? Yep, I’m there. For the next 60 minutes, I am Neo. The isolation tank looks like a large egg; the lid opens and shuts from the inside (thank goodness) and I am told to keep it sealed shut “for the full effect.” There is a light switch inside, for me to turn the small blue light off at the beginning of my session and back on at its conclusion. A red button triggers the intercom in case of emergency (how comforting) and there are speakers for music, though I am told not to play any tunes during my first session. You know, “for the full effect.”
I am not sure what this “full effect” entails, and I am not sure I want to find out. A neighbor friend tells me sensory deprivation therapy is similar to an acid trip, as if this is in any way reassuring. I watched two or three video testimonials before I forced myself to stop; people attest to hearing things and seeing things while in the isolation tank. And they pay good money for this: Flotation therapy rates range anywhere from $50 to $100, depending on the duration of your float.
The required shower beforehand is awkward; I can’t help but scan the room for cameras, foolish as it seems. Shampoo and body wash have been provided, though I wish for some shower shoes: Growing up involved in sports, I cringe every time I see public bathroom floors and bare feet. Fingers crossed for no athlete’s foot outbreaks. There are clean towels and ear plugs, but no chair for me to lay my clothes on while I float so I fold them up and stack them on the floor.
I turn off the fluorescent lights in the room and am left with the brilliant blue bulb from the pod as my sole source of light.
Here goes nothing.
I take a deep breath and climb into the tank. Though I have been reassured I will float easily thanks to 1,000 pounds of medical-grade Epsom salt mixed in with the warm water, getting into the tank is extremely clumsy. With a salt content 10 times the levels of the Dead Sea, my body is bobbing up and down and I have a difficult time lying down. After a few minutes, I manage to find a somewhat comfortable position.
The earplugs prove to be useless; I have not put them in properly so water rushes into my ears and is then trapped by the plugs. I pull them out and put them to the side, though I think I hear them splash back into the pod with me.
I reach for the light switch and take a deep breath before clicking it off, careful not to accidentally press the intercom button. The last thing I need is my experience being broadcast to the waiting room.
Once the tank light is off, I blink my eyes rapidly and wait for them to adjust. This is when I realize another big fear of mine: Not being able to see. I last what I guess to be several agonizing minutes before I seriously consider getting out of the tank. Sheer pride —the only thing keeping me in here — nearly goes out the window as my breath quickens. I am temporarily blind and the only thing I can hear is my breath. Everything seems to shrink and close in on me.
This is some seriously freaky shit.
I flip the light back on, grateful to at least have control of the switch. Blue light washes over the walls surrounding me. I still have the lid open, though it is only a few feet above my head and therefore feels enclosing.
Can they tell I kept the lid open? Can they tell I just turned the light back on?
I don’t know, and at this point I really don’t give a damn. I can’t tell how many minutes have passed; I was told to remove all jewelry, including my watch. You know, for the “full experience.”
Well, I am certainly getting the full experience now.
Without any idea how much time I have spent in the tank, I have no clue how much time is left. This is torture. I switch between thinking about all of the other things I would rather be doing and wondering if the lock on the door really works, if there are video cameras in the room, if it is possible for me to drown.
Two more times I seriously consider getting out of the damn thing. This is like Octavia Butler’s dystopian Dawn come to life: At any second, I am certain the aliens will “awaken” me out of my pod and inform me they want to help repopulate the planet.
In a desperate attempt to prevent the mental breakdown looming ominously overhead, I decide to have a little fun and do a sort of synchronized swim. My limbs bump into the walls surrounding me: This pod was not designed for my tall frame. Still, I splash around every time I get too creeped out and try to think about how I will laugh about this later.
I crave a noise, any sound other than my own rapid breath. If the room were soundproof I would most definitely be singing a tune or two.
Before I know it, the filtration system turns back on and water swirls around me in waves. My hour is up. I almost laugh out loud, I am so happy to jump out of the entrapment, flip the lights on and join the rest of civilization.
My limbs are clumsy after being weightless for an hour; I bump into the walls as I shower the thick layer of salt from my body and pull my clothing back on. I paint what I hope resembles some sort of calm-ish expression on my face and wipe the mascara smears from under my eyes with a tissue. Relief washes over me as I open the door. There is a Relaxation Room to the side, where you can sit and adjust to having your senses back before getting behind the wheel or operating heavy machinery. I bypass the room in favor of breathing real air, seeing real sky, hearing the noises of the city. I am glad I came here today, and glad to be leaving. My limbs feel floaty for the next few hours, but I am in no way relaxed.
I know I’m a little crazy; I know a lot of people enjoy sensory deprivation and flotation therapy. After all, Tampa Floats is booked solid for the next several weeks. I think the young owners are hard-working and driven enough to make their business a success. Small kinks like shower shoes, art on the walls, perhaps some spa music to make the silence bearable are easy to iron out and will work wonders. I truly hope Tampa Floats does a good business and I would recommend flotation therapy — and this place specifically — to any non-claustrophobic person who finds the idea of being deprived of all senses while floating in an isolation tank appealing.
Still, though, I cannot help but wonder why people prefer this to a nice, relaxing swim at a nearby beach (some of the best in the country, might I add).
I quite enjoy my senses, thank you very much.
This article appears in May 18-25, 2017.