About fifteen years ago, when I was living in Madison, Wisconsin, a flotation tank center opened, right in my neighborhood. I had heard of flotation tanks, but had never actually experienced one. So, feeling curious, I walked over to check it out, one spring afternoon.

It was a very small place: just a reception area and then a back room with two (or perhaps three) tanks, and a couple of showers. The tanks looked ominously like large metal coffins, which gave me a queasy feeling in my stomach. Still, I was up for trying it, at least once.

I received instructions on how to apply a Vaseline-like gel to my lips and any scratches or sores that might be irritated by the high-density salt-water; how to open and close the tank doors; and how to choose the "silence" or the "music" setting for my particular tank. So far, so good.

The attendant then left, I made myself naked as the day I was born, showered and put gel on my lips, chose the "silence" setting, opened the heavy tank door, slid into the warm water, and closed the door behind me.