His Sensations Are Strange, But He Finds Relaxation; Can Tank Be a Hot Item?

by Roy J Hanris, Jr.
Staff Reporter of The Wall Street Journal.

BEVERLY HILLS, Calif. - It is called a sensory isolation tank, a relaxation tank or a "Lilly pond," after its inventor, John Lilly. But as I face the forbidding-looking black plastic box for the first time, the nickname "coffin" seems most appropriate.

I'm visiting Samadhi Spa, awaiting my $15, one-hour turn in the pitch-dark, dead-quiet confines of the eight-by-four-by-four foot chamber, where, I'm told, my body will feel weightless as it floats like a cork in a shallow 20% saltwater solution. Thus deprived of stimuli, I'm supposed to experience-- not boredom or claustrophobia-- but the ability to "relax more completely than ever before," according to the tank's promoters.

 I'm about to discover, to my surprise, that at least on this day, they aren't so very wrong.

 As I'm briefed in the waiting room, not unlike a dentist's except for the big demonstration tank, it is explained that samadhi is an ancient Sanskrit word for "a high state of consciousness." Right now I'm at the state of consciousness called panic, wishing I'd been assigned to cover a less threatening story--like a prison riot.

Taunts Brushed Off
Samadhi and other tank maker, Denver-based Float to Relax, Inc., assert that their products will grow hotter than the hot tub as a home-improvement item and could one day become available in street-corner parlors. They brush off taunts that the tanks are narcissistic "me-machines" that will be obsolete when the so-called me generation fades.

"We're out to become the McDonald's of Relaxation," says Keith Cason , Western distributor of Float to Relax. He maintains that "this isn't a fad; there are 20,000 Valiums consumed in Denver every day, and we're stress-management consultants offering a better way." And Robert Tyhurst, 37-year­ old former financial executive for Exxon and Itel Corp. and now Samadhi's managing partner, envisions his tanks eventually "in every skyscraper," allowing workers "the opportunity for complete privacy."

 It is hard to imagine any such success for a device that has been around for 25 years without catching on. (Dr. Lilly, noted now more for his unusual work with dolphins, used early tanks for various mental-research projects.) Only a few more than 1,000 tanks have been sold, mostly to private solitude-seekers in the last couple of years. And the price of $1,195 to $2,750, including air pump, water filter and heating unit, hardly seems likely to cause a flood of buy­ers.

 Lately the two companies have been competing for the health-club market, a first step out of the narrow category of "meditational aid," where most current users seem to place the tanks. Nautilus-plus, a fitness chain in Southern California, has ordered 12 units from Float to Relax, which recently opened the 13th center of its own, in Philadelphia.

Skepticism Voiced

 In New York, targeted by Mr. Tyhurst as one of six planned Samadhi regional centers, the only two public Samadhi tanks are at a place called the East-West Center for Holistic Health. (Many orthodox health professionals are likely to be tank skeptics. MIT Prof. Richard Held. who labels Dr. Lilly a "fringe" scientist, says conventional research in the sensory-isolation area was dropped years ago. But Prof. Held, who once did such research, adds that a couple of hours in a tank "shouldn't be a problem" for most people.)

 Meanwhile, back in Beverly Hills, an intense young Samadhi assistant, Ramon Repp, senses from my many nervous questions that I'm more interested in talking about sensory isolation than in trying it.

 Will somebody be around to help if I have trouble? "No," he says curtly. (I'm relieved, though , to try the demonstration tank door and find it opens at a feather's touch, and there's no latch at all.) How will I know when my hour is up? "You'll hear soft music," Ramon answers. and points me toward my private tank room.

 On my way, I reflect how different this experience seems from my several memorable adventures in hot tubs. I'm taking this dip alone. Really alone.

My mind is racing as I take the recommended hot shower and shampoo--to keep the tank water clean--before lying naked in the box, I tell myself that I may be able to turn off the light and the sound in my world for an hour, but I'm sure I'll have a tougher time extinguishing the worries I bring in from the outside.

 For one thing, I've been having a spat with my girlfriend. I'm also nervous about another article I'm writing, and I wonder how the saltwater will affect a recent scratch I suffered on the top of my head.

 I lift the tank lid and climb into the tepid 93.5-degree water. As I lie down. my scalp ' does sting a bit, but right now I'm more concerned about how things will look when I pull the door closed over my head.

 They don't "look'' at all. It is the darkest dark I've ever felt, and it actually seems to lighten when I close my eyes. Breathing is difficult in the stuffy chamber. Also, there's a lot of noise at first; but it's really just my thumping heart and the "narration" I'm getting from my mind, which, after all, is my only companion on this trip. It first recalls the enjoyment I used to get taking baths as a child instead of the showers that now are my morning routine, and then it criticizes itself for the "small" caliber of such thoughts.

 But at least, I notice, the stinging is gone. So are the little waves of water against my skin, and those "outside" wor­ries. Now there IS nothing.

Heartbeat Returns

 My heartbeat is back. But of course it was never gone; my mind was just on other things. I fret briefly about "freaking out" like some buried Edgar Allan Poe character. Then I remember how easily that door opens, wherever it is.

 When, with practice, I get really good at floating still, my mind finds itself almost wishing for the stinging to return or even for my toe to touch the tank wall. Anything. It seems my mind won't let me completely relax.

 But as soon as I think that, I begin to feel a strange sensation in my limbs. It is as if there is no difference between my skin and the water, and I begin to fantasize about being part of the water, disappearing into it and no longer being a separate human body. Opening my eyes, I see nothing to dispute the fantasy. My usually argumentative mind now begins to play along with the feeling, and I picture myself lying on a grassy hillside with a warm breeze blowing ever so lightly over me. And now I am the grassy hillside.

 Every now and then I have little "mind attacks," and my body starts as if waking from a sound sleep. But I'm awake, and it's easy, I find, to resume my disappearing act.

On the Beach

 Now I'm running on the beach in a dense fog, and almost vanishing into it. I run effortlessly, and watch an occasional runner glide toward me and vanish into the same fog. In the cloud, now, there is nothing but mind, and heartbeat, and . . . something else. Something like . . . lilting electronic music.

 I guess my time is up, and I guess I can push the door open. In a minute. I feel euphoric, and I sit up slowly, push and step out. I shower and dress, give Ramon my MasterCard and sign the slip. Someone says "thank you" and I leave.

 Outside, the sunny, warm afternoon seems somehow quieter. The flowers I pass as I walk to my car are unquestionably a brighter purple than they were before. Driving home, I notice that I don't want to turn on my radio.

 The air hits me and I come down a bit, thinking that daydreaming on that grassy hillside would be a cheaper form of relaxation. And for about the same amount I could have had an invigorating massage. But I'm satisfied with my hour in the tank.

 I stop and buy a bunch of daisies for my girlfriend. And I buy a rose for myself.