We Tried It: Spending an Hour in a Sensory Deprivation Tank

No sound. No light. Nothing touches you except salt water, but since it’s heated to just about body temperature, you don’t feel it. It’s quiet, it’s dark, you’re weightless—and it’s all meant to help you relax and have a meditative experience.

That’s what we encountered at Dream Float Hawai‘i during our 60-minute floats in sensory deprivation tanks. According to the wellness company’s website, “floating has been commonly described as similar to relaxing in outer space or being back in the womb.”

Editorial director Diane Seo is big on heated yoga, cold plunging, breathwork and meditation, but somewhat claustrophobic, and executive editor Katrina Valcourt, who doesn’t mind small spaces (read about her capsule hotel stay here), needs all the help she can get quieting her thoughts.

The view from Dream Float Hawai‘i. Photo: Katrina Valcourt

The Company

Located in a lovely home with a view in Wai‘alae Iki, Dream Float was launched a decade ago by owner Geoff Sato, who had experienced meditative floating elsewhere and wanted to offer people here the same opportunity. He says Dream Float was the first of its kind on O‘ahu, and since starting up, he estimates that more than 10,000 people have been in his two flotation pods, including former President Barack Obama, whose framed picture sits on a shelf in the home.

Each tank is filled with about 10 inches of water and 1,000 pounds of high-grade Epsom salt, which makes participants buoyant. (You don’t have to do anything but lie in the water; floating happens naturally.)

We both had our own private sensory deprivation tanks in separate rooms (each with its own bathroom). We put in earplugs, showered, stepped into the tanks naked and closed the hatches. You can choose to leave it slightly or fully open to let in soft orange light from a Himalayan salt lamp, but both of us wanted to be fully entrenched in the experience, so we opted for closed hatches.

SEE ALSO: We Tried It: Taking the (Cold) Plunge

The Experience

Katrina’s flotation tank, along with a blue “pillow” (that she didn’t use) and a small bottle of tap water in case any salt water got in her eyes. Photo: Katrina Valcourt

Katrina:

An hour alone with nothing but my brain sounds like a recipe for destructive ruminating, if you ask me. The questions come a mile a minute. What if it’s cold? How will I know when it’s over? I haven’t eaten since breakfast and forgot to have a snack—what if I get hungry and can’t stop thinking about food? What if I end up in the Upside Down? When is the new season of Stranger Things coming out? Oh, right, they just announced it. Do not start thinking of an annoying song. Do not worry about remembering to stop by the library on the way home. If I get tired, should I drift off, or will I wake up in a panic, unsure of my whereabouts?

Despite all of that, I look forward to a good long soak and what it will do for my sore muscles.

When I arrive, I’m excited, but Geoff’s calm energy rubs off and in no time, I’m a little more peaceful. Then I see the tank, and I’m unexpectedly anxious. That goes away once I’m alone inside.

The sensation of being in the sensory deprivation tank is strange at first, and I find myself “trying” to float the way I would in a swimming pool or the ocean. It takes a little bit to fully let go and just be buoyant. I experiment with arm positions, deciding to keep my hands clasped under my head most of the time because I like having more of my upper body out of the water than my legs, which seem to sink a little in this position. Still, it’s hard to tell how much of me is actually submerged. I flex my toes and still can’t tell.

There’s an air vent at the back of the tank. Photo: Katrina Valcourt

You know when you’re lounging on a floatie in the pool and have no idea which way you’re facing until you open your eyes and find you’ve drifted all the way to the other side? It wasn’t exactly like that because my tank is slightly smaller than Diane’s, and I find myself touching the sides quite a bit, especially when I push off to recenter and overcompensate. There’s a tiny sliver of light seeping through the side of the hatch, but unless I try to look at it, it’s out of my view. I had been closing my eyes but realize it makes no difference, other than the sensation of blinking, which I think is distracting me from nirvana, so I close them again.

I’m thinking about all of this, in addition to my usual daydreaming, since I’m not exactly sleepy or trying to turn off my brain. Instead, I pretend I’m in space. No, I’m in a rocket in space, without gravity. No, I’m a mermaid who’s at home in the water and can float without even trying.

Part of me wants to try floating on my side. Is that even possible? My throat feels a little dry since I didn’t want to overhydrate and have to pee. I am a little hungry after all. Around what must be the 45-minute mark, I start doing some side bends and splaying like a starfish. I lift my arms out in front of me like a zombie, but they’re so heavy. Does my butt exist anymore?

I almost consider getting out because I’m bored. But I think maybe it’s like a runner’s high, where people have to run for like 45 minutes before they suddenly feel euphoric. Somehow, eventually, my brain actually does turn off, but then I hear something outside and realize it’s time to get out.

Diane’s tank, which was slightly larger than Katrina’s. Photo: Diane Seo

Diane:

The idea of floating for an hour in total darkness did make me nervous, but I was game for another step-out-of-my-comfort-zone wellness activity. I try not to think about the fact that I’m enclosed in a small tank and can’t see anything. Instead, I focus on how buoyant I am in water.

I know the experience is about quieting my chattering mind, not letting thoughts run amok and just being calm and quiet for an hour. A floating meditation, as I see it. I already practice meditation regularly through yoga and conscious breathwork, so it’s more about getting in that familiar headspace in an unfamiliar and eerie setting.

It takes a while to quell my thoughts. Is there enough air in this tank? What if the latch on the hatch is stuck and I can’t get out? If I freak out, will Geoff hear and come help?

Inside the tank. Photo: Diane Seo

Being aware that such thoughts are fueling unease, I focus on my breath—four counts of inhaling and eight counts of exhaling, which sound like the wind on a stormy night. Finally, I stop the structured breathwork and settle calmly into the quiet darkness. It feels like an extended Savasana. I lay there like that for the rest of the session, dozing in and out of consciousness. All anxious thoughts of being in a dark tank dissipate. When the hour’s up, I’m disoriented and, in all honesty, a little relieved.

I can’t say I had an out-of-body experience or reached a higher state. But I was relaxed and rested, as if I had just woken up from a nap. I would do it again, but since I have other calming practices, it would be more of an occasional experience. My skin was soft and smooth the next day, though, as if I had gone to a spa.

The Info

Book a float by calling (808) 386-5997. A single float is $99 ($149 for a couple’s float); a three-float trial package goes for $199. There’s also a monthly membership. Along with floating, a 20-minute cold plunge session is available for $25. Visit dreamfloathi.com for more information.