Dive!

In 2001, I flew into Cairns, Australia, drawn by the pull of the Great Barrier Reef. Boarding a high-speed catamaran, I made my way to the dive site. Despite my candid admission to the divemaster that I couldn't swim, he gave me the green light. We geared up—wetsuit, tank, regulator—and down I went.

We descended into the blue, settling at seventy feet. The marine life was astonishing, and I marveled at the surreal sensation of breathing underwater. Then, an intrusive thought crept in: I am so deep. What if the air stops? How would I cope?

The thought instantly manifested as reality. Panic seized my chest. I couldn't breathe. Instinct took over. Grasping the vertical guide line beside me, I hand-over-handed to the surface in a lightning-fast two seconds.

Spitting out the regulator, I gasped for air. Seconds later, the instructor broke the surface, furious. “You could give yourself an embolism doing that!” he yelled, shouting over the waves about nitrogen and lung expansion. The experience scarred me. For the next twenty-four years, I didn't go near the water.

Fast forward to 2024. While walking around the Seychelles, I stumbled upon a dive shop named Equinoxe. I confessed my ancient trauma to the owner, who gently suggested an "introductory" dive the following morning.

When I arrived, the owner broke the news: every other participant had canceled due to rough weather. She offered a full refund, but added, "If you still want to go, we'll take you."

I agreed. The owner and her nineteen-year-old daughter—my instructor for the day—drove me to the boat, and we battered through a furious, unruly sea to the site.

"Jump in," the young instructor instructed.

It was the moment of truth. Looking at the massive, churning waves on the wild side of the island, I froze. Finally, I forced myself to leap, bobbing violently in the swell. We placed the regulators in our mouths and submerged. Within a minute, hyperventilation hit me like a wall.

The instructor locked eyes with me and signaled to ascend. On the surface, her first words were delightfully blunt: “You’ve got to chill, man!” She looked at me calmly. "Do you want to keep going, or head back?"

I promised to chill.

We submerged again. I consciously forced my mind to quiet down and shadowed her movements. Before long, we were hovering over a sunken shipwreck teeming with tropical life. After thirty minutes of bliss, we surfaced and climbed aboard. The shop owner was astounded by the turnaround, and handed me a certificate of completion. I walked away triumphant.

Two years later, while visiting Cancun, I snagged a discounted deal for a dive in Cozumel. This operator required a mandatory pool reorientation before heading out.

Along with a father-and-son duo, I was instructed to demonstrate basic underwater safety maneuvers. I slipped into the pool and breathed through the regulator. The instructor watched me, then gave a thumbs-up.

Next was the clear-and-recovery test: remove the regulator, wait a second, and replace it. I pulled it out, immediately panicked, inhaled a gulp of pool water, and bolted to the surface.

While the instructor tested the other two, I practiced alone. Eventually, I managed it.

"Now," the instructor said, "remove the regulator, toss it behind your shoulder, sweep your arm to locate the hose, and put it back in."

I tried. I panicked again. I surfaced, dripping and defeated.

The instructor voiced the hard truth I was already feeling: I was too hesitant, and going out into the open ocean might put the whole group's safety at risk. He offered to let me tag along just to snorkel, but I knew my limits.

I chose to accept total defeat, packed my bag, and returned to the hotel. Some depths, I finally realized, are better left unexplored.