By nature, I am a complete coward. Flying insects — regardless of ferocity — make my heart race. The mere thought of driving faster than sixty-five miles an hour makes me somewhat faint. I’ve been known to burst into tears on roller coasters. Kiddie roller coasters.
And yet? I love to scuba dive.
How I came to be a certified scuba diver really makes no sense. I’m not a very strong swimmer, and like most people who have studiously avoided learning to dive, I’m not particularly fond of the thought of shark encounters. But when I was thirty-two years old, I suddenly thought to myself, Self, you love the water. You’re from the Caribbean, for God’s sake, the site of some of the most popular diving in the world, and you’ve barely visited any islands other than your homeland. Have you no shame? Get certified, woman. So I conned a coworker into taking a certification class with me at a local dive shop’s swimming pool, and six weeks later, I was a diver.
Soon after I was certified, I began to get excited about the prospect of returning to the Cayman Islands, a beautiful place I’d visited in the past. On my previous trip, I had spent every morning looking longingly at the dive boats making their way out to sea. Now that I had my dive card, I knew it was time. My coworker/codiver wasn’t going to be able to make the trip with me, so for the first time in my life, I planned a vacation alone. I researched dive operations on the island, bought a ton of trashy novels for my solitary time above the ocean’s surface and booked my tickets for four days in paradise. While Cayman Islands is possibly one of the safest countries in the world and I was staying in an apartment with all the amenities I could possibly desire, I felt intrepid. Courageous. Damned brave.
Brave, that is, until my first morning on the island, when the van from the dive operation came to pick me up at my rented apartment.
I climbed into the vehicle, filled with calm-looking tourists. The divemaster for our tour was also the driver of the van, and he treated me to a cheery “good morning!” and a stack of legal waivers and disclaimers to sign while on the way to the boat dock. I began reading the language, written to ensure that I understood that the dive operation wasn’t liable for any injuries arising out of all the possible dangers of diving, including shark attacks, fire coral, getting the bends, nitrogen narcosis, jellyfish stings, barracuda, giant squid, rogue stingrays, the occasional mean-spirited sea slug …
“… you a lawyer?” my thoughts were interrupted, as a sense of doom began to settle around me.
“Um … yeah,” I said.
The divemaster laughed. “I can always tell. No one actually reads those contracts except for lawyers. You can go ahead and sign them. You’ll be fine.”
Easy for him to say. Here I was, reading about all the possible things that could go wrong on this trip, this trip I’d foolishly decided to go on by myself, this trip which was undoubtedly going to end in some lone fisherman finding my mangled, chewed-upon body weeks later, this trip which would require the authorities to obtain my dental records to identify me, and I hadn’t been to a dentist in over a year.
I signed the paperwork.
Sadly, my mood continued to deteriorate. We all climbed aboard the boat and motored out to the dive site. As we sailed on, the divemaster pulled out a large whiteboard and began to draw a map of the topography we were likely to see. “We’ll descend to about 100 feet here,” he began, “and you’ll see lots of coral, lots of tropical fish, some tarpon — a large silver fish that looks like a barracuda but is totally harmless. But, you know, you may also see barracuda. And perhaps a shark or two.”
“Then,” he continued, “we’ll make our way south, where we’ll arrive at the drop-off. They estimate that the ocean floor at that depth is about 25,000 feet, so be sure to keep your eye on your depth gauge, and stay around 100 feet — you don’t want to descend too far into the blue.”
Sweet mother of Gumby.
The boat engine stopped, and everyone began putting on their tanks and fins. Since there were only couples on board, all of the divers naturally buddied up with their partners. The divemaster looked at me. “You’ll partner with me,” he said.
“Thanks,” I replied shakily. Then I made my way closer to him.
“You should know, this is only my third dive. Also? I have a really hard time with my ears, equalizing ear pressure when I descend — it can take me some time.”
He looked concerned.
“How deep have you been before?”
“About sixty feet, I think …”
“You’re going to be fine. One hundred feet doesn’t feel any different than sixty feet. We’ll take it slowly, and just stay close.” He smiled, his voice was gentle.
I nodded. He helped me into my tank, I affixed the mask securely to my face, and put the regulator in my mouth. One by one, we all entered the water, and I was the last to take my giant step into the amazingly aqua ocean.
The divemaster swam to me: Are you okay? he pointed and motioned in diver sign language.
I’m okay, I motioned back.
Good, he indicated. Let’s descend.
Slowly, I began to let the air about my buoyancy compensator, the vest that divers wear to regulate both their descent and their floatability. I looked down — below me, I could see the other divers waiting for us on the ocean floor. Breathe slowly, I told myself. It’s meditation. Breathe slowly.
The diver master stayed with me, looking into my eyes. Slowly, we descended, and without warning, my feet suddenly touched the sandy bottom. I checked my depth gauge. Ninety-eight feet.
Are you okay? the divemaster signaled again.
Relieved, I grinned, the regulator still my mouth. I’m okay, I signaled back.
Suddenly, I noticed movement to my left. I looked, and a huge sea turtle swam by, looking at us with a bored expression. Before I could have time to marvel, a spotted eagle ray soared above us, silently undulating its wings in the still, brilliant blue water. I was completely overcome with wonder, forgetting my earlier apprehension.
Let’s go this way, the divemaster signaled to the group.
We all followed, swimming about three feet above the ocean floor. There really wasn’t much to see — some rocks, rather unimpressive coral, the occasional fish. Rather quickly, however, the rocks and coral began to become more plentiful, until we were swimming single file through what appeared to be a narrow trench. Because the water was so clear, even at this depth, the ocean around us was bright blue, completely lit by the sun above.
I checked my depth. One hundred feet.
Unexpectantly, a current picked up, and I could feel it propelling me quickly forward. I kept my eyes on the sandy bottom, wondering what was happening, but suddenly, before I could panic …
… the ocean floor completely disappeared.
The drop-off.
I turned around, to see where I’d just come from — I was now facing a wall, the underwater cliff from which I’d just soared, and I was hovering about 10 feet away, in what felt like mid-air.
I was floating free.
I was flying.
I looked down, trying to make out where the ocean floor finally began again, but it was no use — it was too far down. All I could see was a deep indigo blue of nothingness.
I checked my depth gauge. One hundred five feet.
The divemaster appeared out of nowhere. Are you okay?
I screamed with unbridled glee, sending a spray of bubbles from my regulator. “YES!” I shouted, motioning wildly. “I AM SO OKAY!”
The dive ended pretty quickly after that. When you’re at that depth, you can’t stay down at the bottom for very long. And while I’ve been on many dives since that one in Cayman, some of them far more beautiful and teeming with sea life, I’ve never, ever forgotten the feeling I experienced on that dive. I remember being overwhelmed with joy … and pride. I’m not a brave person, but there I was, on vacation by myself, over one hundred feet below the ocean’s surface, flying. It is a memory I come back to anytime I feel nervous, to remind myself that I can do … or at least, try … anything.
Even if I still do run away from cockroaches.
“I’m different because I work myself to death. I’ve always excelled at everything, so now I’m afraid of failure.”
“I’m different because lost and scared children and animals always find me.”
“I‘m different because I finally figured out I’m really good at accepting and embracing change.”
“I’m different because I have weird superstitions. Like, giving knives as gifts is bad luck unless you give the giver a dime so it doesn’t ‘cut the friendship.’ Or if you’re holding hands with someone and have to go around an obstacle, you have to say ‘bread and butter.’ ”
