Over the sound of the slapping ocean waves, I heard the instructor say, “Just fall backward into the water.” I was precariously propped on the edge of the small dive boat with a heavy air tank on my back. For a split second I froze. My brain silently screamed, “I don’t dive! I don’t put my head under the water. I don’t like water in my ears or eyes! What am I doing here? Shouldn’t I be with Millicent the van completing my 50-state tour?”
These visceral reactions have been deeply seeded in the fibers of my being since my early interactions around water. I love being ON the water NOT IN the water. When I was a skinny ten-year-old, I took swimming lessons at a freezing outdoor pool in Michigan. The morning air was in the low 50’s and every time I was forced to jump in the pool, I thought I would die of hypothermia. Plus, my very white skin was a subject of jeers from my tan fellow swimmers who would call me ‘Casper the Ghost’. Needless to say, I could not wait to finish the torturous lessons and return to the verdant gardens in the country where my family lived.
This week I was in Roatan off the coast of Honduras to celebrate my sister’s big birthday. I was encouraged by her family to undertake the PADI (Professional Association of Dive Instructors) Open Water Diving Certification; 3 full days of training, classroom work, rescue and equipment exercises and multiple dives down to 60-feet below the surface of the ocean.
We had to perform deep water crisis scenarios such as flooding our masks, running out of air and sharing air with our ‘dive buddy’, and a controlled emergency swimming ascent. Of course, these disaster scenarios tapped hard into the cracks of my emotions.
Another message that formed my early negative feelings about water, the movie Jaws notwithstanding, was the storied diving accident of Joni Eareckson in 1967 which resulted in her paralysis from the neck down. I vowed then that I would never dive into water, and I haven’t…. until this week when the dive instructor said,
“Just fall backward into the ocean.”
I wanted to raise my hand and say, “May I tell you about my childhood and how I feel about what you just commanded?”
Rather, I knew that I couldn’t think about my deep history with water for more than one second or I wouldn’t do it.
So, I took a big breath, pressed my regulator and goggles firmly against my face, and simply fell backward and somersaulted through the clearest, bluest ocean water that I have ever seen. I was giddy that I had taken the plunge, literally. Inexplicable joy and weightless peace rippled through my core. Then I heard my exhale bubbles push through the regulator with a loud gurgle sound. The steep coral cliffs spiraled to depths I hadn’t seen before. I grew dizzy, my heart pounded, and I sucked on my regulator trying hard to pull every molecule of air out of the tank. I felt like I couldn’t get a breath. My heart pounded harder, and panic began to set in. Despite being told to stay underwater, I kicked my fins as hard as I could to break through the surface for a fresh breath of air.
I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this, rang through my head! The sage instructor, Marco, slowly crested the surface, looked me in the eye, and used his hand to motion the slow, slow inhale, and slow, slow exhale, almost as if he were a Zen master diver. I pointed to my head and said, “I know my fear is only here. If I can master my mind, I can master diving.”
And with that, I posed the question to myself, “Do you think you can actually calm
your mind and body enough to face your greatest fear?”
We had practiced for every emergency scenario; I was ready from a textbook standpoint.
Now, I needed to do the much deeper and harder emotional work to face my fear.
Several years ago, while running the Peachtree Road Race 10k in Atlanta, I saw a sign that read, “Do something every day that scares you.”
This speaks to me about widening personal borders and treading in places that give an opportunity to grow as an individual. But I wasn’t sure if this hurdle of learning to scuba dive was simply too large.
The Zen master said to me, “Breathe at my meditative pace and let’s see if you can stay underwater for two seconds longer than you stayed before.” What powerful advice! I knew I could do two seconds. In fact, it was 30 long seconds before I clawed for the surface again. That day, I battled back and forth the loop of diving underwater, panicking, surfacing, breathing calming breaths, diving underwater, panicking, and resurfacing.
It didn’t help that my diving partner was my nephew’s 18-year-old girlfriend who was a ‘natural’ under water and caught on as if she were an immediate dive master. I was happy for her success and tried hard to not compare her experience with that of my own 52-year-old journey with baggage.
Finally, yes, finally I caught the rhythm of breathing, my heart slowed enough to join in the meditative symphony, and I nodded that I was ready to dive. I knew the seriousness of what it meant when I nodded. I knew that I needed to stay underwater and follow my Zen master and that I could not ascend to the surface whenever I wanted.
The three of us descended to 60 feet below the surface of the water. My breathing was slow and meditative. We landed on the sandy bottom and the iridescent coral walls towered high above our masks. I watched my finned foot land on the sand, and I felt like Neil Armstrong landing on the moon. His famed ‘one small step’ words rang in my head; this was certainly a GIANT STEP for me!
As if on cue, I had to meet my greatest fear. In the distance, from my left, I saw a seven-foot nurse shark swimming toward me. We locked eyes. My breathing kept its slow in and slow out rhythm. The fierce animal kept swimming toward me. We gave one another a knowing look and then she effortlessly swam past me continuing silently into the murky depths.
I wanted to scream, cry, laugh, and dance. That would have to come later. And it did. During the written final scuba diving exam, my emotions overflowed with a mixed range of relief, tears, and celebration.
During my fifth and final dive of the week, I was growing more comfortable with the experience and now beginning to see my stunning surroundings rather than just trying to get through the encounter. While taking in the beauty of the coral, shells, and sea plant life, I saw a golden object moving slowly on the floor of the ocean. I swam closer. It was a large, iridescent, heart shaped crab crawling ever so slowly. Her golden heart sparkled with hints of blue and red. My breathing seemed to be at the same meditative pace as hers. The heart symbol on her back touched me deeply as my own open-heart scar on my chest was inches from her. It was a moment I will never forget.
Yes, though extraordinarily difficult, confronting this diving experience was a moment of inexplicable healing. So, am I glad that I fell back into the water when the Zen master commanded it? Yes, yes, I am.
