my first dive.

For the past couple of months, I have been secretely training to get my Open Water license to become a certified scuba diver. I randomly got the idea one night, and immediately dismissed it as something I could never do. I wasn’t the “type” of person who did things just because they wanted to. I needed to feel safe in my reasoning, and simply wanting something was not substantial enough. I remember looking at the Professional Association of Diving Instructors (PADI) Open Water Diver checklist - Ten hours of eLearning, one exam, three pool sessions, and four open water dives - and thinking that was way too much work to invest in something I wasn’t even sure I could do. I imagined myself in another life, one where I wasn’t constantly stricken by anxiety and grief, and I assumed then I would be ready to indulge in something like this. But then I looked back at the checklist. Three pool sessions. Only three. Two hours each session. Four open water dives. Two dives each day for two days. And then I’d be licensed.

-But I couldn’t possibly do that! I’ve never done anything like diving in my life!

- Well of course, that’s why I’d begin training in the first place.

-But I’ve never done something as hands-on as this! I won’t be able to handle that kind of expectation!

- That is true, but who’s to say I won’t get used to it after the first session? Who’s to say I won’t prefer hands on learning more than independant?

-But I can’t do this, because if I invest my time and money and get scared, I will quit. And I will be a failure forever.

Failure. That is what held me back. It cements my feet to the ground, and leaves my arms flailing at these chasing dreams and phantasms that are too quick for my hands to reach. And worst of all, I have quite the history of quitting when things got rough, and that painful, doomful feeling that comes afterwards. A realization of what I’ve done, what I’ve lost. A sour truth that I am a quitter, and therefore a failure. That I’ve made a mistake so grave I was much better off never trying at all. Because the cost of losing is far greater and more painful than the sacrifice of trying.

All of these thoughts crossed my mind in a sort of kaleidescopic paradigm; one after the other. It was all in my head and in my eyes. But from my chest, in a dark, quiet cavity, I felt a twinge of something different. A feeling which sent signals to my brain, and through translation said something like, “maybe I can”. Maybe, as I am now, I can do this. Maybe I do not have to change the core of my being, and all I need to chase something like this is want. It was strange, but felt so natural. And nothing feels more familiar than something strangely natural.

I began my journey with baby steps. I found a dive shop near me that specialized in diving classes. I sent them an email, which led to phone call, which led me to visiting the shop and explaining my situation. I could do nothing else but be honest. I told them I’ve never dove, I’ve never snorkeled, I’ve never even went fishing. All I have is a deep interest in ocean biology and a yearning love for the sea. That was all I needed. I was told that’s where all journeys begin. And immediately, I was registered as a student.

The eLearning was easy. My biggest gripe were the pool sessions. I remember just calming myself down by saying, “I just need to make it to the first session”. I told no one of my plans. I wanted to make sure the excitement of becoming a diver was greater than the desire to brag about my plans. I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a huge componant of my interest. I wanted to feel real, I still want to, and I often confuse being real with having something to show for. I believe I must have things that I am doing, and those things must leave impressions on people, in order for me to truly be real. It was so difficult keeping this private, but the longer I did, the closer I felt towards myself. I took a journey initially planned to produce bragging rights and gave it all to myself. I told myself this wasn’t a secret, but a promise to myself, that I can live and perform for myself without comparing myself to other people. And that principal brought me closer to diving, because I realized the only reason I needed to do it was because I wanted to.

So then came the pool sessions. They went slowly, one session every Saturday for three weeks. I got accustomed to the vulnerability of diving by the second week. But before I even went to my first session, I promised myself I would reliquish my instinct to perform. To pretend I’m alright, unaffected, and unwilling to show true emotion. I must flounder. I must fall. I must disect and question. I must make this as personal to me as I possibly can, because I am doing this for me. It was hard to shake that urge of pretending I wasn’t nervous, or having a question I was too scared to ask, and telling myself I’ll just deal with it when I got home. Even now, it is something I struggle with immensely. But I realized those baby steps were just as they are, baby steps. And I must allow myself to fall and whimper and struggle. I must allow myself to be.

Immediately after, I scheduled my open water dives. I wanted to get my license before the end of this year. As I continued my eLearning, I discovered all sorts of other courses I wanted to try right away. Wreck diving, night diving, dry suit diving; the world of scuba is as broad as the ocean.

I had my first open water dive this Friday. Technically, I performed two dives, but both were bundled into one pivitol moment. I arrived at Maclearie Park in Belmar at 9:00 am. The overcast sky shone a dark gray bay, and the waves nearly spilled onto the dock. Upon arrival, I was not anticipating this dive. The sea looked unwelcoming and felt secretive. I didn’t want to go inside. But I sucked it up, thinking about how much I wanted that damn license already. I assembled my gear with slight ease; I’m still not entirely versed on the positions of each component. We walked toward the shore, carefully lowering ourselves down the slimy, wooden stairs and into the tepid sea. I have to be honest, I was scared a fish would graze my foot. It’s been my worst fear for as long as I can remember, and I know what you’re thinking - then why the hell did you choose scuba diving? I was hoping my wonder of sea would overcome my primal fear of fish. We moved through the surface drills quickly, and nearly deflated our BCD’s to descend by the time we hit the water. I’d always wondered what the ocean looked like on a cloudy day, as I’d be terrified to see it until this moment. But I lowered myself, and let the lukewarm water engulf my earthly senses.

It’s difficult to describe that initial moment of seeing the bay underwater. I can’t really remember that feeling of understanding I was in the green sea, at the mercy of any creature that happened to be swimming by. It was different than being at shore, watching the foam bubbles rinse the sand in white speckles, and occasionally entering deep enough to lift my toe off the ground. But now, I felt almost like an intruder. I felt I wasn’t supposed to be there, and it was my fault if I were to be traumatized by the murky, eldritch image of a fish’s face. I thought of what I might see - a dark green shadow dash across my peripheral vision, a crude gray outline of a large fish, the only recognizeable features being it’s swollen, blubbery mouth. Or perhaps, a cryptic visage in the form of tossed up sand, hovering barely still against the bleak green of the sea; a picture my mind could not interpret, but the mere shape of it sending me into primal panic. It was very difficult forcing these thoughts to the back of my mind, but I managed. We spent sometime absorbing the atmosphere underwater. I kept my eyes locked on the green abyss in front of me; it’s image instilled me with so much fear, yet so much wonder. We swam for a bit, and did a couple more drills until it was time to finish for the day. The walk up the slimy stairs felt more relieved as I entered the terrestrial realm once again.

So that was my first dive. It was quick, and not as introspective as I’d thought. But I know this is only the beginning, and I’m curious to see how the sea speaks to me, or rather, how I interpret it’s speech later on in my journey. As I conclude the events of my first dive, I think about my favorite poem, “Ozymandias”, by Percy Bysshe Shelley. The last line:

“Boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.”, strangely resonates with me in this moment. I believe the same for the sea. It is unchanging, ancient, has existed before and will exist until the end. The blue horizon, where the sun kisses the sea, round the decaying remnants of earth’s first matter, nothing beside remains. Boundless and bare, the lone and level waves stretch far away.