“I would’ve thought you’d hire a dive master to be here, doing all this for you,” I tell him.
“I am a dive master,” Ness says.
“No, of course, I assumed you would be, what with your shelling experience. I just mean—”
“You mean hiring someone else to do half-ass what I can do for myself.” He smiles at me.
“I guess. Yeah.” What I really meant was: If you’re trying to murder me, it’s smart not to have witnesses, and I’m on to you, buddy.
“If it makes you feel better, I have Monique packing us a picnic lunch. And Vincent, who takes care of my cars, is going to get the boat ready for us. I don’t do everything around here.”
“Monique?” I ask.
“My housekeeper. You’ve got your valve on? Air flowing?”
I press the button on my regulator, and there’s a loud blast of air. Ness lifts the BC—which is like an uninflated vest that the tank straps to—and helps me get my arms through. There’s a hose that runs from the top of the tank to the vest. Ness shows me what to press to inflate the vest and how to let the air out. With this and the right amount of weight around my waist, he says I can stay level at any depth. And if I need to get to the surface, I can just inflate the vest and enjoy the ride. “Just breathe out the entire time,” he reminds me.
I wonder if I should tell him that when I panic, I tend to either not breathe or hyperventilate. Instead, I tell myself, over and over, to always breathe. To exhale. And to stay fucking calm, Maya, you’re not going to die.
“It’s not deep at the bottom of the ramp, so remember that you can always stand up if you’re uncomfortable for any reason. And I’ll be right there beside you.”
“Okay,” I mumble around my mouthpiece. I get my mask situated. Ness has me leave my fins off for now. Walking carefully—all that weight on my back threatening to topple me over—I follow Ness down the ramp. I don’t understand how people enjoy a sport that involves so much heavy and bulky gear. I feel exhausted already, and I haven’t even started doing the actual diving.
I’m so nervous shuffling down the ramp—the water creeping up my ankles and then my knees—that I don’t notice Ness is holding my hand or that I’m holding his. Or that he’s steadying me, another hand on my shoulder. All I feel is the coolness of the morning sea rising up, the initial shock before my wetsuit fills with water. It takes a moment until the water is trapped and warmed by my body, and then it’s no longer so bracingly cold. I also notice how the weight of all the gear disappears now that I’m in the water. It’s only awkward on dry land, like a fish staggering along on its poor fins.
“When you’re ready, just lower your head beneath the surface and take easy breaths,” Ness says. “It’s just like snorkeling.”
This is not like snorkeling, I want to say. But I can’t scream over my pounding pulse, can’t talk with the regulator in my mouth. Snorkeling is breathing through a plastic tube sticking up in the air. No physics involved. No warnings needed. A child can sort out how that works. This is me strapped to a contraption, a deflated vest on, tubes hanging everywhere, a bulky watch on my wrist blinking with all kinds of numbers. This is not snorkeling.
I descend until my feet leave the ramp and find the sand. The water is up to my chest. Ness is watching me. My visor has already fogged from the nervous heat of my cheeks. I take the mask off, dunk it into the water, consider spitting inside it to keep it from fogging, would normally do this, but not in front of Ness. I put the mask back on. It’s now or never.
“I’m right here,” Ness says softly. “You’ll be fine.”
I nod, gather my courage, and remind myself that people do this all the time. I’m already breathing through the contraption, aren’t I? I realize that I’m breathing a lot. Huffing and puffing. I hear the hiss of my exhalations. I remember what Ness said about being calm, about breathing easy, and I try. I really try.
“Here goes,” I mumble incomprehensibly.
I bend my knees, lower my body, and the water comes up to my neck, and then my chin, and then over my mouth, up my visor, the weights around my waist helping me sink under, until I’m seeing the sand and the rocks and the ramp through my mask. A silver fish flits past, chasing after some unseen breakfast. And I hear a hiss as I breathe in, see bubbles as I exhale, and I’m doing it. I’m breathing underwater. Tears blur my vision. I blink them away. There are clams or some kind of bivalve growing over the rocks that make up the breakwater. Small fish peck at the algae along the rocks, signs of life clinging where it can. An entire world of feeble life surviving here.
And I’m among them. Floating. Face-down. Under the water. Ness’s hands are on my stomach and on my shoulder, steadying me, and I’m breathing. I scoop the water ahead of me, swim forward, allowing myself to drift a little deeper, and even though I’m slowly sinking, it feels like I’m flying.
19