Page 57 of Rescuing Mia
As we sink deeper, the water pressure increases, squeezing my wetsuit tighter against my skin. My ears pop as I equalize, the sensation a reminder of the changing environment. The sunlight filtering down from above grows dimmer, the blues of the water deepening and intensifying.
At forty feet, we level off, the bottom stretching out before us like a vast, sandy plain.
But it’s far from barren.
Everywhere I look, life abounds.
Schools of tropical fish flit by, their scales catching the light like tiny prisms. A large grouper eyes us warily from its hiding spotbeneath a rocky outcropping, its mottled skin blending perfectly with the surrounding coral.
As we kick forward, propelling ourselves through the water with slow, measured strokes, I’m struck by the utter tranquility of this underwater realm. The only sound is the steady rhythm of my own breathing, the bubbles cascading upward with each exhale.
I’m not interested in the fish, at least not for this dive. We’re doing five dives today: two before lunch, one in the afternoon, a sunset dive, and then a final night dive. I’m waiting for the sunset and night dives to explore the reefs.
Pete and I have a specific destination in mind and head to the wreckage of a WWII plane, a ghostly relic of a bygone era. As we approach, the outline of the aircraft comes into view, its metal skeleton encrusted with coral and teeming with marine life.
I pull out my camera, its weight comforting in my hands. Through the viewfinder, I frame the wreck, adjusting the f-stop to capture the perfect balance of light and shadow. The external lights I’ve attached to the camera housing illuminate the nooks and crannies of the plane’s interior.
As I work, Pete hovers nearby, his presence unobtrusive yet supportive. He’s an ideal dive partner, giving me the space and time I need to fully immerse myself in the art of underwater photography.
I experiment with different angles and settings, moving in close for detailed macro shots and then kicking back to capture the entire wreck in a single, sweeping panorama. The coral’s colors are vivid and striking, with pinks, purples, and oranges that seem to glow against the muted tones of the aging metal.
Time seems to stand still down here, the minutes stretching out into an endless, blissful eternity, but soon, it’s time to head to the surface.
With a final, lingering look at the wreck, I tuck my camera away and give Pete the ok sign. Together, we begin our slow, controlled rise to the surface, pausing at our safety stop to allow the nitrogen in our bodies to off-gas and decrease any chance of the bends.
As we hang there in the blue, tiny bubbles cascading from ourregulators, I feel a sense of profound gratitude. For the beauty of this underwater world, for the opportunity to capture it through my lens, and for the companionship of a friend like Pete.
Finally, we break the surface, the warm sun and salty air a welcome sensation after the cool depths. We swim leisurely to the back of the dive platform, where groups 1 and 2 are already waiting out their surface intervals.
Some float lazily on the glass-like water, their laughter and chatter carrying across the gentle swells. Others sit on the edge of the platform, sipping from water bottles handed to them by the attentive staff, their legs dangling in the cool water.
As I haul myself onto the platform, the weight of my gear suddenly much heavier out of the water, I can’t help but grin. My mind is already racing, eager to review the shots I’ve captured and to see if I’ve translated the magic of this underwater realm into digital memory.
But for now, I’m content to sit here in the sun, the taste of salt on my lips and the memory of the deep still vivid in my mind. This, right here, is what diving is all about.
The adventure, the beauty, the camaraderie.
The crew from theSerenitytake our BCDs and swap out our tanks for us. It feels weird letting someone mess with my gear. I prefer to swap tanks myself because if anything goes wrong on a dive, I only have myself to blame, but I let the staff do their thing.
Before my next dive, I’ll double and triple-check my gear.
One of them places my camera rig in a dunk tank, which is really just a big tub filled with water. I really want to check the photos I took but decide to leave my camera in the dunk tank until the end of today’s dives.
Each time I break the seal of the outer casing, there’s always a risk of creating a leak. Leaks can occur if the O-rings slip or if tiny hairs get between the O-rings and ruin the seal. Even with meticulous care and inspections, it doesn’t take much to flood a camera housing.
I decide not to risk it.
As I make my way to the upper deck, Mia sits alone at one ofthe tables, her head bent over a book. The relief that washes over me is palpable, and I quicken my pace, eager to share the details of my dive with her.
But as I approach, there’s unmistakable tension in her shoulders, and the white-knuckled grip she has on a tablet —not a book, but a tablet—says a lot. She’s not reading. She’s staring at the screen, her eyes unfocused, her mind clearly elsewhere.
“Mia?” I ask softly, not wanting to startle her. “Is everything okay?”
She jumps at the sound of my voice, her head snapping up. For a moment, there’s a look of pure terror in her eyes, a haunted expression that sends a chill down my spine, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a shaky smile.
“Hey. How was your dive?” She quickly blacks out the screen of her tablet and tucks it under her legs.
I slide into the seat next to her, my brow furrowed with concern. “It was amazing, but what’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”