My First Horrific Scuba Dive

Almost Underwater on the Mayan Riviera

Late one summer in Colorado, after planning a vacation to go to the Yucatan that winter, my hubby, Mac, surprised both me and our daughter, Isabelle, with dive lessons for an early Christmas present.

Wow! What a fantastic gift, we both felt, especially since a friend of ours, who was a divemaster, would be teaching us. Mac wanted us to learn the sport before we went to the Yucatan, and talked to our friend, who told him that she’d give two complete lessons for only a little more than one since we’d be together.

A good idea, but, unfortunately for me, it was a horrible experience. We should have waited to learn this sport in a place where diving was a common occurrence; where divers could actually see things, like wildlife or treasure, if found, underwater.

As it turned out, the pond in the Denver area where we took our open water lessons was so silty and murky the teacher had to be in our face to signal with fingers what she wanted to convey, because, even her form could not be seen if she was farther than a foot away. It was so claustrophobic for me that feeling terrified was a constant in those conditions. I had to rush to the top from the green pond’s 20-foot depths in a panic, gasping for air, and nearly screaming in fear. The only thing keeping me from completely giving up was my old mantra “remember skiing”.

I reminded myself that Mac’s gift would be wasted if I quit, and he would be very disappointed. I also told myself, that there was the merest possibility diving would be a lot better in a real sea of clear water; and so, I hung in there, passed my tests, and received my official PADI card certifying that I was a diver. We — well, it was more Isabelle than me —were eager to try our new skills at diving in a real ocean, and we all looked forward to our winter trip.

Isabelle flew into Cancun to join us for a couple of weeks, for diving and just basking in the warm coastal sunshine.

In the early morning, we three had coffee and breakfast with enthusiastic discussions about the dive, at least between Mac and Isabelle. I remained quiet because I was not absolutely certain regarding my feelings about the upcoming experience. My stomach was in knots because I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that I’d soon be doing something that scared the crap out of me. I couldn’t come to grips with how to conquer that vast ocean, but I had to follow through with this. Mac paid for me to dive with him, and I had to at least give it a try.

I fell back on the memory of learning to snow ski when I was much younger. A friend talked me into paying for eight weeks of inexpensive lessons through the local college in the nearby city, assuring me it was “a deal of a lifetime.” For an eight-week course, including college credits, if needed, the total cost was $50.00. This included ski passes, instructions, gear, and the bus ride to the slopes each week. But after the first day, I wanted to quit, hating the cumbersome boots with planks attached, and how often I kept falling. But my friend told me that I needed to give it more time, that the first day was always the hardest; and she was right. The more I skied, the more I learned to love the sport, and became quite good at shooshing down the mountain slopes.

I had to feel that, like my skiing experience, except for a big temperature difference, diving could be the same.

As I sat in the heat of the tropics that morning, I kept telling myself to give it a chance! It’ll be a good thing, like snow skiing! Although the mantra kept going through my head, it wasn’t doing much to calm my heart rate.

Getting a Refresher Dive

Before we went on the dive boat, I took a refresher dive with one of the scuba guys, Alphonso, in the bay at CaraMul, where we were staying. He was good at reassuring me while helping me get used to breathing underwater where it was not very deep, and where I could see all around me. A pretty amazing thing, I admitted.

By the time Mac, Isabelle, and I went with the boat and the rest of the divers out to sea, I felt better about breathing underwater, but still extremely nervous about the rest of the dive process. The sea was so much bigger than the little murky pond where I’d learned in Colorado, and I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by that difference.

The boat stopped beyond the reef, and we were told by the head taskmaster to go over the boat backward, and then go straight down to the bottom.

“What!?” I yelped. “That’s not the way I was taught! We were taught to jump in! I can‘t do this! I’ve never gone over backward, and I have to have a moment to acclimate once in the sea. That’s what my instructor taught me!” I was blathering.

“This is what we do,” the divemaster boomed, “and you will go down with the rest of us!”

Mr. Sympathetic.

Oh dear God, I groaned to myself and then added, get a grip, and tumbled backward into the warm Caribbean Sea. Not so difficult after all.

But once in the water, I bobbed back up to the surface. I couldn’t go straight down. Panic Mode had set in.

Alphonso, who was my dive buddy for the morning, talked me out of my hysteria and eased me down little by little until I had finally gotten used to breathing through the regulator without gasping for real air. But my buoyancy skills were out of control. I kept bouncing around on the bottom of this gigantic fishbowl, instead of gliding smoothly with the fish.

Having neutral buoyancy was important for control so that a person could enjoy the flora and fauna without having to use up more air by dipping up and down. Yet attaining neutral buoyancy was difficult for me. I bobbed like a bobblehead doll, breathing heavily with my ears pounding. I was so afraid that I wasn’t getting enough oxygen, but the point was, I was using too much of my limited supply.

I had no thoughts about where Mac or Isabelle were because I was too busy trying to stay alive. I felt certain that I was doomed to join the many in ‘Davy Jones’ Locker’ of the deep because I would run out of air, and wouldn’t have a dive buddy close enough to save me in time. I could feel the weight of the gazillion tons of water above crushing me. I was not having a good time.

To top off the experience, I was unable to take the five-minute stop midway back up when it was, thankfully, time to return to the surface. The divemaster had to hold my leg to keep me from rocketing to the top. That was not a good thing, and he was not happy. Apparently, he was not there to babysit a newbie.

“I can only hope I’ll learn,” I muttered when we returned to the boat, surprised that the divemaster was not more understanding and helpful to a new diver. Instead, he acted put out for being inconvenienced by inexperience. But, everyone starts out inexperienced! Why the attitude? I wondered.

After the boat docked, and I shed my dive suit we three walked to our rooms. While Mac and Isabelle were chattering enthusiastically about the event, it hit me that I had actually survived my first real dive in a real ocean, which was the ultimate Caribbean Sea, no less. Those facts were very awe-inspiring and I suddenly felt pretty proud of myself. As Isabelle and Mac were talking about their next dunk, I was patting myself on the back for getting through the first. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go on another dive soon. I needed time to think about it as well as recuperate from this one.

Later, a new acquaintance and avid diver, Emily Jean, told me, “It’s best to dive as much as possible when learning, in order to start to feel more comfortable breathing underwater and moving around with the wildlife of the deep.”

I was sure she was right, probably like with my skiing experience, but somehow it seemed wrong. And yet, I went eight more times in those two weeks, getting better, but never really good, and definitely never very comfortable.

We went to the Yucatan for a few years, diving each year, but I soon gave it up, because I had to admit to myself, as well as to Mac that diving just wasn’t the sport for me.

The sunrises over the dive boat in CaraMul, Mexico