I grew up addicted to Jacques Cousteau books and TV shows about marine exploration, and I always wanted to scuba dive (and date men with French accents, but you can’t have everything). Unfortunately, I grew up mostly in Kansas and Oklahoma, which are not known for their exciting scuba opportunities, unless you love to count carp in muddy water or want to add to your collection of vintage beer cans.

After I moved to the Pacific Northwest and was finally earning adult wages, I decided to take the plunge and learn how to dive. I had no family or friends interested in taking lessons with me, so the prospect was daunting.  I wasn’t a particularly strong swimmer. I was a bit worried that I might not make the grade–after all, I had to pass a written test as well as a physical one, and it had been quite a while since I had studied anything or regularly worked out. I also grew up with asthma, and while it never held me back from attempting anything, just the thought of  sucking compressed air from a tank through a tiny hose made me feel a little breathless. Could I do this, or was it only some sort of romantic death wish I’d been harboring all these year? Would I get claustrophobic and freak out?

Squid have to be from outer space.

I chose a rigorous scuba school, hoping that their cautious approach would keep me alive. The class was small–six students: four men and two of us women. And everyone was younger than I was.  Ack already. The classroom work was difficult–especially the math involved in figuring dive times and nitrogen loads and such–and the other woman was really worried about passing the tests. I was only slightly less concerned. Ack again. The men, being men, of course admitted to no concerns whatsoever.

I passed the swim test. Actually, I finished before any of the others, which was a small confidence boost. Finally came the day to go underwater. The other gal and I were both nervous, but I slipped the weights on, stuck the regulator in my mouth, and dutifully sank to the bottom of the pool. We met in a circle, on our knees, and stared at each other through our facemasks. I took a few cautious breaths. The noise was a little freaky: inhale–loud sucking sound, exhale–bubble, bubble, bubble. But the experience was astounding–I could breathe underwater! I could seeunderwater! The other female student freaked and suddenly shot up to the surface. The instructor grabbed her foot but she kicked him away. (This is an incredible no-no–panic, shoot for the surface and you’re likely to give yourself the bends.)

The panicked gal bailed out of class. Three others disappeared, too, perhaps frightened away by the day of the final open water test in Puget Sound. It was awful. It was cold. It was windy. The visibility was two feet, maximum. But two of us dutifully did all the drills and although we felt like we’d earned a purple heart, we received our open water certification.

Me trying to tame a stingray.

Since then, I’ve been on amazing underwater adventures, both in the cold and swift waters of the Pacific Northwest (giant octopus! wolf eels! crabs! scallops! anemones in the thousands!) and in the tropics (parrotfish! sharks! morays! things I never identified!).

I am so glad I screwed up my courage and did what I’d always wanted to, even though I had to make the attempt alone. Now I have scuba friends and look forward to more adventures under the sea.
What have you done that you always wanted to? Are you planning to make a dream come true in the near future? Life is short–make it happen!