A Diver's Only Job
I went from terrified of the water to solo-diving to 60 metres on air. Two instructors — one Danish, one Dutch — pulled me back before the sea did.
My instructor is a proper aquatic Santa Claus. Long white beard, red fins, a big belly, a jolly laugh interrupted by maniacal jokes in a thick Danish accent. He looks at me, concerned, and says:
“You went from being terrified of the water to having zero respect for it. If you are dead set on going down the tech route, I will tell you this: you will die with this attitude. And I do not want my name on that certificate.”
He has been teaching me from day one. I did my Open Water with him, part of my Advanced, and he is the one who introduced me to sidemount. I have a lot of respect for him, and I value his opinion.
I say:
“It was an ego dive, man. Like ego-lifting. New gear, new skills, double the amount of gas. I felt invincible.”
He does not budge:
“You got lucky. Nothing more. You are not invincible, and you are not a better diver than anyone else. You are striking me as reckless, and I do not know what I like less — you being afraid, or you being fearless. You’ve gotta strike that balance, or the water will strike it for you.”
I have been telling him about my last dive. A few days ago I was on another boat, with another company. Brand new sidemount harness, two tanks. Five minutes in, I separated from the group and went my own way, hitting my personal depth record of 60 metres. On air. Solo.
The dive was beautiful. It got sketchy by the end. I slipped into deco. I did all the stops except the final one — the 3-metre stop. I was supposed to hold it for 12 minutes. I did 6. I just ran out of gas.
I surfaced. The boat was gone. I kicked to a tiny beach on an uninhabited island and waited for the vessel to come back. Fifteen-minute swim back to the boat. Asked for pure oxygen. I was fine — no symptoms of DCS — and I even convinced the guide to let me do the final dive of the day, which went great.
The instructor shakes his head. He is right: I used to be terrified of the water, and he is the witness of my progress. My first dozen dives were 90% fighting fear, 10% enjoying the dive. Now, I am fearless. I crawl into the pitch-black bellies of wrecks, leaving a tank at the entrance. I can do any skill at any depth. I glide through the water column like a dolphin, and my buoyancy is perfect. And I have lost respect for the sea.
There is a name for the swing. Otto Fenichel called it counterphobia — the reflex to actively chase what once terrified you, to prove to yourself that the fear is dead. The problem is that fear was never the enemy. Fear was the throttle. Remove it, and there is nothing between you and the thing that scared you in the first place. In diving, that thing is physics, and physics does not negotiate.
The instructor goes into his backpack and pulls out a thick PADI manual — Tech Diver. He opens it on a specific page and points to a line. It reads:
A diver’s only job is to stay alive.
He hands me the book:
“Read this book. If you still want to take this route after, we can think about it. But I will not be your instructor unless you demonstrate that you understand the risks, and that you are willing to respect them.”
A week goes by. I have read the book. I am on another boat, with another instructor. A Dutch man — the only other sidemounted diver I have ever met in Phuket. His input on my story is more concise:
“That was terrible gas planning.”
So gas planning we will. He shows me the app, teaches me the math behind it, and we start getting ready. We have a plan, and a detailed one:
“Five minutes to descend to 40 metres. Five minutes at depth. At the 5-minute mark, up to 30 metres, ten minutes. At the 15-minute mark, up to 21 metres, fifteen minutes. At the 30-minute mark, up to 12 metres, twenty minutes. At the 50-minute mark, up to 6 metres, twenty-five minutes. At the 75-minute mark, surface.”
I am a software engineer, and I am meticulous in general. This approach transforms my view of diving. I gain a whole new layer of control, and a whole new layer of safety. There is no more “let’s see.” There is no more “it will probably be enough air.” Numbers, minutes, depths. Executed.
We do at least fifteen dives before I see my original instructor again. We go to a wreck, with a plan. By the end, he is satisfied. He is cautious to over-praise, but he acknowledges the progress.
And that is where my tech journey begins.