On December 15th, I drop 60 feet into the depths of “The Crater” in Midway, Utah, savoring the hot tub-esque water despite the snow storm outside.
When I come up, I am officially open water scuba dive certified and ready to fly to Puerto Rico in 32 hours and go on my first real dive in the ocean.
After settling in to my quaint B&B in Luquillo on the east coast, I take a meandering drive across the north coast, stopping for a long wander of Old San Juan with a local lunch of mofongo, pulling into Rincon on the west coast just before dinner.
I check in with my airbnb host, take note of all the chickens, read a book on the beach, enjoy conch fritters for dinner, and then try to get some sleep despite the roosters, which turns out to be impossible.
Groggy and nervous, I pull into the parking lot in front of the Taino Divers shop at 7:00 am with a strong cappuccino in hand and I’m quickly outfitted with gear. The sunrise on the beach while we wait for the boat feels like a good omen for the day ahead.
It takes forty-five minutes to cross over to Desecheo Island. The island is off limits after being used as a bombing target by the U.S. military. Apparently, rats have completely taken over the upset ecosystem. Something about this feels like a life metaphor.
The first dive is a confirmation. I am ecstatic. Breathing underwater is revelatory.
Forty-five minutes disappear quickly, as does my tank of air, while I swim with a sea turtle, watching it interact with a huge stingray. Later, I am shocked by creepy giant lobsters tucked away in a dark hole.
I am a little out of sorts after no sleep, the choppy ride over to the island, and then the disorienting feeling of being underwater for so long. I take it easy on the second dive. The sheer variety of fish is overwhelming and I swear they are glowing.
Our dive master expertly spears a lion fish, which are not native and taking over the habitat, and I wonder if the show of it all for the tourists is the greater motivation.
Then, my human body calls me to the surface. Urgently.
I rise through the darkness with desperation while also trying to go slow because we were deep and I know the dangers, but my entire being refuses to vomit through my regulator. I finally surface and swim to the boat, dragging myself up the ladder and pulling off my face mask just in time to bend over the side and empty the little bit that was in me into the waves.
The dive master laughs it off as “chumming.”
I am relieved when we are moving again, and elated when the sea sickness disappears as soon I step back on dry land. I celebrate my adventure into the deep with a huge french dip sandwich at the bar at The Shipwreck next door, pondering the discoveries from these first few days of solo travel.
I’m pretty certain I’m hooked. I’m less certain about future dive trips.