My Short, Sweet Life as a Scuba Diver

I learned to scuba dive 26 years ago. I earned my open water certification in a dark Ontario quarry, without much to see except my instructor in front of me. My partner and I dove in the murky waters of Kingston and Windsor and other spots where we’d find sunken ships and very few fish.

Then in 1997 we headed south, first to Mexico, then to Belize, Curacao, Costa Rica, and Honduras. Divers will tell you that the Mesoamerican Reef is one of the world’s top destinations, and when I discovered the clear turquoise waters and abundant sea life, I was ruined for diving in Ontario. I’d only gear up with the promise of 30- to 100-foot visibility and the possibility to encounter exotic creatures like seahorses and moray eels.

I enjoyed exciting reef wall dives, wreck dives, shark and ray encounters, and mind-blowing night dives. I cruised through coral gardens spotting fantastic shapes and hues only nature can produce. I crawled through wrecks and underwater caves, and dove to 110 feet.

On one nighttime dive, I was first to descend into the dark waters. When I shone my flashlight beam below me, I was astounded to see a nurse shark.

It was underwater euphoria.

And then, over the course of a few years, I sustained three traumatic brain injuries.

The first of this series of injuries took a dramatic toll on my cognitive, mental, and emotional health. I experienced aphasia, an inability to do math in my head, and difficulty in understanding what I was being told. I have ongoing, constant tinnitus and I have lost 25 per cent of my hearing.

The second knock to my noggin affected my balance. Whether I can’t concentrate sufficiently to balance or whether my physical balance is off, I’m not sure. But it has become more difficult to be the daredevil I used to be.

At first, I took to snorkeling because I was suffering with those pesky post-concussion symptoms. I was easily overwhelmed and flustered. I wasn’t sure I could even read and comprehend my depth gauges or my air reserves. My memory was sketchy. And I didn’t want to take a chance on what tricks my PTSD might pull at 60 feet.

I was content with snorkeling on Roatan, because even from the surface I could encounter schools of tangs and grunts and angels, and I’d spot my favorite fish, the barracuda. Purple fan coral and healthy brain and staghorn corals were within my reach. I learned the nooks and crannies of the coral gardens around the iron shores of the island.

Meanwhile, my husband continued to dive. He earned his divemaster certification. He dove with others and made friends with his diving pals on Roatan. He’s completed more than 600 dives. He’s a smart and competent diver and would be my perfect buddy when I returned to the depths.

Except it’s been a decade since I’ve been more than 15 feet below the surface. And until this past week I’ve felt a little guilty about not getting back into the deep. See, my husband encouraged me to learn to dive, and we enjoyed it as a couple for many years. We made ‘dive friends’, we hung out in ‘dive bars’ (not those kind of dive bars, no, these ones were full of scuba divers), and we booked travel and planned vacations around our favorite diving locations.

My husband and I love being active together, and diving gave us yet another wonderful opportunity to share our quest for adventure. I think it hurt both of us that I was unable to get back to scuba.

But this past week, I watched as my husband set up his tank, made the appropriate safety checks, donned his gear, and headed out in the dive boat with a half-dozen strangers. I stood on the dock as they pulled away. And I was there when he returned; I observed his meticulous care of his equipment and the post-dive rituals that were second-nature to him. It was utterly mind-boggling.

And I finally came to terms with the idea that I may never dive again. The words revealed themselves to my husband over an early-evening drink on the beach.

He simply replied, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

As I do, I attempted to explain my decision. I felt I’d let him down, and I tried to soften the blow for both of us.

We were quiet for a few moments. Then he said, “You’re probably right. Even the dive itself—let alone the preparation—might be too much for your brain.”

His comment hurt my heart. But I had to agree with him.

The next day, we snorkeled as a couple. During that outing, we saw the usual tangs and grunts and sergeant majors, a file fish and a trumpet fish. We spotted flamingo tongues (which we’d never seen so close to the surface) and a hefty tiger grouper. We finally returned to shore almost two hours after we headed out.

Afterwards, my husband reflected that there are hundreds of places to go where the snorkeling is spectacular and the sea life incredibly abundant. He named some that were close to where we were staying. He recognized that I truly do miss diving, and that with some adjustment, we can continue our sea adventures together.

Of course, I rarely say never. I don’t expect these ongoing symptoms will pass. But they could recede. Maybe I can hire someone to be my diving caregiver—to prepare me both pre- and post-dive, so that all I’m responsible for is getting in and out of the ocean. You never know.

Meanwhile, admitting I’m finished with diving is a weight off my shoulders. I’m relieved that my husband understands. And I’m just super stoked about seeing my shallow friends in my shallow hangouts, wherever we end up.