In truth, I have nothing to fear when I take my dive mask off: the polycarbonate, glass and silicone that separates my eyes and nose from the sea. I have nothing to fear as my eyes gaze blearily into the blue-grey haze before me, where visibility, already poor, is rendered poorer still by the flailing fins of six other amateur scuba divers. The rounded mouthpiece of my regulator is at my lips, and that delicious mix of 78% Nitrogen, 21% Oxygen and 1% trace gases, i.e. air, is available, at ambient pressure, for my breathing pleasure. And yet, the moment I feel the inrush of water encroaching on my now unprotected nostrils, I panic. I cough and splutter, releasing a cloud of bubbles from the regulator, further obscuring my vision and further bothering my nose. What follows is a desperate scramble to stretch the silicone strap back behind my head, to fit mask to face, and to flush it clear of water. I calm down and breathe a little easier. The 11 Litre tank of air on my back is a little emptier for the experience.

I am seven metres beneath the waves at Shelly Beach in Sydney, Australia, on the second ocean dive of my Open Water Dive Certification course. And I have just successfully performed a full underwater mask removal. Growing up with migrant parents who had no notable fondness or temperament for water based activities, it is perhaps unsurprising that I have little affinity for the sea. My parents did, of course, ensure that I learned to swim, and had ample opportunities to exercise the ability, but let’s not mistake a highly successful career in not-drowning for competence. Prior to this course I had snorkelled exactly once. If the basis for the measurement of success in snorkelling is the participant’s survival and their ability to see something (really, anything will do) under the surface, then we could consider that occasion a success. If, however, success is proportional to the volume of salt water consumed whilst snorkelling: then it was a grand success. My body has, for many years, been steadfast in its desire to hold its breath while under water. But both snorkelling and scuba diving are highly reliant on continuous breathing. Convincing my body of this is an ongoing process.

I. All at sea

The course takes place over three days, and includes a pool session, a theory session, a written exam and four open water dives. There is also an obligatory sales session in there, during which it becomes painfully clear that scuba diving is not the cheapest of ventures. The first night is spent at an indoor pool, where, after having demonstrated our ability to tread water for 10 minutes and swim with some sort of forward-propelling stroke, we are issued with our scuba gear. And the very first thing we do with our Self-contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus (SCUBA), is learn to use the regulator to breathe underwater. From there, the rest of the night is a series of exercises and drills: understanding what it feels like to run out of air, how to execute safe ascents and how to share your air with a diving partner via your alternate regulator.

Some of these drills, though not difficult in retrospect, are a struggle on this first night. It feels as if a sizeable portion of my brain has devoted itself to convincing my body to breathe through the regulator. The neural dregs that remain untapped by this pursuit of air, operate lethargically, stumbling their way through simple tasks as the night wears on. It is 11 p.m. by the time we finish at the pool and nearly 1 a.m. by the time sleep becomes more than an abstract concept. The sleep that follows is poor and brief, but welcome.

I have always been overly apprehensive about examinations. The way I see it — a project is an opportunity to showcase your knowledge and ability, and an exam is an insidious attempt to reveal your deficiencies. So I was justifiably concerned about the theory exam held on day two of the course. The theory component of the course is primarily taught through an online learning module studied prior to the pool session. It consists of six sections of Jacques Cousteau quotes, videos, surprisingly detailed theory, and photos of ridiculously photogenic divers (There is a particularly egregious photo early in the course material of a woman who is wearing an amount of make-up one could only describe as non-conducive to diving, and who appears not to have ever known the harshness of Earth’s yellow sun, nor the salt of its seas).

The online learning module, though clear and thorough, also conveniently catalogues the many reasons for choosing not to go scuba diving. You will read about over-expansion injuries caused by the lungs expanding beyond their capacity, of Arterial Gas Embolism, Pneumothorax, and Mediastinal and Subcutaneous Emphysema. About nitrogen absorption and desaturation, about decompression illness which can occur during rapid ascents. About nitrogen narcosis, carbon dioxide buildup and potentially harmful marine life. You will discover that your pre-existing fears had been woefully inadequate. And most disturbingly, you will understand that if something does go wrong, it is likely to have been your fault. On the second morning of the course, you will find that very few of the other 20 or 30 somethings in the course have devoted any energy to worrying about what is in-fact, a fairly simple test. As for the dangers of diving — they are all legitimate, but largely manageable concerns.

II. Making waves

There’s an oddly funereal quality to our procession, as we make our way to the surf for our first open water dive on day two. Burdened by an aluminium tank with 200 bar of air, a buoyancy control vest and a weighted belt, it is only the instructors who manage to walk upright, with the quiet dignity of undertakers. The rest of us shuffle sullenly, hunched forward under the weight of our tanks, seaward bound.

I descend on my first open water dive, with all the rash overconfidence of one who has assumed that a heated indoor pool is an accurate simulation of ocean conditions. It is not. Let me you assure you of that. When we dive, the sea is cold, turbid and subject to non-insignificant currents. All of which conspire to ensure that the initial descent is as chaotic as possible. The instructors have to contend with divers not carrying enough weight to sink, divers flailing madly with their fins and divers with little to no control of their buoyancy and direction. All heading in different directions in visibility of less than a metre. That the instructors manage, is a testament to their skill and experience, because we surely do not make it easy.

Underwater, each breath that fills your lungs, also increases your buoyancy, drawing you surface-ward. Every exhalation causes the inverse, sending you deeper. Thus, if one were to breathe sporadically and inconsistently, one might constantly find themselves either rising to the surface or crashing into the seafloor, prompting a delightfully candid instructor to describe them as “moving like a floppy sausage”. And such a description would indeed be accurate, particularly if the individual in question also decides that swimming with fins is analogous to running. This is not the case. The movement does not translate particularly well under water. With a little help from said instructor, I learned to correct my fin strokes and stabilise my breathing. At no point did I approach grace or celerity, but over each successive dive, I began to gain a little control over my depth and propulsion. At the very least, this was a relief to my diving buddy, who had been somewhat concerned by my inability to maintain a steady trajectory.

III. With both feet

After the first dive we lost one of our number. Let me clarify — we did not lose him to the sea, but rather, to his general unwillingness. Which was a shame, because despite worsening conditions, the group as a whole began to improve quite quickly. In the subsequent dives we swam relatively coherently, stopping on occasion to run through a drill or, more often, to allow one of the instructors to search for a missing pair of divers. While waiting to be assessed on each of the drills, or reunited with our mislaid peers, the group knelt on the seafloor. The drills themselves were generally fine. Waiting in the cold was not.

Being a particularly slender individual, for whom most clothing is ill-fitting, the importance of form-fitted wetsuits became immediately apparent the moment I stopped moving. The 7.5mm wetsuit I wore was perfectly adequate while we swam; but when we knelt, it was no longer taut. Water began to pool at my back, at which point I began to shiver. I did so, violently. Our aforementioned instructor described my shivers as “the most rapid development of early onset Parkinson’s disease”. Because of the cold, the currents, the clarity and our limited control, the whole group knelt with arms linked. Which of course meant that the whole group was subject to my tremors, casting worried glances and inquisitive hand gestures in my direction. (They needn’t have worried. Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor sea, shall stay the Postmaster from his modestly successful low-circulation email newsletter).

Eventually we complete all the drills. Eventually we learn to swim as a group. Eventually we stop stopping. Eventually, some four dives into a four dive course, I actually begin to enjoy myself.

When we move gently, and when current and turbidity conspire in our favour, we are granted a small glimpse of the world below. A port jackson shark dodders down on the seafloor and a male blue groper drifts lazily above us. We become a little more cautious about colliding with the seafloor when part of said floor, peels itself off the sediment, revealing a small sting ray. And during those moments when the instructor’s fins are still in sight; when breathing returns to being an unconscious act; when you forget the cold and you forget yourself — you become aware of the sheer marvel of weightlessness. There is such magic to that feeling.

During the fourth and final open water dive, my instructor turns to face me with outstretched arm. Mistaking the gesture, I signal, with some pride, that I have 150 bar of air remaining in my tank. He brushes my gauge away, grabs my hand and forcibly shakes it, congratulating me on having completed the course. Later, when we clamber from the surf, fins in hand, I stand a little taller than before. For the first time ever, the sea calls, and I feel strangely excited about diving again, albeit in warmer, clearer and livelier waters. Excited to encumber myself above the water, to feel totally unencumbered beneath it.

All that’s left, is remembering to breathe.