Thermocline

It wasn’t as loud as I thought it’d be. I could barely hear Dana’s screams over the rush of the wind - but only until the shock of the fall caught up to her, and she let her mouth gape in silent terror. I smiled at the sight of her next to me, strapped to the chest of a stranger, limbs flailing, lips fluttering in the torrent of air as we cut through the atmosphere. It also made me feel a bit guilty.

Dana is not a strong-willed person. That’s why she’s never had a boyfriend, why she threw up before we even got on the plane, and why it was so easy to convince her to join me in the first place. I’m not afraid of doing things myself, but I wasn’t about to let the (free) experience of a lifetime go to waste after my boyfriend dumped me for being too “extreme”. So, here we are. Falling.

I turned my gaze back to the horizon, watched it rising up to meet us like water in a fish tank. The sight was daunting, and yet, nostalgic; the view was reminiscent of the one from the back seat of Dad’s propeller plane, my nose pressed against the quaking plexiglass window as we dipped and dodged through the air like an aluminum bird. Not just defying gravity, but ignoring it altogether.

Ever since my early days as Dad’s co-pilot, I’ve craved the same sensation - a cocktail of adrenaline, fear, and excitement blended into one electrifying current of what I can only describe as risk if it were a chemical form. I felt it when I went hot air ballooning, bungee jumping, white water rafting and rock climbing. And most of all, diving - whether it be in the sky or the sea.

“I’m pulling the chute,” the man I was strapped to shouted over the wind. I barely had the time to nod before our bodies jerked violently from horizontal to vertical, the parachute swelling above us. I felt the drop in my stomach, a fresh rush of exhilaration jumpstarting my nerves all over again. I shouted, yelled, pumped my fists in the air.

Next to me, Dana glided with her partner, mouth ajar, eyes shut, unconscious.

“Dana!” I called, “Hey, Dana! You’re missing out!”

Dana’s eyes blinked open behind her goggles, her neck slowly tilting forward to watch the ground grow closer with each slow loop. I watched her muscles tense. Her arms whipped up to her harness as her voice returned, hoarse and trembling slightly.

“Fuck, Ursula! Why did you do this to me?” She shouted.

“There’s nothing you can do about it now! Just sit back and enjoy it!” I gave her a thumbs-up.

Dana and I were supposed to be buddies for the night dive. When I asked if I could meet her at the marina, she refused. It was too much for her, she said. She’d need at least a week to recover from the skydiving incident before she could see my face again, she said. It was the first time I’d ever heard Dana say the word no. 

We left the dock at nine o’clock sharp. The sun was already setting, an orange flame dissolving into the waves like a broken egg yolk. With every vanishing ray I felt my anticipation grow, swelling along with the size of the waves as we anchored off the coast of a small island not too far from the mainland. Mike and Jane, a husband-wife duo, graciously offered to take me in as a third party. I would’ve rather gone alone, but that would go against the golden rule of diving; always have a buddy. 

“Okay ladies and gentlemen, feel free to gear up,” Captain Glen flicked on the boat lights, illuminating the murky, grey waters below. I was tugging on my wetsuit when he approached me in his grandfatherly way, slowly lowering himself onto the bench across from me.

“I took a look at your article on the Delta dive,” he said. “The editors loved it.” 

“Oh?” I gathered my hair into a ponytail, using two hair ties to secure it. “I’m glad to hear that.” 

“They want to send you to Australia to do a piece on the Great Barrier.” 

I froze. The Great Barrier Reef? The reef?

“Are you sure? They want to send me?” I leaned forward, my suit squeaking.

“Well actually, I want to send you. It’s my magazine, after all - and I think you’re the best one for the job.” Captain Glen smiled, his scruffy, speckled beard lifting along with it. “Will you do it?”

“Glen, do you know me at all?” I tugged at the zipper of my suit. “Hell yeah, I’ll do it!”

It was ten minutes later by the time Mike, Jane and I started our dive. At first the only sensation was cold. I swung my flashlight down through the gloom as we descended, my brain adjusting to the pressure one ear-pop at a time. At first there was only kelp forest. Shadows of fish hovered here and there; eels gliding out from between the drifting fronds, a large grouper looking on as we ventured further from the boat’s bottom lights.

And then, I saw it; camouflaged into the rock and drifting grey sediment. A single tentacle gave it away - red, for the briefest moment. I floated closer, but my exhale of bubbles caused it to run, arms billowing out like skirt in a summer breeze, reaching, dancing from rock to rock. I chased. I chased until the beam of my flashlight blinked out. The octopus disappeared into the dim. I had gone far enough that the range of Mike and Jane’s lights didn’t reach me anymore.

It was then that I realized how intense your other senses become when you lose the ability to see; the cold, the current, the pressure. The ominous rushing sound of the ocean in its enormity. I realized I didn’t know which way was up.

My breath quickened by the second. This was worse than being mid-air, falling to your death;  at least then you’d know when you’d hit the ground. Here, alone, suspended in nothingness, I realized I could die. At any moment.

My heart was pounding now. The air felt as though it was thinning - it was hard to think how long I’d been under, how far I was from the boat, how much oxygen I had left in the tank. 

I started digging. Digging in the direction I hoped was up, my muscles tense and stiff from the temperature. I was sure that if I stopped moving, I would never start again. My joints were aching - the pain in my head and chest was intensifying, a sign I wasn’t sure was good or bad. I hoped I was close.

I didn’t want to die.

The Tsawwassen airport could barely be called an airport. It was more like an old farm, with stray cats and dogs lazing in the dusty parking lot, retired pilots sitting at metal stools with their wives and grandchildren at a café that could barely be called a kitchen. Nevertheless, Dad loved it there, and so did I - not because of the molasses-like energy that seemed to seep out of every crack in the tarmac, but because of where the tarmac would take us once the propeller started spinning. Except, this time - strapped in to the co-pilot's seat behind Dad, ready to fly, our regular Sunday tradition - I felt a heaviness in the pit of my stomach. Something that writhed and scrambled just under my skin, sending thorny tendrils of doubt winding around my brain.

What if the plane loses power? What if the wind is too strong? What if we crash? What if we die? 

Dad was focused and silent as we steered towards the runway. Then we started picking up speed.

"Dad," I said, unsure of where the sentence was leading. When we lifted off the ground, I felt the weight drop and turn; I wanted to scream and throw up at the same time."Dad!" 

"What?" His voice was easy-breezy, soft and sure. "There a problem?" 

"I don't feel so good." My hands gripped the sides of my seat cushion, knuckles white. I kept my eyes on the horizon.

"Still got the bends from last weekend?" Dad leaned the plane left. A spike of electricity jolted through me - it made me feel sick.

"Please, Dad, can we go back down?" 

"Fine, just hang in there for one loop." The plane tilted sharply and I was thrust backwards into my seat as the clouds spun outside the window. I shut my eyes as the weight rose into my throat, suffocating. 

Back on the tarmac, I vomited all over the buttercups.

"Glen told me you backed out of the Australia job," Dad readjusted his cap as we trudged towards the café.

"How can I fly to Australia for a dive trip if I can't stomach flying or diving? The article would be a disaster if I wrote it," I slumped on a bench outside the building, burying my face in my hands.

"You can do those things no problem. The problem is you're scared, and you choose not to do 'em. Big difference," Dad took a seat next to me.

"I wish I could go back to being fearless," I said.

"Fearless? Everyone's afraid of something. What you were was reckless," Dad leaned back, looked up at the sky. "You've changed because you value yourself. You're understanding what's at risk now." 

I looked up at him just as he looked down at me. He smiled. Ruffled my hair.

"There are other thrills in life besides dangerous ones. Like, an amazing job offer, for example." Dad raised his eyebrows at me. "Just remember not to look down."