Just started scuba diving

During my PADI Open Water Diver course, everything that could go wrong went wrong.

Somebody stole my fins on the first day. I lost my group and joined another underwater. I panicked when I tried to clear my mask. I lost my buddy (and myself) during the exam. Everything was pure frustration, but I wasn’t going to give up! I loved water and knew I was DESTINED to become a scuba diver. I told myself it was just a bad couple of days.

So when I started fun diving, I held a deep respect for the ocean and the fact that I’m breathing only because the equipment gives me air. I was terrified of the consequences that my (or my buddy’s) ignorant decisions might yield.

Everything was pure frustration, but I wasn’t going to give up.

Diving was hard. There were so many pieces of equipment, all of them crucial. You had to remember the sequence of the buddy check, to check the depth, air, and rate of ascension. You had to make sure to put on your weight belt before your BCD, and a regulator in your mouth before doing a back roll. There were sea currents, corals to avoid, reckless boat drivers, and odd fish going after you because you were in the wrong place at the right time.

So it comes as no surprise that I became a safety freak. I was a control freak to begin with, which didn’t help one bit. Everything had to be in the right place, everyone at the same depth, or I would blow a fuse later.

Then there was the problem of choosing a dive center when I headed off into the world. How do I even figure out if a dive center is a good egg? Do I take them at their word? Where is the guarantee I am not just a number among many on their list today? In the vast sea of glossy websites, everyone is the best. How on earth can I make an informed decision about who to dive with when I still think there’s oxygen in my bottles, and the no-decompression limit is a stone wall never to be crossed because there be dragons?

I started by choosing dive trips with a limited number of divers.

I went for smaller dive centers to make sure I’m their only point of focus and demanded to see their qualifications. I was prepared to pay more for their attention and my safety, and refused to dive altogether if anything smelled fishy. Suspiciously low prices and many divers on board were huge red flags.

In the vast sea of glossy websites, everyone is the best.

Slowly, year by year, dive by dive, my knowledge and experience grew, and I was confident I could separate the wheat from the chaff. I went from OWD to Advanced to Rescue (gosh, this one was fun!) to Divemaster, doing courses with the most demanding instructors who wanted perfection. You see, it’s not about the test or certification, it’s about the skills you take with you to the next dive. I knew they cared more about me becoming a competent diver than the extra bucks they would get by turning their attention to someone new who had just turned up on their doorstep.

I still remember the moment when, one day, I descended as if it were nothing. It demanded just as much thought and effort as descending on a comfy couch on a rainy Sunday afternoon. I feared nothing. My cumulative experience prepared me for the expected and the unexpected. I trusted my buddy, my dive guide, my gear, and most of all, myself.

One day, I descended like it was nothing.

Eventually, to the horror of my mother and my introverted nature, I bought a tiny dive center in Bali. Now I expect everybody in my team to treat our guests the way I once wanted to be treated as a diver.

Occasionally, I still get stinky looks from old divers when I pull their fins during a dive because they have wandered down to 31 meters when the briefing clearly stated 29. I know I’m overreacting, but that’s who I am, and always will be, I guess.

The safety freak lives on, but now it serves to protect others.