Battleship gray

 "Bit of a battleship gray day, eh?" I could hear Ed chatting with one of the forklift operators at the other end of the pier. He was right. The uniform gray of the sky matched the lead weights I packed into my buoyancy compensator jacket. A pile of snow melted slowly onto the concrete. The air was mild, not too humid, not too cold - kind of a metaphorical medium gray. 

I didn't care. When there is a dive to be had, it could be the ugliest, grayest day in history, and I would enthusiastically spend all of it outdoors. You see, everything is different underwater, and if I had known how much I was going to enjoy diving into the sea, I certainly wouldn't have waited until my postdoc to learn how. 

In my happy place. Photo by Kharis Schrage.

As we descended down the line, I could feel my heart rate slow and my breaths lengthen as my mammalian dive reflex kicked in. My head and hands were awash in the frigid seawater, protected by think layers of neoprene, while the rest of my body stayed dry. To me, cold-water diving feels like being wrapped in a weighted blanket on a cold night - the compression on my chest, the chill on my face - it all works in concert to calm me. 

We used a lift bag to maneuver CATAIN into place, spun the frame on the sediment so the camera was facing the right way, then swam back to the guide line. It was a short dive - only about 20 minutes - but even at that duration, I was enthralled. I absolutely love it underwater. 

As I pulled away from the pier and waved to the security guard, I realized that outwardly, not much had changed since I went in. The sky was still battleship gray. I was wearing the same clothes, driving the same car. As far as any onlooker could tell, the only only evidence of the dive was my wet hair. 

If only they could sense my calm, feel my heart rate, know my joy. I live for this feeling, which I only get after journeying deep under the surface. May I never stop diving. Ever.