Fifty Feet Down

I've been afraid of deep water my whole life. This year, at forty-eight, I got certified as a scuba diver. My son, who's twenty and a dive instructor in Florida, taught me himself.

In the pool, I panicked twice. I ripped my mask off once and came up gasping. He waited patiently on the edge, said, "Again, Mom," and went back down with me.

Our first open-water dive was off the Keys. I sank slowly through clear blue water, my son holding my hand. At fifty feet, we settled on the sand next to a reef. A sea turtle swam past, so close I could see the patterns on its shell. A school of yellow fish surrounded us like confetti. An enormous grouper looked at me with what I can only describe as mild disapproval.

I forgot to be afraid. I forgot everything. When we came back up, I was laughing so hard my regulator fell out. My son hugged me in the water and said, "You did it." I did. With him.