“Rule one,” she said. “You breathe. Slowly and constantly. Never hold your breath.”
“I can do that.”
“People always say that until their brain realizes they’re underwater and goes, what if we become soup?”
“My brain has never used those exact words.”
“It will now.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She held up the regulator.
“Breathe through this. In and out. Don’t overthink it.”
“You don’t know me very well.”
“I’m getting a sense.”
The first breath through the regulator felt unnatural, loud, and far too intimate.
Air rushed through the mouthpiece.
My own breathing filled my ears.
I knew breath.
I knew how one bad inhale could ruin a note. I knew how to control it under stage lights, during costume changes, while running down a runway in boots that had no respect for human ankles.
But this was different.
There was no music to hide inside.
No band.
No crowd.
Just air moving in and out and Ellie watching to make sure I did not become soup.
“Good,” she said. “Keep breathing.”
I wanted to answer, but my mouth was occupied and my dignity was negotiating terms.
We practiced clearing the regulator.
Then the mask.
I hated clearing the mask immediately and with great sincerity.
Water touched my nose.
Every instinct in my body screamed that the ocean had entered somewhere it had not been invited.
I surfaced with my mask crooked and hair stuck to my face.
Ellie pushed her own mask onto her forehead.
