Zero feet. It may feel like a chokehold on deck, but once the frigid water starts creeping in the cracks around my cheeks and forehead, I wish that neoprene hood were even tighter. It cradles my chin, a comfort, while the boat lurches in every direction in the swirling surge from Mexican hurricanes that send surf wrapping around the coast and up the channel. Draped over the banister of the upper level, the tanks bang against each other like unsynchronized wind chimes while the ocean mist sprinkles my face with every rolling wave. Every time I take my bounding step off the deck, splashing into the water, I remember the first breath I ever took underwater. The elation I felt that fateful day rushes again into my chest like the air I slurp from the regulator, my teeth clamped down on the mouthpiece to prevent water from flowing down my trachea.

Seven feet. In the same pool where my swim team cranked out countless laps of butterfly, I was convinced my earliest breaths underwater would be my last. Never would I have guessed how addicting that twinge of terror and adrenaline would become, the perfect fix to complacency. I never would have known how below the surface the sunlight refracts in rays, a fan of velvety beams.

Twenty feet. Out in the open water, divers guide their hands down the anchor line in single file, stopping every few meters to equalize and push air bubbles out through their ear canals. A pop, and then instant relief. I close my eyes and listen to the environment without the contamination of human voices. Parrotfish crunch on coral in the reef below, preparing to cloak themselves with a nightly mucus bubble, a translucent nightgown. Kelp swishes in the tide with lobsters scurrying up and down the long stems. And if I’m really lucky, I hear the high-frequency squeaks, whistles, and clicks of a pod of dolphins, a passing moment never forgotten.

Thirty-six feet. Thousands of brittle stars congregate on the sandy bottom. I turn to my dive partner and signal the “okay” sign (never a thumbs-up because that means go up to the surface, and nobody wants to do that). Now it’s time to observe beauty in a place where vocal exclamations don’t exist, only hand gestures. When I spot a bat ray nuzzled down in the sand, I move my arms up and down by my sides as if to imitate the ray’s movement and hope someone will see me. Sometimes it’s a gift only for me.

One hundred feet. Two and a half city blocks underwater. Every color fades to shades of blue and gray. There’s no jetting up to the surface in an emergency. Tiny gas bubbles built up from time at depth can expand within arteries, causing decompression sickness known as “the bends.” Run out of air and the only thing to do is remain calm and signal to a buddy to share – a plea for the ever-important alternate air hose known as the “octopus.”

Quiet observation, silent reflection, inaudible expression. The red hand of my depth gauge swivels around its axis as I descend. The necessity for pure, simple communication increases, forcing me to figure out how to express myself effectively. Having the opportunity to break away from the typical interactions of my day and spend even just an hour communicating in a manner so atypical to most is absolutely captivating. Instead of words, which flow easily, I talk with my hands, with my eyes, with my whole body. Everything but my mouth, unless it’s to crack a smile. Now, I weightlessly float along, clapping with delight.