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I slid into the water just as the sun rose and illuminated the frothy peaks of the waves around me. For a moment, I held on to the metal railing and dangled freely on the side of the boat. The waves were strong and sea spray blew persistently in my face as I watched the water turn pink in the dawn.

The line from the boat’s ocean anchor stretched behind my head and plunged taunt into waves. The boat rotated slowly, held securely to the ocean floor by a stainless steel anchor shaped like a stingray and weighted with lead. I fitted my goggles over my eyes, took a deep, salty breath and plunged beneath the waves.

My friends always recount the silence underneath the waves – the impenetrable peace of the deep ocean. I can never hear the silence. The ocean roars inside me constantly, dull and thunderous. True, I can no longer hear the waves, the boat’s hull slapping against the water, or the soft chime of the lines on the mast. But every sound within my body is magnified ten fold. This is the sound of the ocean. Breath, blood, and thoughts stream through my veins and it nearly drives me mad.

The next thing fellow divers passionately describe is the light that fades the deeper you swim, the farther you dare to go. This is absolutely true for me. As I lingered there, just beneath the surface of the waves, cold darkness reached out closer than ever. Many people prefer to dive at mid day but I consider that denial. The darkness is there and the best way to face it is to forget the light. I am afraid every time I descend but terrified every time I ascend.

But the worst thing is not the silence, the light, or the threat of insufficient oxygen. No, it’s the temperature, the godless cold that seeps out of the darkness and invades your body to the very center of your bones. Beyond your wet suit, there’s very little you can do to protect yourself. You can’t jog in place or rub your arms. You can only swim slowly and gracefully deeper. All divers are unwillingly ballet dancers. The water gives you grace but at cost. Even the air in your lungs chills, freezes.

I surveyed the darkness below me for a brief moment before I followed the vanishing length of the anchor line into the ocean. Whenever the fear became too great, I could reach out and feel the anchor line – my line to life, light, and warmth. I swam until the silence, cold, and fading memory of oxygen screamed inside my body. Then I slowly rotated in space, felt for the line, and returned to the surface.