Annie Get Your Clothes On

“I started running ultras to be a better person...I thought if you could run one hundred miles, you’d be in this zen state. You’d be the fucking Buddha, bringing peace and a smile to the world. It didn’t work in my case—I’m the same old punk-ass as before—but there’s always that hope that it will turn you into the person you want to be, a better, more peaceful person.” This is a quote from one of the super athletes in Christopher McDougall’s book, Born to Run.

In the entirety of my life I know that I will never run an ultra marathon, nor will I have the desire to do so. But that passage really struck a chord with me. I have a vision of the person I want to be and I feel like the hobbies I fill my life with are part of this woman that make up my ideal. I want to be a person who will try anything once (maaaybe twice).

My first solo vacation was in Hawaii, summer 2006. I was a little nervous about traveling alone, so I settled on a destination that was technically still the United States, but exotic enough to feel a little dangerous (ha!). I hiked, explored, meditated, talked to strangers... all things associated with being a seasoned traveler. But on that trip, the thing that would change my life was my first dive.

The sensation of breathing in the water, an alternate life under the sea and the badass gear one sported... well, I was hooked. Since then, I’ve been diving all over the world. So when I found out that my travel itinerary included Sweden, I Googled the closest PADI dive center and made my reservations. This would be my first cold water dive which would officially put me on the badass diver list. But the problem with pushing one's self too far too fast in diving, as with anything in life, is that one runs the risk of losing interest, getting hurt and on occasion, even death. Okay, okay. You know by now I have a flare for the dramatic. Death only felt like part of my experience... but it would become one I will never forget.

I traveled two hours north of Malmo by train and bus. When I arrived to the dive shop, I was eager to get on the boat. My fitting was delayed by their struggle to find gloves to fit my freakishly small hands and boots to fit my matching freakishly small feet. (Women all over China are seething with jealousy.) And of course, I was further delayed by my inability to convert pounds to kilograms and inches to centimeters. (Seriously, Europe... the metric system is sooo 2000 & late.)

I gathered my gear and decided I didn’t want my book bag to get wet, so I left it in the van. I got on board and began setting up my equipment. I didn’t trust myself with my own life, so I called the dive master, Annie, over to double check my work. Imagine my surprise when I saw her in her underwear. Changing. On board. Into a bikini. I looked away, embarrassed. If I had known it was gonna be that kinda party I would have worn a lace bra and panty set and called it a day.

With our equipment properly set up, we pulled out to sea. I started to put on my wetsuit. It was bright red and had two pieces. As I struggled to get my leg in, I realized I was the butt of the Swedish banter that had recently started. I was putting my suit on inside out! I turned the suit right side in, but while it is always difficult to put a wetsuit onto dry skin, this time seemed exceptionally arduous. I looked at the suit and realized it was an extra small. EXTRA. SMALL. On what planet do I resemble an extra small? Did they even bother to look at me from behind?! We were too far out to turn around so I pulled harder until I heard a rip in the suit go all the way through the groin. I looked up and heard Silk the Shocker saying, “It ain’t my fault.” I walked over to show the captain the rip in my suit.

He said, “Don’t worry! The jacket will cover it.”

Sigh.

I went back to finish dressing. I tried to peel my jacket on and heard the captain yelling at me in Swedish and motioning with his leg.

I don’t speak Jibberish, Capitán. Speak American, por favor.

He left the helm and walked over to me. For the first time since we pulled out of port I looked up and noticed the mountainous cliffs on the starboard side while no one was piloting the vessel.

Forget about me! Who’s driving the goddamned boat!

He showed me how to put my suit on and returned to the wheel. I tried to zip up the jacket and felt like Chris Farley: fat guy in a little coat. My arms were sticking out and I was seriously struggling to breathe. The captain explained the dive and how different it would be from all the warm water dives I had done before.

“There are a lot of jelly fish in the water. They won’t kill you, but it will hurt like hell.”

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! What did I get myself into?

“The water temperature is 10 degrees." (Celsius.)

“Wait!” I shouted. “What about the tear in my suit?” I was seriously freaking out.

“You’ll be fine.” The captain assured me. “Just set it to the side when you return it.” Okay, so the equipment was good enough for my dive but afterwards it would go to the wetsuit graveyard? Crap.

“You’ll hit a pocket of water on your way down where you will visually see the change in temperature. It will drop 10 degrees.” (Still Celsius!) “Your dive tanks are different from that of your Caribbean dives. Those are aluminum. These are steel. They weigh more. Be careful to maintain your balance or they will flip you over onto your back. Are you ready,” the captain asked with a smile.

No, I am not ready! I wanna watch Oprah. I want my money back. I wanna go home. I want to live damnit! I want to live.

We arrived at the dive location and everything was zipped, tucked, snapped and buckled. My tank was on my back and my weight belt was squeezing my waist. I was sweating and about to die of heat exhaustion all the while knowing that as soon as I hit the water it was going to feel like an ice cold bath. And, What the What! The captain was wearing a dry suit. A dry suit?! This is the climate of his people and he was wearing a dry suit? My people are a warm people. Our idea of danger is outrunning the drug cartels of Columbia, not treading through the Scandinavian tropics. Why am I in a wetsuit, which by the way, happens to be broken!

I went to the side of the boat and sat on the ledge. I held my mask over my face and the regulator in my mouth. I leaned back and rolled into the water. As soon as I hit I thought my life was over. I could feel cold water seeping in around my face, into my neck, around my ankles, wrists and for the love of everything that is sacred and holy, into my groin. I looked around and was falling into a pool of jelly fish. I was choking, water had gotten into my mask and my ears were already hurting. One at a time I fixed my issues, blowing hard out of my regulator to clear my breathing, blowing hard out of my nose to clear my mask and wiggling my jaw to equalize my ears. Though I wanted to panic, I knew I had to be calm or things would really get bad.

I thought of the groom who helped me arrange this trip and his anecdote about ripping off the masks of his diving buddies to make sure they wouldn’t freak out in an emergency. I thought of my own Swedish dive buddy, three feet away from me, and how I would take his dive knife and drive it through his heart if he tried to play any tricks on me. This was a life or death moment and the score was tied. Then I thought of the bride. Honestly, would a wedding in the Dominican Republic have been out of the question?

I started my dive and tried to think warm thoughts. I thought of the hot bath I would take back in my hotel room until I remembered I had only a stand up shower. Then I thought of a hot tub and wished I had a hot tub time machine. Not to buy stock in Microsoft, but to tell myself not to go on this damn dive trip.

In all of the excitement I realized I was starving. I was swimming with schools of fish and just looking at them made me even hungrier. I would have Daryl Hannah’ed the first lobster I saw.

Cold and hungry I thought the first dive would never end. But mercifully we came up 45 minutes later and rested for an hour and a half. I kept my wetsuit on and lay in the sun, trying to stay warm. This is what my people do. We are of the sun and of peace; well, maybe an occasional kidnapping and drug killing, but still a warm and mostly peaceful people.

Fortunately, my second dive felt faster than the first. I came out of the water and headed straight for the sun. Annie said I would warm up faster if I took my wetsuit off and changed into my dry clothes. On a boat with no changing room, I decided my warmth was more important than my modesty. My male diving buddy took off into the rocks and cliffs behind us. Since I had already seen Annie in her undies, I figured, “When in Rome...”

I headed to the front of the boat, faced the ocean and changed from my wetsuit into my dry clothes. I turned around to head back into the sun and faced an entire group of people who had just climbed onto the rocks and had apparently gotten an up close and personal view of my entire backside; including my dive buddy, back from his excursion. Awesome.

Too tired to care, too hungry to think (oh yeah, my food was in my backpack... in the van), I lay in the sun and fell asleep.

I woke to an underwear clad dive master. Annie had changed into her dry clothes too, but they consisted of Sweden’s version of Victoria’s Secret. Ladies, let me tell ya that confidence goes an incredibly long way. This dive master’s body was nowhere near perfect. She had rolls, dimples, and pale white skin. But as she worked the boat in her underwear, I couldn’t help but notice the way her long curls fell over her shoulders and the way her curves made her look like a woman was meant to look. She was beautiful. Though the other divers (all male) did not seem to be as fazed by the fact that Annie was in her panties, I knew they were thinking the same thing.

We pulled back into port where all the guys tried to help me carry my equipment off the boat. If I had known I wouldn’t have had to carry those ridiculously heavy steel tanks, I would have flashed them the first time around. From both sides.

My dive trip was done. I made it through some of the coldest diving in the world. It won’t happen twice. Well, maaaybe twice. I am not a better person for having done that dive. Like McDougall’s super athletes, I too am the same punk-ass today as I was yesterday. But I will tell you, that after this dive, I am officially badass.