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The ocean spilled over my face, heaving me up and down like it was breathing with me. I was excited, sure; but there in my gut lay a knot from my childhood. Today was the deep dive, a wreck dive, past thirty metres. If something went wrong, it wouldn't be so easy to come back up... Danny, the divemaster in training, allowed the current to push him back to the buoy I was clinging to. 'OK?' he signalled. 'OK,' I signalled back. "Switch to regulator," he told the four of us, "and let's go." A sudden pang of nervousness hit me. This was too soon. Where was the build-up? Where was the brief? He had done this maybe hundreds of times, but it had been almost a decade since I'd done a proper dive—and never had I gone this deep before. Not wanting to fall behind, I yanked the rubber mouthpiece of my snorkel out and replaced it with my dripping reg. The others had already started to descend, and I fumbled clumsily for the button that would deflate my BCD. The first breaths were always the worst for me, and I suddenly became aware of how wide my eyes were, glaring into the murky blue. Not much could be seen below but for my fellow students descending in streams of bubbles. My breathing short, my hearing cauterised by the water; from this point, I was alone. If something went wrong now, I'd have to rely on the vestiges of instinct that could well have rusted like the Halliburton below us. And like the ghost from my drowning nightmares, she appeared before us. First the murky colour, then a hulking, shadowy shape. The sunken ship was immense, and covered with life. For twenty years the Halliburton had lived at the bottom of the bay, perfectly upright and rid of most hazards in order to be fit for training exercises. Still, the carcass of the old container ship gave me ill feelings that crept through me like a slow disease. In the long moments of taking in the massive construct, I had failed to notice the trickling leak that was gradually obstructing my sight. This had happened before, back when I was fifteen. I'd panicked, hyperventilated, and put myself in a dangerous mode of thought. The residual memory still haunted me. I tried to stay calm, but my breathing was still restricted. I'd imagined it was just nervousness at the top, but it was apparent now that my BCD and weight belt were both too tightly wrapped around my waist, constricting my inhalation. My natural response was to breathe harder, faster, but this only made the constriction more apparent. Getting desperate, I made for Danny, swimming below one of the other divers to get to him; but out of nowhere a kick slammed into my face, knocking my mask diagonally and sending saltwater flooding into my eyes. I was blinded, I couldn't breathe, and we were thirty metres down. To make quickly for the surface now was a dangerous move, and I was already hyperventilating and without vision. Right then, I was alone. 'No,' came a voice from within. 'You're ready for this. Remember your training.' With the solemnest of my inner strength, I tried to adjust my breathing to suit its restrictions. 'Slow it down. Slow everything down.' I took my mask in my shaking hands, tilted it upwards. Then, like I had been taught years ago, blew bubbles into it until I could fold it back down into position. I could see again. Courage flowing in my veins once more, I sought my next obstruction. Breathing. My belts were too tight. I felt for my weight belt and found it had rotated around 180 degrees, probably in my state of panic. I swung it back around and loosened it, then undid the velcro on my BCD and adjusted that too. And just like that, I could breathe again. My nervousness vanished almost instantly, and I turned around to face the divemaster who seemed to have been watching me—for how long, I couldn't know. 'OK?' he signalled. 'OK,' I signalled back.