Face To Face

I am a scuba diver. One wonderful afternoon I set sail with some friends for a day of diving in San Diego. The water was a bit rough that day and the grounds swells were huge! I have NEVER gotten sea sick on a dive, but this day was definitely different. As we suited up for our dive, I could feel the overwhelming pains of nausea come over me. I pushed through it and continued to get my gear on.

Finally, we were ready to dive. We jumped into the choppy ocean one by one, there were three of us diving that day. We had intended to dive 80 feet to a shipwreck and explore it. Normally when you jump into choppy water, you put your snorkel into your mouth so when a wave hits you in the face, you don't gulp in water instead of air. When I went for my snorkel, it was gone! I looked all around me and I could see it sinking into the depths. I grabbed for it, but it sank beyond my reach. The boat was quickly moving further and further away into the waves, and so were my dive buddies. I would have to do without my snorkel. I decided to put my regulator into my mouth because I was getting pummeled in the face with water. Someone had turned my air off so my regulator was useless. When I was finally able to reach around and get my air turned on, I looked back at the boat and saw my husband looking at me with a very worried look on his face as my friends were floating far away from me. I turned my air tank on and one of my hoses came disconnected from my tank. I was helpless. Finally, another diver saw what was happening and came over to reconnect my air hose. All I could hear in my head was "get back on the boat, don't do this dive today".

The nausea was getting worse, even though I was in the water now. I forged ahead. I was finally able to get over to where my dive buddies were waiting for me to descend. We were ready to dive and all thumbs went down (the signal to descend) As I began to let the air out of my BC, I watched my friends sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean. But, no matter how hard I tried, BC empty of air, I was not able to descend. I fought it hard, but my attempts were worthless. It was like someone was holding me, at the surface, by my hair and not allowing me to descend to the 80 feet that we intended. Finally, I gave up! I motioned to the boat to come and get me.

As I climbed up onto the boat, my husband's hand reached out for me. He still looked very worried. He asked me "what was going on out there"? "I was watching you and knew that all was not well." "I was praying that you'd return to the boat and reconsider the dive". As I got onto the boat I was completely overwhelmed with nausea. I ran to the edge of the boat, tanks still on my back and fell to the deck. I was violently sick and threw up for and hour after returning to the boat. Afterwards I told my husband (not a diver) of my experience about how it felt as though someone was holding me by my hair and wouldn't let me descend into the water.

I then realized--that had I needed to vomit, while 80 feet under water, I probably would have drowned. I would have gone into a complete panic, not knowing how to keep my regulator in my mouth and vomit at the same time. I'm certain that if I had not had that trusted angel forbidding me to descend, that I would have drowned for sure. I sat there and started to realize how many messages that I had gotten not to do the dive. The lost snorkel, the air being turned off, the faulty air hose, etc. I ignored those warnings and still tried to do the dive. It was then that the angel (s) held be back by my hair and didn't allow me to descend. When I finally got the message, they let go and allowed me to get back on the boat.

I know that I owe my life to my angels. I pay much closer attention to them these days. Their presence is always certain to me now. Since then, when I get resistance on anything, I stop, look at the situation and realize......"no, not now, it's not time" Then I happily move on to something else and thank them. For if not for their love and devotion to me, I would certainly stray off of my path.

Tracey L.