I couldn’t see anything beyond the periphery of my torchlight. With every muscle in my body urging me to return to the warmth and comfort of my bed, and my buddy’s not-so-melodious voice singing, “ain’t no ocean deep enough,” echoing in the background, I dove in. 

BY SHARMEEN RANGWALA

IMAGE BY CAMEO VENCHIARUTTI

ABORT. ABORT. ABORT. That was the internal dialogue in my head as I stood in the dark, all kitted up in my scuba diving suit, my hand tightly gripped to my buddy Zoya’s. I couldn’t see anything beyond the periphery of my torchlight. With every muscle in my body urging me to return to the warmth and comfort of my bed, and my buddy’s not-so-melodious voice singing, “ain’t no ocean deep enough,” echoing in the background, I dove in. 

This was the fourth dive of my Professional Association of Diving Instructors certification, and a night dive. Our instructor had briefed us about the numerous nocturnal species we would witness underwater, but all I was greeted with was more darkness. The visibility was terrible. Forget fish, I couldn’t even see my buddy. At 100 feet below the surface, the silence of the water was loud, but not loud enough to drown out my anxiety. At that moment, the ocean ceased to be a place of wonder and awe. It became a relentless, formidable adversary. 

I started panicking. ABORT. ABORT. ABORT. The voice was back. 

My heart was racing a million miles an hour. My buoyancy was out of control. It was me against the laws of physics. My spirit was sinking but my body was rising. Arms flailing, I shot up. I had bobbed to the surface. A single, insignificant, little speck engulfed by the boundless ocean—that was me. There was no one out for miles, I only had the moon for company. I started drowning out the silence with the chattering of my mind. 

Is this how I die? How long until someone finds my drifting body? What if my resting place is a shark’s insides?  

A crashing wave brought me back to reality. I had two options: Brave the depths once more or attempt a solo swim to shore, potentially turning into a shark's surprise supper. I chose the latter. Just when I worked up the courage to take a stroke, another head bobbed up before me. 

That head was my instructor, who had noticed my disappearance and come to get me. I was reluctantly dragged back down and made to complete the dive, my instructor holding on to me throughout. The rest of the dive was a blur. All I remember is the feeling of incompetence I carried throughout. Soon, we were back at the dive center. As is tradition, you talk to your fellow divers about the marine life you saw and jot it down in your dive log book a.k.a. your dive journal. I had nothing to contribute. 

I had left the salty water behind, but I could still feel it on my face. 

I was devastated. Humiliated. I had failed at something I thought I would ace. Despite being the only swimmer in the group, I was the only one who required assistance. I was scared. Scared to dive again. Scared I would embarrass myself again. 

But I still had two dives left to complete my certification, both of which were the very next day. I told my instructor I was terrified. I no longer trusted my ability to stay below the surface. As I was haggling for extra weight to ensure I stayed underwater, he just looked at me with a straight face and said: “No, you’re going to dive with the same amount of weight as before. Be confident. Don’t let one bad dive determine your ability.” I didn’t seem very convinced, so he added, “I’ll carry some extra weight with me. If you feel like you need more underwater, let me know and I’ll slip it into your pocket.” 

The next day I was back, staring at the water, all kitted up in my scuba diving suit, hand tightly gripping my buddy Zoya’s. My face paled as we descended into the inky blue water. For the first few minutes, I didn’t allow myself to notice anything around me. I just focused on my breath and buoyancy. Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. 

Twenty minutes in, when my body was still very closely stuck to the seabed, my nerves calmed down, and I started diverting some attention to the magical marine life around me. It was like being stuck in a kaleidoscope with colours shooting at you from every corner. I didn’t know where to look. 

Darting at me from every corner were schools of juvenile fish, their iridescent scales glimmering in the sun. Clownfish were playing hide-and-seek in the anemone and coral. An octopus skulked in a corner, ready to sucker-punch its next prey. A very wise-looking eel popped out to greet us. Some beautifully marbled stingrays carpeted the sandy ocean floor. Amidst this underwater spectacle was a little seahorse clutching onto a swaying coral like a discreet spectator on a grand stage. The beauty I saw would be imprinted forever in my memory and logbook.  

And guess what? I didn’t need that extra weight after all. 

I came out of the water, smiling from ear to ear. I’m so glad I faced my fears and dove again. If I hadn’t, who knows where I would be? I wouldn’t be a certified diver or have found one of my greatest passions. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without the push from my instructor, whom I thanked profusely. He just looked at me smugly and said, “I told you.” 

That night dive taught me many things. It taught me to be kinder to myself, to not seek perfection, but growth. That it’s okay to fail as long as you try.  

How many of you could ride a bike on your first try? It takes a while, doesn’t it? Then why do we expect ourselves to ace a college assignment or presentation at work on our first attempt? Why do we expect to reach the top of the ladder before we’ve even climbed the first rung? 

I’ve definitely found myself guilty of seeking this perfection. I took weeks trying to find a topic for this article. Nothing was ‘perfect’ enough. I took even longer to start writing because I couldn’t find the ‘perfect’ angle. Speaking of perfection, my dives are still not perfect. I still struggle with my buoyancy while rising to the surface at the end of a dive. Every time I dive after a break, I feel like I’m starting from scratch. But I’m working on it, and I know I’ll get better. Even if I don’t, I’m just happy I found something that breathes life into me. 

How often have you aborted your dive? How often have you refused to try something only because of the fear of failure? We focus so much on perfection that we rob ourselves of the joy of trying. We forget that Rome wasn’t built in a day. You don’t have to be Picasso to enjoy painting.  

So, shut that laptop, put down your phone, pick up a paintbrush, cook a new recipe, belt your favourite songs out LOUD, proud and in front of a crowd (P.S. pets count). Unleash your inner Michael Jackson or try hot yoga! Do anything you’ve always wanted to do but never attempted. Dive deep into the depths of your imagination and run wild with it. The only criteria—be perfectly imperfect. 

Sharmeen Rangwala (she/her) is a communication professional, writer, and designer with a Bachelor's degree in Mass Communications. She is currently pursuing the Professional Writing and Communications program at Humber College. Her north star is traveling the world and she hopes to use her writing to build that life for herself, someday. 

Image: Trinity by Cameo Venchiarutti

Edited for publication by Rochelle Becker, as part of the Bachelor of Creative and Professional Writing program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.