Inside the Screen: Reflections from 35 Feet Below

St. Vincent and the Grenadines

I’ve never approached diving as a challenge, and maybe that’s what makes it so magical for me. I’m not out to break records or chase adrenaline. For me, diving is a gentle kind of awe — a hobby, yes, but also a ritual of stillness, a quiet passport into a world that feels like stepping into the screen of a nature documentary.

My dives haven’t taken me to the extreme depths. My deepest was about 35 feet — nothing daring by seasoned diver standards — but that’s the thing about the ocean: you don’t have to go far to be completely undone by its beauty.

I’ve spent time beneath the surface in the Bahamas and the Red Sea, two different corners of the world, yet each offered me that same breathtaking clarity — the moment when the surface breaks and the whole world shifts. Light bends differently. Sounds disappear. You become weightless, suspended like a thought in the water.

Diving Bahamas

In the Caribbean, the water wraps around you like warm silk. Coral gardens bloom in slow motion, each reef its own bustling city of colors — yellows, blues, pinks that don’t exist above water in quite the same way. Schools of fish move like they’re rehearsing a ballet. One moment, you’re hovering near a brain coral watching a pair of parrotfish snack noisily on algae; the next, a sea turtle glides past as if you’re just another part of the reef.

Then there’s the Red Sea — so full of ancient calm and wild drama. The reds and oranges of the coral glow deeper there, as if the sea itself remembers history. I remember floating near a wreck, not even going inside — just staying outside, observing the outlines blurred with coral, rusted metal now part of the living ecosystem. I felt something sacred there. Something about time and surrender.

And at just 35 feet, I saw so much. More than I ever imagined I would when I first strapped on the mask. That’s the part that stays with me — how much beauty exists right there, close enough to touch, if you’re willing to slow down and drift. In a world that’s always rushing, diving gives me a pause button. It reminds me how much richness exists just below the surface — of the sea, yes, but maybe also of life.

So no, I don’t dive to test myself. I dive to remember. To disappear for a while into a place that doesn’t need anything from me — just my breath and my attention. It’s not a challenge. It’s a return.

Bahamas