South of San Francisco, purple mist wraps around the Montara Mountains. Surfing winter waves in the Pacific is a humbling experience. Even paddling out feels combative. Waves slam me against the board hard enough to leave bruises. Being trapped underwater is the closest I’ve ever been to death. I resurface to the sky nearing gold-pink and decide I should retie my leash and paddle back out anyways.

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Eventually, I begin to memorize the ocean’s cues: when to flatten my body beneath a wave, when to pivot, when to push on top of the water entirely. The first time I rode a clean break, I understood why people dedicate their lives to this. Three hours disappeared without me noticing.

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A year later, during study abroad in Singapore, my fascination with open water evolved into freediving. Within three months of learning, I reached 25 meters with bifins. Past twenty, you are already deep enough that a thermocline fades sunlight into a dim blue haze and ocean’s surface is no longer visible. If my dive was documented in competition, I would tie for 16th among women in Canada.

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I’m obsessed with the ocean because it forces total concentration. Underwater, there is no multitasking, no fragmented attention. Every movement matters, and a single breath is enough to separate you from the most vibrant experience of your life, and certain death.

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I dive in a trancelike state where my thoughts slow and my world is concentrated into an embryonic ripple of pure blue. I’m weightless past 18 meters, and when I freefall it feels like flying. The pressure on my chest is the only thing that reminds me I’m still human.