Chapter One: I Was the Only Black Kid in the Water

An 80s kid, a scuba tank, and a lesson I never saw coming.

It was the mid-1980s. I was a young Black man standing at the edge of a natural Florida spring,

surrounded by a bunch of white guys who looked like they belonged there.

I did not.

I was a student at the Florida Ocean Science Institute (FOSI), and I had signed up for something I had absolutely no business doing on paper. I wasn't an athlete. I wasn't a daredevil. I was skinny, unsure, and I had spent my whole life on land—concrete, sidewalks, hard ground.

The water in front of me wasn't the clear blue of a resort pool. It was dark, deep, and hiding a tunnel that led to somewhere I couldn't even imagine.

Our instructor was a guy named Jim. Boat captain. Scuba diver. Confident in a way that made me both trust him and question my own sanity. He told us we were going to put on our gear, descend to a certain depth, grab a metal pipe, and pull ourselves through a narrow passage against a strong current.

On the other side? An open cave. A hidden room inside the Earth itself. A place where we could take off our masks and breathe free.

It sounded like a dream.

But when I tried to go down, I couldn't.

I was too light. Too buoyant. Too scared.

They pulled me back up to the surface. And then they started strapping lead weights around my waist.

I remember standing there, feeling that heavy metal against my skin, and thinking one thing: "They are trying to drown me."

I was wrong.

But I wouldn't understand that until I made it to the other side.

Next time: What happens when the life you've lived on land isn't enough to prepare you for what's under the water.