In diving class today, I fumbled with my fin straps far too long,  continually adjusted and cleared an ill-fitting, constantly flooding mask, struggled to re-attach my weight belt and continued to totter and lurch Frankenstein style while trying to swim with my tank. In other words I assumed I would definitely be setting up some additional pool sessions.

Imagine my surprise when my dive teacher Greg said, “You did well today. We just get you a new mask and you’ll be ready for the boat trip next weekend.”

“You think I’m ready?”

I removed my mask, hoping my face wasn’t smeared with snot.

“Yep.”

Leaden anxiety rooted me to the spot.

I looked at the faded portrait that hung over the pool: a gaping, tooth-ringed mouth of a great white  framed by a porthole.

I uttered a silent prayer to the great fish: You’ll protect me, right?