3. Annie
Three
Annie
By seven forty-five the next morning, I had learned three important things.
First, egg yolk did not come out of pale blue linen as easily as optimism suggested.
Second, Rachel Donovan could sense bad decisions from three time zones away.
Third, when I booked a private scuba lesson, I had somehow failed to consider the part where I would have to put on a skintight wetsuit in front of the woman who had made me laugh hard enough to ruin a shirt.
Rachel had called twice before breakfast and texted once in all caps.
PLEASE CONFIRM YOU ARE RESTING.
I sat on a wooden bench outside Reef Rascal Dive Co. with a medical form balanced on my knee.
I had just confirmed that I had no heart condition, no respiratory problems, no recent surgery, and no history of panicking underwater.
The last question seemed unfair.
I had no history of being underwater.
I typed back:
Resting near water.
That was not technically a lie.
It was a truth wearing sunscreen.
Reef Rascal looked smaller up close than it had from the café. A low white building sat between two palms, with colorful fins hanging beneath the awning and a rack of wetsuits swaying in the breeze like a row of very judgmental seals.
A second chalkboard stood by the entrance.
TODAY’S CONDITIONS:
CALM WATER
GOOD VISIBILITY
TURTLE MAYOR POSSIBLY IN OFFICE
Someone had drawn a turtle wearing a tie.
Inside, the shop smelled of neoprene, salt, sunscreen, and coffee strong enough to restart a dead boat engine.
A golden retriever slept beneath the counter with the exhausted confidence of an employee who had never once paid rent.
His red bandanna read:
CAPTAIN PANCAKE — ASSISTANT MANAGER
He opened one eye when I entered, decided I was not carrying food, and went back to sleep.
Behind the counter, a man in his sixties was repairing a fin strap. He had gray hair, deeply tanned arms, and the kind of expression that suggested he had seen every possible form of tourist stupidity and ranked most of it below average.
“Hank?” I asked.
He looked up.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Who’s asking.”
“Annie. I booked a private beginner lesson.”
“Then yes.”
That seemed to conclude the introduction.
He pointed toward the clipboard in my hand.
“You sign everything?”
“I think so.”
“You think you have allergies?”
“No.”
“You think you’re pregnant?”
“No.”
“You think you’ve had heart surgery?”
“I’m confident about that one.”
Hank nodded.
“Good enough.”
Captain Pancake sighed without opening his eyes.
I was beginning to understand the company culture.
The back door swung open.
Ellie came in carrying two scuba tanks as though they contained helium and mild inconvenience instead of compressed air and the potential to crush a foot.
She wore black board shorts, a faded Reef Rascal T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and her hair in a messy knot. Sunglasses rested on top of her head.
She looked less like a woman arriving at work and more like someone assembled from saltwater, caffeine, and bad ideas.
“Well, well,” she said, setting the tanks down. “If it isn’t Annie of the haunted table.”
“Good morning.”
“It is a good morning. My emotional property rights have been respected, nobody has asked me whether sharks can smell fear, and you appear to have survived the sandwich.”
“Mostly.”
Her gaze dropped to my white tank top.
“No yolk today.”
“I’m growing as a person.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“I appreciate your support during this difficult journey.”
Ellie took the clipboard from me and scanned the form.
For the first time since she had entered, her expression shifted into something more focused. Not cold. Not distant. Just professional in a way that made me sit a little straighter.
“No asthma. No ear problems. No medication that makes you dizzy.”
“No.”
“No history of panic attacks underwater.”
“I found that question oddly accusatory.”
“It’s only accusatory if you lie.”
“I’ve never had the opportunity.”
“Great. We love novelty.”
She tapped the form with one finger.
“We’ll keep it simple today. Gear basics, breathing, hand signals, shallow water. If you hate it, we stop.”
“And if I’m amazing?”
“I take full credit.”
“What if I’m terrible?”
“Hank takes responsibility.”
From behind the counter, Hank said, “No.”
Ellie lowered her voice.
“He’s going through something.”
Hank continued repairing the fin strap.
“I can hear you.”
“I know.”
She handed me a folded wetsuit.
“Try this. It should fit.”
“Should?”
“Wetsuits are like exes. They lie about compatibility.”
I held it up.
It appeared to have been designed for a narrow child with no bones.
“I’m beginning to question your professionalism.”
“That’s fair. Wait until I teach you how not to drown. I’m much more convincing then.”
The changing room contained a bench, two hooks, and a faded poster of a sea turtle wearing sunglasses.
Beneath it, someone had written:
HE’S SEEN THINGS.
The wetsuit did fit, technically, in the way a jar lid fits if you force it hard enough and refuse to admit defeat.
I got one leg in.
Then the other.
Then became trapped at the hips.
For a full minute, I hopped around the changing room while trying to pull neoprene over parts of my body that had never previously objected to clothing.
The turtle watched without sympathy.
I considered calling Rachel.
Not for help.
Just so she could hear the exact sound of consequences arriving.
Eventually, I emerged victorious, though not dignified.
Ellie was adjusting a regulator on the counter.
She looked up.
Her face did something quick before she controlled it.
Not recognition.
Not awe.
Just appreciation.
Simple. Warm. Entirely inconvenient.
“Look at you,” she said.
“As a diver?”
“As someone who entered a wetsuit and survived.”
“I had doubts.”
“Everyone does.”
Her eyes moved over me once more, slower this time.
The wetsuit suddenly seemed much tighter.
Hank cleared his throat from behind the counter.
Ellie turned away.
“Come here,” she said. “Let’s get you suited up.”
I crossed the shop.
She picked up a buoyancy vest and held it open.
“Arms through.”
I obeyed.
Ellie stepped behind me and pulled the vest into place. Her fingers brushed my shoulders, brisk and careful, then moved to the straps at my sides.
This was normal.
Equipment.
Safety.
An entirely professional situation that did not require my pulse to behave like I had just walked onstage before twenty thousand people.
“Too tight?” she asked.
“No.”
“Too loose?”
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I was considering my answer.”
“To whether you can breathe?”
“I like to be thorough.”
Her laugh was low and close to my ear.
“Good. Breathing is going to be a theme today.”
She walked me through the gear with the patience of someone who had explained the same things a thousand times and somehow still enjoyed watching beginners pretend they understood.
Tank.
Regulator.
Pressure gauge.
Mask.
Fins.
Buoyancy control.
Then came the hand signals.
“This means okay,” she said, forming a circle with her thumb and forefinger.
I copied her.
She frowned.
“What?”
“That looks like you’re accusing a crab of tax fraud.”
“I’m doing exactly what you did.”
“You’re doing it aggressively.”
“I have expressive fingers.”
“Apparently.”
She demonstrated again.
I tried again.
“Better,” she said. “The crab is now only under investigation.”
“Progress.”
“This means go up.”
She gave a thumbs-up.
“I know that one.”
“No. You know what it means on land. Underwater, thumbs-up does not mean great job or I approve of this turtle. It means we’re going to the surface.”
“What if the turtle deserves approval?”
“Use your face.”
“My face is famous for being difficult to interpret.”
The sentence slipped out before I could stop it.
Ellie glanced at me.
I adjusted the mask in my hands.
“In my family,” I added.
“Ah.”
She watched me for half a second longer.
Then she pointed to the mask.
“Put that on before your family’s facial legacy becomes a safety issue.”
We carried the equipment down to the water.
The beach had begun to wake around us. Two children built a sandcastle with the grim concentration of architects under deadline.
A woman in neon workout clothes jogged past with a tiny dog who looked furious about cardio.
At the café, Rosa was arranging chairs while issuing instructions to someone inside.
She spotted me and waved.
“Egg sandwich?”
“No,” I called back.
“Smart girl.”
Ellie looked at me.
“You’ve made an impression.”
“I’m memorable.”
The word came with more weight than I intended.
Ellie either did not notice or kindly pretended not to.
We started in water shallow enough for me to stand.
The tank on my back immediately made me feel like a refrigerator learning to walk.
Ellie moved easily beside me, adjusting my mask strap while the water hit her thighs.
“Rule one,” she said. “You breathe. Slowly and constantly. Never hold your breath.”
“I can do that.”
“People always say that until their brain realizes they’re underwater and goes, what if we become soup?”
“My brain has never used those exact words.”
“It will now.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She held up the regulator.
“Breathe through this. In and out. Don’t overthink it.”
“You don’t know me very well.”
“I’m getting a sense.”
The first breath through the regulator felt unnatural, loud, and far too intimate.
Air rushed through the mouthpiece.
My own breathing filled my ears.
I knew breath.
I knew how one bad inhale could ruin a note. I knew how to control it under stage lights, during costume changes, while running down a runway in boots that had no respect for human ankles.
But this was different.
There was no music to hide inside.
No band.
No crowd.
Just air moving in and out and Ellie watching to make sure I did not become soup.
“Good,” she said. “Keep breathing.”
I wanted to answer, but my mouth was occupied and my dignity was negotiating terms.
We practiced clearing the regulator.
Then the mask.
I hated clearing the mask immediately and with great sincerity.
Water touched my nose.
Every instinct in my body screamed that the ocean had entered somewhere it had not been invited.
I surfaced with my mask crooked and hair stuck to my face.