Stolen Magic from Deep Waters

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one

Sarah

The ocean wraps around me like a cold breath, seeping through the thin barrier of my wetsuit and curling against my spine. It’s not freezing, but it’s enough to jolt my nerves awake. The kind of cold that says: you’re alive and alone.

I break the surface with a sharp inhale, adjusting my mask and scanning the dive boat just a few yards away. It rocks gently, only miles from shore, the Golden Gate’s iconic outline distant on the horizon. The sun rises slowly behind it, glinting off the water through the railings.

Leo’s silhouette leans over the railing, eyes fixed on me beneath the shade of the awning. One hand casually grips the edge of the radar monitor, the other already holding the comms mic.

“You admiring my looks again, Fishy?” His voice crackles through my earpiece, using the nickname he refuses to retire.

“How many times have I told you I hate that nickname, Leo?” I roll my eyes.

“Oh come on. You know you secretly love it. It’s a double-duo nickname!” He announces with a grin.

“Double-duo nickname or not, it makes me sound like a toddler.”

Leo started calling me Fishy back in undergrad, when he realized my last name was Fischer. That alone was enough for him to latch onto it, but once I chose marine biology as my major, the nickname became his life’s mission. According to him, it’s fate. According to me, it’s been years of suffering.

I refuse to react, focusing instead on staying professional. “It’s cold as hell,” I mutter, my breathing already syncing with my regulator. “Visibility below is not great.”

“Roger that. No movement on radar, just a few curious fish. The crew is clear and ready when you are.”

I give him a thumbs up just above the surface, then deflate my buoyancy control device and sink. Everyone here, aside from Leo and me, volunteered to assist with this expedition.

Today is no ordinary day. It’s the beginning of everything. After months of fundraising events, endless paperwork, and pitching to investors, my team and I finally secured the funding we needed for a study I’ve been dreaming about for years.

Being a marine biologist is a gratifying career for one reason alone: the dives.

I chose it because the water holds me in a way the surface world never quite has.

The moment I submerge, the pressure settles around me like a steady heartbeat, quieting everything I don’t want to feel.

Maybe that’s why I chase the deep, because it’s the only place where I can breathe freely.

I love every dive—every discovery—but lately it feels like the work I actually crave gets buried under endless forms, reports, and schedules.

I want the freedom to chase currents, to explore what catches my curiosity without someone else’s approval slowing me down.

A part of me longs for something different, something that isn’t dictated by committees or deadlines, something that feels purely mine.

The water closes over me with a familiar silence, the boat fading into shadow above as I follow the anchor’s chain to the bottom.

The current presses against the metal links, drawing from them a groan like the creak of an old wooden floorboard.

The water is a murky green-gray—cold, deep, and nothing like the crystal-clear tropics I trained in.

Somewhere down here lies rusted steel and the remnants of a long abandoned bridge, the kind of place where time stalled and nature took over.

The world shifts as I descend. Light fractures into ribbons, twisting through suspended silt and shadow. My heartbeat slows, steadied by the hush of the deep and the rhythmic pull of my breath through the regulator.

It’s always like this at first, like slipping between worlds.

The thought of diving into forgotten places sends a thrill up my spine, the water calling me like it holds stories I’ve never been told, dulling everything but the essentials: breath, sight, movement.

The weight of the tank, the cold continuing to creep through my wetsuit like it’s trying to pick a fight, and the ever-present thought that maybe I should’ve picked a hobby that didn’t involve flirting with hypothermia.

I’ve worked hard to get to where I am, but passion did most of the heavy lifting.

My parents supported every late-night study session and every diver certification I threw myself into, and I pushed through degree after degree because I loved the work.

But even with all that love, there was always this quiet .

. . gap. A pull toward a life I can’t remember, one I’ve tried to stop chasing.

Meeting Leo helped with that; he was a distraction wrapped in bad jokes and ridiculous talent.

Still . . . he always made it look easy.

As if life had no rough edges and every door opened before he had to knock.

I adjust the small camera mounted on my shoulder rig, making sure the green light is blinking. It’s automatically uploading footage to the surface receiver, assuming the signal doesn’t give out.

“Leo, confirm you’re getting feed?” I ask, voice low and slightly garbled through the comm due to the fast moving water around me.

“Not exactly tropical,” he quips. “Tell the fish to smile.”

I roll my eyes behind the mask. “Says the guy who begs to join me on these expeditions”

Out of the gloom, the structures rise like sleeping giants, broken metal beams stretching from the sea floor, worn cables swaying like kelp in the current. I hover above what’s left of a collapsed bridge foundation, its rusted bones draped in seaweed, thicker in certain areas and forgotten in time.

There’s beauty in the decay. In how the ocean reclaims what we leave behind. Which is poetic and all, until you remember this “art installation” probably came from some bureaucratic disaster or a failed construction plan. Humans: true connoisseurs of mistakes, always leaving it for nature to fix.

I hover there a little too long, lost in the eerie stillness, watching a strand of kelp drift lazily around a rusted beam. Time feels slower down here, like the water stretches it out and lets your mind wander to places it shouldn’t.

“Fishy, status check,” Leo’s voice cuts in, sharper than usual.

I blink. Crap, I hadn’t said anything in . . . how long? A minute? Two? It’s easy to lose track when the only sound is your own breathing.

“Still with me?” He asks again, the edge of concern slipping in.

“Yeah, sorry. Zoned out. Structure’s stable, no movement. Unless you count a couple of moody-looking rockfish.” I ramble, panning my flashlight across the debris field as if to prove I’m paying attention again. “Real party down here. Visibility is still crap, maybe fifteen feet.”

“Alright. Stay sharp. The signal’s clean for now but we’re on the edge of the strait’s dead zone—radar’s patchy.”

“Awesome,” I mutter, and drift lower, flashlight sweeping like a searchlight through the murk into the shadows. “Love that for me.”

The silence presses in, not oppressive yet, but I know how fast that can change. I glide lower, weaving through rusted beams as my fingers tighten around the light.

Just me, the wreckage, and the overwhelming sense that something is watching. No sound, no movement, just that crawling awareness threading down my spine like a whisper I can’t quite hear.

This feeling is obviously just my overactive imagination and not, say, the start of a horror movie. Definitely not the perfect setup for being snatched by some deep-sea cryptic with a grudge against divers. Nope. Totally fine.

I shake it off with a slow breath and keep going, pushing past the feeling like I’m being followed by a particularly judgmental fish.

After a while, I settle into the rhythm of the dive—documenting marine life winding through twisted metal and seaweed-choked corners, brushing against corroded railings and clinging to the bridge supports to steady myself.

Tiny fish in every color of the rainbow dart around me, curious and unafraid, their scales catching the filtered sunlight like scattered jewels.

An octopus slides across a rusted girder, pausing to peer at me with intelligent eyes before vanishing into a crevice.

Every corner seems alive, as if the wreckage itself is breathing beneath the water.

I drift farther from the main debris field, letting my eyes trace the contours of the structure, scanning for details that could have gone unnoticed earlier in my dive.

That’s when something catches my attention, too uniform to be natural.

Four rusted beams, one at each corner, forming a perfect square, almost like the frame of a room.

Years of growing seaweed and shifting silt partially obscure the edges, but I can’t mistake the deliberate angles beneath the growth.

My pulse quickens; this wasn’t just another patch of reef.

It’s not much, just a forgotten shape buried in the deep, but it’s also not something you’d notice unless you were down here, eye-level with the secrets the ocean keeps.

I edge closer, camera steady, curiosity tugging harder than caution.

“Leo,” I whisper, “you seeing this?”

A pause.

His voice crackles through my earpiece. “Yeah . . . maybe it should stay untouched.”

I grin. “Are you scared of what we’ll find?”

“Not scared. Maybe you’ll finally find your future husband down there. God knows you need it. When was the last time you got laid?” he inquires, laughing so loud it vibrates painfully in my eardrum.

“Oh fuck off Leo! God forbid a girl prefers a decent man over garbage sex.” I fire back. “I’m swimming closer. Let me know if anything shows up before I do.”

His sincerity is genuine, but I can’t ignore the warmth that settles in my chest at having him as a friend. Life feels a little easier with Leo around, even if his terrible jokes occasionally make me want to roll my eyes into next week.