Finding My Breath in a World of Blue: Learning to Scuba Dive in Zakynthos
I came to Zakynthos hoping to swim with turtles. Instead, I learned to breathe.
“One had to take some action against fear when once it laid hold of one.”
I’ve always felt drawn to nature—happiest when surrounded by it. As a child, my favourite days were spent at the local nature centre or outside in what I proudly called “my garden.” The scents of my childhood summers were sweet pea, freshly cut grass, and chives pulled straight from the soil. Riding my bike was my joy. I’d even strap on roller skates just to circle the block, grinning the whole time.
As children, we’re constantly immersed in newness. Discovery is almost a daily rhythm. That steady stream of unfamiliar experiences might be what fuels a child’s boundless joy—their innate zest for life.
But as we slowly drift into adulthood, life becomes familiar. Novelty fades. Hobbies give way to habits. Swimming lessons turn into the same gym routine. Adventures become errands.
And yet, learning—true, embodied learning—remains one of the most powerful tools we have. Research backs this up: it reduces stress, strengthens neural connections, boosts dopamine, and reintroduces flow. In a world that equates adulthood with routine, choosing to keep learning might be the most radical act of all.
So when the opportunity came up to partner with PADI, the world’s most recognized scuba diving training organization, I said yes without hesitation.
Scuba diving had never been on my bucket list. It was one of Maria’s lifelong dreams, and something I’d only ever heard about through my dad’s stories. I’ve always loved water, but had never felt the urge to go deeper than a swim or snorkel. Still—when 75% of the planet is ocean, it seemed foolish not to explore.
We traveled to Zakynthos, a lush Ionian island off the west coast of mainland Greece, to learn how to scuba dive. The mission was simple: swim with the island’s famous, and increasingly rare, Caretta caretta turtles, and help raise awareness about their fragile habitat.
But what began as a quest to witness sea turtles became something else entirely. It turned inward, quieter, more personal. A journey into unfamiliar terrain, both beneath the surface and within my own mind.
Like the first day of school
The morning of our first scuba lesson, I felt the nerves start to build. It was almost like the first day of school as a child all over again. My heart rate picked up as we walked to the dive shop. Until then, I’d felt surprisingly calm—though the dense eLearning we’d completed beforehand had left me slightly apprehensive. There was just so much to remember.
After a quick refresher on gear, breathing, and safety, it was time to put our wetsuits on and head into the pool for the first segment of our in water training. At this point, my nerves began to ease a bit, “how difficult could this be?” I thought. “Twelve-year-olds take this same course”.
It was time to jump in using the giant stride technique we’d been shown, a big step into the water, and the first into a different world entirely. A new lens, a new way of moving, breathing, and being.
I decided to go first, to throw myself in at the deep end. Standing at the edge of the pool, decked out in my scuba kit for the first time, I felt a wave of anxiety come over me, my logical mind telling me that it’s shallow enough that I could stand, but my primitive brain was forcing into override.
I jumped.
Before fear could take over, I took a step into the water, with about 60 lbs of gear on me, plummeting into the training pool. I floated up immediately, weightless, in surreal contrast to how heavy the gear had felt moments earlier.
I was OK, I felt proud for doing the first jump. Now it was time to begin the exercises in the pool that we had reviewed before entering the water. The PADI Open Water Diver course consists of around 40 “essential skills” that must be successfully demonstrated in order to become a certified open water diver. These range from simply putting your equipment together and entering the water, to emergency skills, buoyancy checks, and what would soon reveal itself as my Achilles’ heel: mask removal skills.
Now was the moment to descend into the pool and breathe underwater for the first time.
As I fully submerged and took my first breaths through the regulator, it felt completely unnatural. The visibility in the pool was murky from a recent cleaning, and my own breath sounded thunderous, each inhale sharp and loud, bubbles streaming steadily from the regulator. The weightlessness should have been calming, but instead, a wave of disorientation swept over me. My body tensed. My instincts took over. I broke the surface, needing air I could trust.
My Achilles’ heel
After finding the necessary calm and stillness to stay underwater and feel slightly more comfortable in this unfamiliar environment, we began the skills. Some were surprisingly manageable—buoyancy didn’t feel too out of reach, and even the exercise where we simulated an empty air tank didn’t faze me.
But when it came to the most crucial, and arguably the most uncomfortable, the mask skills, everything shifted. Anytime we were underwater, even the tiniest bit of water seeping into my mask would send me into a panic. I’d bolt to the surface, my primitive instincts took over. And the more my body responded with anxiety, the harder it became to stay calm.
After a few attempts, I managed to complete the first mask skill—flooding and clearing the mask. But when it came to removing the mask and swimming, things unravelled. Technically, I did it. But I felt completely disoriented, uncomfortable, and ended up drifting into the corner of the pool instead of the far side where I was supposed to go.
After that first day, I felt discouraged. I remember thinking, “How do so many people pass this certification when I’m struggling in a pool?” Maybe, I thought, scuba diving isn’t for me. Maybe I’m just better off snorkelling.
Day two began bright and early again. The combination of the hot Greek July sun and the nerves I’d carried over from the day before left my confidence slightly depleted. Everything felt heavier—my thoughts, my breath, even my body.
I’d misunderstood and thought we’d be spending another day in the pool or just off the shore, so when our instructor told us we’d be heading straight to the boat, my heart sank. I’d shown up, ready to keep going—but at that moment, I seriously considered backing out and sticking to a snorkel.
But after some calm reassurance from the staff and our experienced instructor, I said yes. I wasn’t fully ready, but I went anyway.
We’re the invaders
Walking down the steps with my full scuba kit on, I felt both nervous and proud—I was really doing this. I walked into the warm water of Laganas Bay and climbed into the boat, feeling incredibly top-heavy from my gear, ready to set it down and enjoy the ride to our final destination, Marathonisi Island, or most commonly known to visitors as “Turtle Island’.
We passed countless turtle-spotting boats drifting in tight circles, each chasing a glimpse of the elusive Caretta caretta. Later, we learned many operators offer refunds if no turtle is seen. There’s something unsettling about that, turning a fragile, ancient creature’s home into a guarantee for human entertainment.
As we jetted toward Marathonisi, the certified divers onboard looked out in awe, undeniably elated to experience the world from below. I, on the other hand, felt my nerves rise as we approached our descent point. But the beauty of the place tugged at something deeper. The crystal-clear, sparkling turquoise water pulled my gaze and softened my fear. It was impossible not to be moved.
We had our pre-dive brief as a group, and the rest of the divers were off. After going over what we’ll be doing and the first exercises in the water with our instructor, I once again voiced my fears and nerves and felt reassured.
This time we entered the water during the back roll entry, which unnerved me, not being able to see as I went into the open water in my gear for the first time. Maria went first, and then it was my time. I sat on the edge of the boat, as our instructor held me up by my tank, and I felt my heart beating faster and faster, my blood pumping harder and harder throughout my entire body.
One hand behind my head, another on my regulator and mask, and I was off, backwards into the water. Ironically, the moment I was released from the boat, I felt relief, and the gentle roll back to the surface felt peaceful. I was floating in the water, being held above the surface by my BCD, cradling me in the water.
There was nothing left to do now but begin our descent into the open expanse of the Ionian Sea. We slowly descended, and the panic set in, water began to leak into my mask, and the claustrophobia took hold of me, so I bolted to the surface. I was convinced that my mask was completely full of water, setting off panic, but they told me there wasn’t any water in my mask.
This was the moment I really realised how much scuba diving was more mental than anything, beyond technique and physicality. I knew I could do this, and I felt more determined than ever. We descended back under, and although I was nervous with such a new environment, I was breathing easier and more naturally through the regulator. Fear had begun to loosen its grip on me.
I finally made it to the bottom, and while Maria did exercises with our instructor, I felt alone, and it felt transcendent, breathing at the bottom of the sea although shallow, watching the fish swim by, completely unaware of the above world. I felt more peace than fear. As I began to calm, I started to see the sea not as a challenge, but a completely new world that I was invited to assimilate with.
“We’re the invaders here”, my instructor said. This world isn’t built for us—we’re the ones who need to adapt.
Just a few days earlier, I could barely stay underwater in the pool for more than a few minutes, with my natural instinct in overdrive, trying to convince me that I’m not safe, that the water isn’t for humans. But now, hearing those words, something clicked. It wasn’t about fighting the fear. It was about learning how to exist in a world that wasn’t made for humans.
Learning to breathe again
Fear doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it arrives as a pause in your breath, a whisper of doubt, a tightening you barely notice.
My inner struggle with diving seemed to stem from the loss of control in a new environment, an environment that felt foreign, unpredictable, and so vast that I couldn’t even begin to wrap my mind around it.
For some reason, I expected complete silence underwater and was looking forward to that kind of peace. But sound travels, and the sound of my breath felt like I was connected to a life support system suspended in the middle of the open sea.
Scuba diving forces you into the present moment. You can’t fake it. Everything depends on your ability to stay calm and aware—your breath controls your buoyancy, your energy, your connection to the world around you. Every inhale and exhale is part of your survival, but also part of your experience. If your breath is rushed, you miss the world you came to see.
In everyday life, it’s hard to see how our breath and mental state are connected. But underwater, with a scuba kit strapped to your back, the link couldn’t be more obvious. My air tank ran out faster than others, not because I was swimming harder, but because I was thinking harder and breathing harder.
Mindful, calm breath begets presence, and that was the sea’s biggest lesson. The more I tried to control my breath, the more I got stuck in my head, losing both calm and control. Only when I let go and surrendered to the moment, the sea, and the experience was I truly able to find presence again, and learn to breathe again, in a new way.
I’ve always been someone who experiences anxiety, but never in such a tangible way as I did with diving—and I’m grateful for that. It showed me something I hadn’t fully seen before: that my anxiety often stems from control. From needing to feel prepared, composed, certain. And underneath that need for control is a resistance to surrender.
I’m thankful to diving for revealing the ways I need to find a deeper calm and presence, and for allowing me to experience things more fully. Life is the unknown, and learning to exist within that uncertainty is where the beauty lives. Diving was a mirror for that.
It’s fair to say that one of the most primitive human fears is the unknown. As children, we’re afraid of the dark, of being alone at night, of not knowing what’s just beyond our field of view. But when we grow up, we start to realise that what’s beyond is often exactly what we expect—and sometimes, it’s even more beautiful than we could’ve imagined.
Can you cry underwater?
The day of our final dive, I woke up feeling confident. Excitement had started to take root, slowly pushing the anxiety aside. I still had nerves, of course, but excitement was stronger—and that, to me, was success. In just three days, I had gone from feeling dread to looking forward to what was ahead.
Even setting up my gear was starting to feel more natural. My memory was beginning to settle into my muscles, and determination was taking root in my bones.
The routine was sinking in—gear off, boat ride, breath steadying. As I sat on the boat, which moved faster than it had the previous days, I realised I was finally feeling what I had envied in the other divers: anticipation, not fear. I was transforming.
On our way to the final destination, Zakynthos was in all its glory. The steep, craggy limestone cliffs rose beside us, towering and immovable. The boats beneath them looked tiny in contrast, and the scale of it all reminded me just how small we really are in the grand picture. We’re like those boats—coming and going, goodbyes and hellos, bobbing on the surface, subject to the rhythm of the waves of life.
We arrived at our destination, aptly named the “Arc de Triomphe”, one of the most popular diving spots in Zakynthos, known for its natural arch, diverse marine life, coral, limestone reefs, caves, and more.
I felt steadiness and drive, with curiosity fuelling my backward roll into the water. This time, it wasn’t nerves pushing me—it was something else. Before I knew it, I was back in the sea, and hitting the water felt like a baptism, a quiet reset.
It was time to descend. I had tools in my pockets, both literal and mental, after learning what triggered my fight-or-flight response and how to manage it. I’d realised that the shift from surface to depth unsettled me—the sensation of slowly sinking—so I tried something new: I closed my eyes until I was fully submerged, then opened them to a new world.
I knew what was coming—this was the dive where I’d face what I couldn’t finish before. But this time, I wasn’t gripped by fear. I was steady. The nerves were still there, but they weren’t in charge. I had learned how to meet them, not fight them.
As we began our descent and the familiar panic crept in, I paused. I breathed through it. I reminded my primitive brain that I was safe and redirected my thoughts. From anxiety to wonder. And at last, I felt at ease.
We moved through the remaining exercises and finally got a taste of our first “fun” dive—weightlessly suspended in the water, drifting effortlessly through the blue. This was the deepest we’d gone so far. And although I was still out of my comfort zone, curiosity pulled me forward. I saw the other divers moving ahead, and for a moment, I looked back at myself through their eyes and thought, “Wow, this is me too.”
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing: an underwater universe perfectly in tune with itself—something we could only envy and aspire to on land. At one point, our instructor kept trying to get my attention. I thought I was doing something wrong, so it took time for me to realise. But when I saw an octopus directly below me in the rocks, I was stunned.
We continued onward, saw smaller fish, even a lionfish hovered nearby, striped like a zebra, and the silent threat of its venomous fins sticking out.
At one point, I was positioned in a way that felt like I was alone underwater, when a school of sleek Amberjack fish passed in tight formation, dancing in the water and gliding as if they were one single organism. Overcome with wonder and beauty, I thought to myself, “can you cry underwater”. The sea wasn’t something to conquer or endure any more. It was something to witness. To surrender to. To be part of.
Once we reached a new position, it was time to finish the mask exercises. I was nervous, this time we were deeper underwater, but after a few deep, steady breaths (and coughing out a bit of saltwater), I managed to complete the first two. Then came the final task: the full mask removal and swim. The nemesis of so many new divers. My nemesis, too.
I tried. For about five minutes, I hovered in the water, searching for the courage to fully remove my mask, but something in me resisted. My body panicked before my mind could reason with it. It was the one skill I couldn’t complete. Not yet.
My air was low, and it was time to surface. I was disappointed. I had come so far in just a few days. Why couldn’t I push through this one last challenge? But I didn’t feel defeated. I felt proud. And as I broke through the surface, I let out a quiet cry—for myself, and for the water, for supporting me and teaching me tough love.
I resurfaced from the water a different person. On the ride back to the dive shop, the sun was gentler, the waters calmer. I realised this wasn’t about ticking every box, it was about learning to exist in a space that no longer terrified me, and this was something that will stay with me. About understanding my limits without judgment. And about finding something deeper than pride: peace.
That’s when I began to notice how much scuba diving mirrored life above the surface. The way your breath shapes your experience. The way fear shows up when control slips away. And how presence, real, embodied presence, requires surrender.
We’re all beginners in something. We always will be. There’s courage in trying, and continuing, and growth in showing up, no matter the outcome. We owe it to the child in us to always try, learn, and continue. Only then do we feel truly alive.
I still need to finish my certification, that one last skill, but now, i’m not afraid, i’m excited to dive back into the water and further discover the open blue.
After all, I came here hoping to swim with turtles. And while that didn’t happen this time, I understand now that the mission wasn’t just about spotting them, it was about protecting the world they live in. About learning to meet the sea on its own terms.
“The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.”
