By Tim Murray
As I dip my head under, the world turns blue. The bright sunlight, filtered by the tinted window of water, gives this new landscape an eerie atmosphere but that's not what scares me most.
I dive down further, evacuating my lungs as I go. I turn around to see the bubbles rise like clear balloons and burst on the surface. Pop. A shoal of minuscule fish dart past my eye line and disappear into the blue. I try to follow them but my shank-like limbs aren't adapted for this environment.
Looking down, I wonder what could be below me. A sunken ship. A cruiser maybe or a yacht that capsized and fell to the depths below. It's hull cracked and creaking under the pressure of gallons of water. It's radio still broadcasting mayday signals like a lost child in a silent crowd, echoing off nothing. Or maybe there's a whale, one of the big ones, just metres underneath me where the eerie blue turns black unknown. Maybe it's rising like a huge blubber bubble and I'll be unable to get out of its way. Helpless. This thought sends shivers through me.
I hear it's call. A low, deep bellow that comes from the basement of the ocean and moves every molecule around me, like they are dancing. I suck harder on my oxygen mask to calm myself and more bubbles float to the top. To escape.
I wish I was going that way instead of hanging here, like a motionless puppet whose strings are attached to nothing. I feel vulnerable from every side and angle. All directions pose an unimaginable threat. My heart is pounding in my chest like a tribal drum. I need to stop myself concocting these images so I start humming a tune, its bright and cheery. It makes me think of the surface and my life there.
I start heading up, following my bubbles. I am a bubble. I feel light and jubilant. I break the surface and almost carry on going up. I feel the sun on my face and take my first breath of freedom. I have escaped.
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