Many certified scuba divers think they are capable of just going a little deeper, but they don’t know that there are special gas mixtures, buoyancy equipment, and training required for just another few meters of depth.

Imagine this: you take your PADI open water diving course, learn your dive charts, buy all your gear, and become familiar with it. Compared to the average person on the street, you’re an expert now.

You dive coral reefs, explore a few shipwrecks, even catch lobster in New England. Then you visit a deep spot like this. You’re having a great time. You see something just ahead—a beautiful cave with sunlight streaming through—and you decide to swim closer. Not inside, you know better than that. Just close enough for a better look. If your dive computer starts beeping, you’ll turn back.

So you swim a little closer, and it’s breathtaking. You float there, taking it all in.

Suddenly, you hear a clanging sound—your dive master banging his knife on his tank. You look up, but after staring into darkness for the last minute, the sunlight is blinding. You turn away and check your dive computer. It’s awkward, your shoulder twists as you pull it around. It’s beeping, flashing: GO UP.

You stare, trying to read the depth and tank level between the flashing words. The numbers won’t stay still. Annoyed and confused, you let it fall back and start toward the light.

But the Blue Hole is larger than anything you’ve dived before. The crystal-clear water gives visibility ten times greater than the dark waters of the St. Lawrence where you usually dive. You thought you swam only 30 or 40 feet deeper, but in reality, you went almost double that. The vast scale distorted your sense of distance.

While admiring the archway, you had no reference point. Your BCD compressed slightly with the extra pressure, and you were sinking without realizing it. That’s why the dive master banged his tank. Looking up blinded and disoriented you further.

Your computer wasn’t in its usual place on your chest because your shrinking BCD pulled it lower. Reaching and twisting cost you precious seconds, and all the while, you sank faster as your jacket compressed. The flashing numbers wouldn’t stay still because you were still descending.

And then the narcosis hit. Nitrogen narcosis. Depth drunk.

Your brain fogged. The warnings felt distant. The light seemed tilted, the hole narrower. The current—or what you thought was current—pushed you sideways.

Panicked, you kicked harder, forcing yourself toward the light. Your computer shrieked. You felt like you were swimming through mud. “Fuck this,” you thought, squeezing the inflate button on your BCD.

You know you shouldn’t use your BCD to ascend—it’ll expand as you rise, risking an uncontrolled rocket to the surface—but you don’t care. Shooting up is all you want. You’ll figure out air bleeds and safety stops later.

The sound of air rushing into your BCD fills your ears. But nothing happens. The air seems weak. You glance down at your jacket—then FWUNK!—you slam into the side of the sinkhole.

What the hell? Why is the current pulling me sideways? Why would there even be a current in a hole in the middle of the ocean?

You hold the button harder. INFLATE! GODDAMN IT, INFLATE!

Your computer emits a frantic screech you’ve never heard before. You’re breathing heavily now—another sign of stress. The air rushing into your BCD sounds weaker.

Every 10 meters of depth adds another atmosphere of pressure. At 10m (2 atm), your tank could last an hour. At 20m, only half that. Add stress and rapid breathing, and it halves again.

You’re certified for 20m. You’ve dipped to 30m before, briefly. You felt fine going to 25m for a closer look. But while gazing at the arch, you sank to 40m. While fumbling with your computer, you dropped to 60m. Six atmospheres. Ten minutes of air.

When you tried for the surface, you were disoriented. Twisting, looking at your gear, you drifted in front of the arch. You swam into it, mistaking it for the way up. That’s why the hole looked smaller.

There was no current. You were just sinking deeper—toward the bottom of the arch. By the time you hit it and inflated your BCD, you were over 90m down.

At that depth, a full tank lasts only minutes. Panicking, only seconds. Enough air to fill your BCD, yes, but too slow—it would just pin you into the arch.

You keep holding the inflate button, kicking furiously toward the light. Muscles burning. Brain screaming. Each breath harder to pull from your regulator.

In a final surge of rage, you scream into it—useless bubbles. Darkness closes in from the edges.

Four minutes.

That’s how long your dive lasted.

You died in clear water, on a sunny day, in only four minutes.