Briefly Panicked

‘This isn’t what I signed up for,’ I muttered to no one in particular, gripping the dive slate like it was a holy relic that might ward off humiliation. The plastic felt cold and slick, my palms clammy against it.

Technically, I had signed up for it—working as an assistant to a dive instructor meant helping with briefings, but not giving them. Not solo. Not to twenty-five wide-eyed beginners who were already seconds away from vomiting with nerves and boat-induced nausea.

The morning had started smoothly: calm seas, clear skies, gear stowed, tanks filled and a dozen GoPros already recording shaky introductions. Someone’s banana-scented sun cream clashed aggressively with the salty air. The group was a mix of honeymooners, solo adventurers, and that one family with matching wetsuits who’d already asked if we’d “see sharks.” (No, and if we do, stay calm, they’re not interested in you unless you’re behaving like a wounded seal or dangling a sandwich.)

I was setting up the weight belts when Mitch— our lead instructor and walking embodiment of zen— lurched toward me as if he’d just emerged from a tumble dryer.

‘Can’t do it,’ he croaked. ‘Stomach’s a war zone.

He reeked of ginger chews and desperation. ‘You’ll have to do the briefing.’

‘What?’ I squeaked. ‘No. I–Mitch, I can’t. I’m not—’

‘You’ve seen me do it a hundred times,’ he said, as if he was asking me to water a house plant, not babysit twenty-five people through their first experience breathing underwater.

‘Just stick to the basics: Safety, hand signals, don’t let them lick the coral.’

Then he vanished into the cabin like a hungover ghost. And just like that, the clipboard of doom was mine.

Now here I was. Alone. Standing at the front of the boat, those expectant beginner faces stared up at me. Waiting for wisdom. Reassurance. Literally anything other than my knees knocking. My heart galloped. My armpits betrayed me. I wiped my hands on my board shorts and cleared my throat.

And then—nothing. My old, unwanted companion arrived on cue: Stage Fright. It dragged me straight back to university...

****

It was my final presentation at university—a group project. I had practised my section about coral bleaching until I could recite it backwards, made colour-coded cue cards, even wore a top designed not to show sweat— or so I thought. But the moment I stepped to the front of the lecture hall and saw forty pairs of eyes on me, my brain yanked the emergency brake.

I mumbled something about “reef stuff,” dropped my cards, and panicked into a metaphor comparing algae to bad housemates. It ended with a coughing fit, and one person asked if I needed medical assistance.

My shirt stuck damply to my back for the next thirty minutes.

****

‘Hi!’ I said too brightly, jolting back to the boat deck. ‘Welcome to your beginner dive briefing. I’m–uh–Charlie, and today we’re going to learn not to drown.’

A few awkward chuckles. One person clutched their snorkel in alarm.

‘Sorry, bad joke,’ I added quickly. ‘Let’s talk about hand signals. This,’ I said, making the standard diver’s “OK” sign with thumb and forefinger, “means…okay. Not to be confused with a thumbs-up, which means–uh–end dive immediately. Emergency stuff.’

Of course, as I said that, I instinctively gave a thumbs-up. Half the group looked alarmed. I scrambled to correct it, waving my hands around like a distressed jellyfish.

‘Nope. That was wrong. Forget that. The circle is your friend, not the thumb.’

Someone snorted. And then—bless her—a woman in the front grinned. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘I'm still trying to figure out how to zip this wetsuit.’

I felt my face flush so red I could’ve been mistaken for an especially panicked lobster.

Laughter spread. My death grip on the clipboard loosened slightly.

I pressed on. ‘Let’s cover masks. If water gets in your mask, you’ll need to clear it like this–’

I lifted my mask to demonstrate and, with perfect comic timing, dropped it over the side of the boat.

We watched silently as it spun in the sun, caught the light like a silver coin, then plopped elegantly into the sea.

A single beat passed. The group stared at me, stunned. Another hot flush surged up my neck. Somewhere in the back, someone gasped.

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Live demonstration of what not to do. Rule one: Cling to your mask like it’s the last cookie on the snack table.’

A ripple of laughter swelled, genuine now. I was still dying inside, but I wasn’t dying alone.

‘Okay, moving on–buoyancy. Think of your BCD like a pufferfish—a very obedient one. Inflate when you’re on the surface, deflate when you want to go down, and don’t poke anything weird on the bottom, no matter how much it looks like a souvenir.’

By some miracle, I found my rhythm. The words flowed–clumsy but honest. I talked about equalising pressure (‘If your ears feel weird, don’t power through it.’), underwater etiquette, and staying with your buddy like it was the slow dance at prom.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t Mitch’s smooth, charming style. But it was real. And the more I talked, the more people started nodding, relaxing, and even smiling.

****

Underwater, I remembered why I loved this: the instant hush, the cool brush of pressure on my skin, the weightlessness, the company of fish who didn’t care if I mangled a metaphor topside or called a lionfish “that spikey grump.”

The sea wrapped around us, cool and clean, muffling everything but the whoosh of bubbles. Salt stung my lips, tangy and electric.

The group did great. They held hands nervously at first, but within minutes they were pointing excitedly at parrotfish and tiny blue damsels. A man in bright red fins gave me a thumbs-up (the correct kind). A woman in a sparkly rash guard performed a little twirl.

We resurfaced after twenty-five minutes. The wind hit like a slap, but everyone was grinning. I got high-fives, a fist bump, and someone said, ‘Thanks for making it feel chill.’

****

Back on dry land, I found a shady corner behind the dive shop and slumped onto a crate of wetsuits. My t-shirt clung damply to my back, just like that awful day at university. But the sweat was earned this time—and not soaked in dread.

Mitch appeared ten minutes later, sipping a rehydration drink like his life depended on it.

‘Heard it went well,’ he said.

‘They laughed at me, and then with me. I dropped my mask, mimed a distressed jellyfish, and nearly said “don’t die” twice.’

He grinned. ‘So a solid start.’

I nodded. My legs were still shaky, but not from fear–just leftover adrenaline. Something had shifted. I’d stood in front of twenty-five people, choked, messed up, and made it out the other side. And no one had booed or thrown a fin.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. A message from one of the divers:

Thanks for making my first dive less scary.

I read it twice. Then again. Then I added “public speaking” to my mental list of fears that weren’t, in fact, fatal.

****

The next morning, Mitch looked suspiciously spry. ‘Recovered miraculously,’ he said. And handed me the clipboard.

‘Your turn again,’ he grinned.

I rolled my eyes. My palms were still a little sweaty, but I didn’t flinch.

As the new group gathered, I took a deep breath, let the warm sea air fill my lungs, and stepped forward.

‘Okay, folks,’ I said, smiling. ‘Let’s talk about not dying,’ —and this time, everyone laughed with me from the start.

And somehow that was enough.