How free diving and spending three minutes 60 metres underwater changed my life

Claire Walsh spent her 20s “playing hide and seek” with depression. Aged 32 she decided it was time to chart her own path. She booked a flight to South America – and discovered free diving. In an extract from her new book, she describes how it transformed her life

Sat, 04 Mar, 2023 - 02:00

Claire Walsh

Underwater you don’t hear anything. Putting my face in the water is like a sigh of relief for my mind. Internal chatter, judgements and criticism fade to a white noise and the rhythmic anchor of my breathing through the snorkel lulls me into the welcomed quietness. Dancing in front of my eyes, beams of light extend 30 metres below me, showcasing a spectrum of silvers, blues and greens. She’s in a playful mood today, the sea.

Winking at me, beckoning me, her flirtatiousness belies her strength. I smile back and she sends a wave to flood my snorkel. Purging my snorkel, I exhale forcefully. Okay, okay! I never was in any doubt who was boss.

I settle into my breathe up, the preparation, the cycle of breathing to bring the body and mind into a state of relaxation before a dive. This sound, the slight dragging of the air through the snorkel, amplified by my neoprene hood and the water, is one I dream about when lying in bed. When sleep evades me, I think of this moment, this soothing lullaby, and just as in the water, my eyelids grow heavier and my limbs soften. This is, after all, an extreme sport of relaxation. My dive today is 60 metres. This is my deepest dive. The line is lowered and set, the depth marked out by pieces of red electrical tape in a series of lines. At the bottom, above the weight, the bottom plate is waiting for me at the target depth with a little Velcro tag that I’ll tuck in my hood and bring back up as a souvenir, proof that I’ve reached my goal.

Floating on the surface of the water I lift the corners of my mouth to a gentle smile and visualise the dive ahead of me. Peeking through half-closed eyes, I catch sight of those winking, twinkling beams. You’ve got this, the sea whispers. Setting off with purpose, this is softer than concentration.

This is focus, this is trust, this is my mind stepping to the side and allowing my body to trigger the physiological responses that we humans share with dolphins, whales and seals. While three minutes underwater to 60 metres and 7 atmospheres of pressure sounds extreme, I have trained my dive reflex. I trust my body and make the adaptations to protect my ears from the increase in pressure, my lungs from the weight of the water around me, to conserve energy and use my precious oxygen efficiently. And when the levels of CO2 in my blood rise and I get that urge to breathe, I trust my mind to find ease beyond the discomfort to allow me to continue on my 60-metre odyssey.

Pulling myself down the rope, head first with my feet trailing behind me, I remind myself how lucky I am to be doing this. I close my eyes and settle into the pull, pull, pull rhythm. My jaw makes the smallest of adjustments as I equalise my ears against the pressure of this dense first 10 metres.

My environment begins to fade into the darker colours of the quieter underwater world; my movements, pace and reactions must be measured. Efficiency is key. Then something magical starts to happen.The space between each pull opens up: pull and glide, pull and glide. I’ve moved through the axis from being positively buoyant, through neutral and into the delicious sinking freefall of negative buoyancy.

"I allow the smallest, split second of celebration before turning and tucking the little piece of Velcro into my hood. Now for the way back up."

In that glide there’s a sense of breaking through, of release. The glides stretch further still and it makes me think that this is the closest I’ll get to flying. Peter Pan sort of flying. Second-star-to-the-right sort of flying, effortless soaring-through-the-clouds freedom. The caress of the water on my skin not covered by my wetsuit is all that reminds me that I’m not in the clouds, I’m underwater … but still flying. The increasing pressure all around – the weighted compression of my chest, the mask being pushed back into my face – lets me know I am sinking. I don’t need to open my eyes to the hazy dark-green surroundings to know that I’m getting deeper.

Careful not to make any big movements, I send one last reminder through my body to soften, relaxing my feet, releasing tension from my knees, my belly, my neck.

This is my favourite part of the dive: freefall. Light, sounds and the surface have faded. To be here, at this depth, is both incredibly empowering and completely humbling. Pulling my focus inwards, swaddled in this state between awake and asleep, I let go and savour the experience. Touchdown. I’m here already? Freefall had passed in a dreamy blur and I was at the bottom. My lanyard carabiner hits the stopper and I reach below to take a tag from the bottom plate. I’ve made it!

I allow the smallest, split second of celebration before turning and tucking the little piece of Velcro into my hood. Now for the way back up. I don’t think about racing to the surface or a need to breathe. Out of the corner of my eye I catch the yawning black hole in the coral to my right, locally known as the Arch. I nod, somewhat respectfully, and I settle into a steady, efficient pace that moves me out of the enveloping pressure of depth. The mantra you’ve got this, you’ve got this, you’ve got this helps create a rhythm to my pulls, but more importantly keeps my mind anchored and stops it straying down any unhelpful mental paths. Thoughts use oxygen too and, as I said, the name of the game is efficiency. I know there’s a risk involved.

To the uninitiated, freediving seems extreme at best and downright dangerous at worst. Often considered one of the most dangerous sports in the world, I’ve heard it being described as ‘basically scuba-diving but without the apparatus’. Looking at it that way, taking a deep breath and going down on just the air in your lungs, pulling down on a rope or swimming down as far as you can and then having to come all the way back up, it sounds utterly stressful and even panic-inducing. It doesn’t sound just dangerous but complete lunacy. There is a risk, but it’s a calculated risk. I know the rules; I am under the watchful eye of my coach, my safety diver. I’m attached to the line by my lanyard. I am doing all I can to keep myself safe.

In doing that, I can put the risk out of my mind and focus on the upside: the relaxation. A unique form of relaxation, freediving to me is a negotiation between body and mind, a quest for a state that requires confidence and concentration, as well as humility and softness. It pierces through surface layers and works with you on a level of intimacy that day-to-day living rarely affords. Striving to hit that balance is like juggling self-awareness, autonomy and trust. Right on cue, my safety diver appears in my field of vision. I ease into a pull and glide and allow my gaze to take in my surroundings.

I notice the changes in light, the colours of the coral along the walls in front of me and take a quick mental picture of how incredible this journey back up looks. Approaching the last 10 metres of the dive, also known as the low O2 zone, I gently repeat to myself what I’m going to do once I reach the surface. Breathe, remove mask, signal ‘okay’, say ‘I’m okay’. Ten metres to the surface is where most shallow-water blackouts occur. Here divers experience a sudden drop in partial pressure of oxygen in the lungs. With my coach watching my ascent, I feel safe and focus on my surface protocol. Breathe. Mask. Signal. ‘I’m okay.’

I break the surface and drape my arms over the buoy as I take some active recovery breaths. ‘Breathe, Claire,’ my coach reminds me softly, positioning himself so he can see my face and watch for signs of hypoxia. I know I’m fine – ‘perfectly clean’ – as we freedivers say. Catching my breath, I remove my mask, wipe the water off my face, signal towards him and say, ‘I’m okay.’