The day they recovered my body was overcast. They used a remotely operated vehicle, a padded stretcher, and a slow, almost reverent speed. Climbing from nearly 190 feet required three decompression stops. Even if all that was left of me was a body.
That's the rule of diving. Not even death can break it.
I hovered above the recovery boat, staring at the shape under the waterproof tarp. It was so small. A curled‑up infant.
Then I saw my mom. She stood at the very edge of the dock, wearing the dark blue sweater I had bought her last year. The wind blew her white hair into a mess, but she didn't bother to fix it. She just stood there, her back ramrod straight—straight as if it might snap.
I remember the year I turned sixteen, leaving home for diving school. Mom had grabbed my backpack stra
