You’ve disappeared, the last people could see of you were your 35 inch fins.

For a few seconds you’re still there, in the fine line where oxygen no longer exists, where the air becomes water. Your weight belt helping you descent head first into darker and darker shades of blue.

The noise goes first.

There is no more foam forming as waves crash in the distance, the piercing sound of the wind is also gone. The only noise you can hear now are your own thoughts.

The light changes too. The bright, sun-kissed surface slowly gets further away as it’s rays get dimmer. Everything becomes duller and somehow twice as beautiful.

And then you’ve reached the place where there is nothing to do, nothing except look.

You’ve been ripped away from the outside world. Whatever is happening on the surface doesn’t concern you, that belongs to someone else.

Now you’re several metres deep with no tank strapped to your back, the tube attached to your goggles is now full of water, useless. There isn’t a gauge reminding you of how much time you’ve got left. There’s no supply of compressed air for you whenever you need it.

There’s just you and your lungs.

Everything you see, feel and experience, every single second you spend there has to fit inside that last long breath you took.

On land, breathing is something you never think about. You do it thousands of times a day without noticing, like right now. Underwater, it’s the most important thing in the world.

Every movement matters. Every kick costs something. Every unnecessary movement is energy you didn’t need to spend, wasted.

So eventually you learn to slow down. You stop fighting the water and you start moving with it.

You would think the lack of air would make you obsess over the fact that you’re not breathing. At first, maybe it does. And then it doesn’t.

You become distracted by everything else.

The rocks. The hues. The seabed. The shells and pebbles. The corals and seaweed. The currents and how they make the water move. The crabs, octopus, squid, eels, starfish, sea horses.

Or by your first time seeing a stingray. A shadow emerging from the ocean floor, it’s wide wings swaying in slow motion as it glides on the seabed, in complete silence. All you hear is your muffled, excited, long ‘wooooooooow’. It’s majestic. Ten kilos of pure amazement. It’s body the size of a big supermarket cart.

For about two and a half minutes, you forget that you’re holding your breath.

You forgot you were supposed to surface for air.

You just stare.

And after a few more moments like these you think, I’ve got no idea what the time is.

Outside, time is everywhere. It’s on your phone when you wake. It’s on the clock on your wall when you realise you’re running late. It’s the reason you leave the house at eight and not eight-thirty. It lets you know how long you’ve been working, when lunch is coming, and when you should probably go to bed.

It controls you.

Underwater, none of that exists. There’s no clock on the seabed. No notifications. No meetings to get back for. At times you even forget whether it’s Tuesday or Saturday.

Two minutes down below can feel like ten.

Just as ten can feel like two.

There is no correlation between the time that has passed and the time it feels like has passed.

Especially when diving in Galicia, where the conditions aren’t as all the influencers post on their feeds. The Atlantic isn’t warm, it’s cold, freezing cold. Even with your gear you feel it seep in slowly, until you eventually adjust. The parts of your face that are exposed - the lips, eyes, cheeks, they become numb. The visibility can vanish to the point you can barely make out your own hand right infront of you. The sea can be rough enough to be smacking you around. Sometimes it even looks like it doesn’t want you in it.

But that’s what makes it special. It’s not perfect. Nothing is

Above you there’s waves metres tall, down beneath you can find yourself in complete stillness.

The coast itself begins to look different underwater. Rocks you’ve walked on at the shore have been swallowed by the tide, now they’ve got another side to them. Places you barely see from the outside are now entire landscapes.

And occasionally, something moves.

A fish disappears behind some seaweed.

A small crab scatters away.

An octopus changes colour, leaving a trail of ink as it darts away.

For a moment you’re barely visiting the ocean and you’re more inside it.

And then you realise it’s time. Your lungs are worn. Your legs ache. Your face feels puffy and sore. You turn towards the surface for the last time.

It’s the saddest part, knowing you have to return.

The light gets brigther again.

The further you rise, the more familiar everything becomes.

You can now see the waves on the surface, it isn’t just a sheet of light anymore.

And everything suddenly swarms back. Boat horns, the wind, people chatting. The realisation that you have work the next day.

It feels loud.

Then you look at the time.

What felt like barely an hour, in reality have been three.

That’s the best thing about diving.

The clocks have kept going and the seconds have passed.

The world has kept moving above you. You just aren’t a part of it.

And for that little while, you forget time exists.