# The Depths of Solitude

*A First-Person Account by Miles "Tails" Prower*

## Chapter 3: When My World Went Silent





I glanced at my dive watch and froze. Thirty-five minutes!?



*That can't be right!* Worry crept in. I tapped the gauge face, but the needle wouldn't budge.



At sixty feet for thirty-five minutes, I should have burned through at least two-thirds of my tank by now. But the gauge still read three-quarters full—the same reading it had shown fifteen minutes ago.



As I realized what was happening, my breathing grew shallower and my eyes widened behind the mask. The gauge wasn't just stuck, it was frozen, completely useless. A cold weight settled in my chest as the truth hit me. I had no idea how much air I actually had left. It could be plenty, or it could be nearly empty.



*I must end the dive, right now!* I immediately started my ascent. *This is the kind of equipment failure that kills people, and I'm not going to be the next one.*



As I ascended from sixty feet, I kept my eyes fixed on the depth gauge. The needle moved as it should, and that brought a flicker of relief. At least this one wasn't broken. Each kick upward felt longer than it should, but I forced my strokes to stay slow and steady, telling myself it was control, not panic.



When I reached thirty-three feet, I leveled off and held position. Technically, a single dive to sixty feet didn't require a decompression stop here, but I wasn't taking any chances with decompression sickness. One minute would be enough. Just to be safe.



I could hear my heart beating loudly in my ears. My breath was coming too fast, too shallow.



*Take it easy. Calm down.* I forced myself to stay still. I closed my eyes, hugged myself, and focused on each breath. *Take it easy. One breath at a time. You still have air. You're not stuck. Just relax.*



When I opened my eyes again, my breathing had steadied slightly. That's when I caught a glimpse of movement in the distance—that same dark figure from earlier, now at a shallower depth, maybe forty feet down. The diver seemed to be working near what looked like an underwater structure.



The figure seemed to notice my ascent and looked in my direction for a long moment, as if assessing whether I was okay, but then returned to whatever work they were doing. Too far away to signal for help, even if I wanted to.



*Focus, Tails. Deal with your own emergency first.*



I continued my ascent, trying to stay calm and maintain a safe rate despite my growing anxiety. The regulator still delivered air normally. Maybe I still had enough. Maybe the gauge had failed high, and I actually had more air than I feared.



At fifteen feet, I stopped for my last safety stop. This was the protocol drilled into every diver—three to five minutes at fifteen feet to allow nitrogen to off-gas and prevent decompression sickness.



But as I hovered there, watching my timer count down the minutes, I started to feel a subtle change in my breathing. Each breath required just a little more effort than before.

*Oh no.*



The air was starting to run low. I felt a little resistance with each breath, which meant I was pulling from the reserve. My gauge was still lying to me, still showing air that might not be there.



I looked up at the surface, which was only fifteen feet above. So close that I could see the shadow of my boat on the bright sky. Just a few kicks and I'd be free, breathing air again. But my timer still said I had three minutes left. Three minutes that felt like forever. If you skip it, you could get decompression sickness. Staying meant gambling on air I didn't know I had.



The breathing got harder. Not critical yet, but definitely noticeable. My heart rate started to climb as I faced the terrible dilemma.

I remembered what I'd read about diving. The risk of decompression sickness from skipping a safety stop after a thirty-five-minute dive to sixty feet was relatively low. This last stop was recommended, not mandatory. I even knew how to do the math, but my brain wouldn't slow down. My thoughts were racing, slipping away from me faster than I could catch them.



*Come on, Tails, think... please think,* I begged myself. I knew the bends were bad, but drowning was worse. But if I got bent here, the nearest hospital with a hyperbaric chamber was too far away. Performing in-water recompression alone was just as dangerous. *Which one should I choose?*



My chest ached, my breaths came in shallow, shaking gasps, and my eyes stung with the threat of tears. All I could think about was how badly I needed air.



Another breath. Harder now. Definitely harder.



I looked at my safety stop timer: two minutes remaining.



The air was getting thinner with each breath. My body was starting to work for each lungful, and panic was beginning to creep in at the edges of my vision.



*C'mon, Tails, make a decision! Now!*



I decided to finish the safety stop. *Just two more minutes,* I told myself. *The air will last two more minutes. It has to.*

But thirty seconds later, I was struggling. Really struggling now, having to suck hard on the regulator to get anything at all. The gauge still lying to me, showing air that simply wasn't there anymore.



*No, no, no, not now!* I realized with growing terror. *I'm not going to make it.*



The timer showed one minute left. Now, each breath was a battle. My lungs weren't getting satisfied, and real panic was starting to take hold.



Forty-five seconds left. The regulator was giving me air, but each breath felt shallower, unsatisfying. Like trying to breathe through a straw that was slowly collapsing.



Thirty seconds. My chest was working hard now, expanding fully just to draw in enough to function. The panic wasn't just on the edges anymore. It was right there in my chest, competing with my lungs for space.



*Surface! Now!* my instincts screamed. I wanted to go up, but my mind raced with rules and warnings—safety stops, decompression sickness, doing everything right. I couldn't think straight. Drowning or DCS. *Oh no, no, no. What should I do?* I froze for a heartbeat too long.

That hesitation cost me everything.



*Fsssss... click.*



The regulator cut off mid-breath. Half a lungful. Not enough. I tried again—nothing. Just the hollow click of an empty tank.

The tank was completely dry, and I was still fifteen feet underwater.



The incomplete breath in my lungs felt pathetically inadequate for the remaining distance. Fifteen feet—normally nothing, but with no air left and my lungs already burning, it felt impossible.



*You can make it,* I told myself desperately. *Just fifteen feet. Hold your breath and swim.*



But my body was already in full panic mode. My heart hammered, chewing through what little oxygen I had left in my lung. The primal terror of suffocation clawed at my mind, shredding my focus.



I kicked hard toward the surface, but the water was thick and sticky, like syrup. Ten feet more. The sunlight was so close, so bright above me. My lungs were screaming, my chest cramping with the desperate need for air.



Then I noticed the weight of my gear pulling me back down—weight belt and hoses dragging like anchors. 



*Drop it! Drop it!*



My mind screamed. I clawed at the buckles, trying to release my weights, my tank, anything. My fingers were clumsy with terror. Nothing would come free. I kept kicking, fighting the pull, and keeping my eyes on the light above as everything inside me screamed for air.



At five feet from the surface, I couldn't hold it anymore. My body betrayed me. I grabbed the regulator with both hands, pressing it to my mouth, groaning and sucking desperately—trying to pull every last molecule of air while keeping seawater out. My chest felt like it was on fire, and the tank straps pulled me down, fighting every stroke.



I tried to cough without letting go, tried to keep drawing whatever air remained, but my arms and legs dissolved into useless flailing. I could see the ripples and sunlight on the surface, but my brain was shutting down things that weren't important because it didn't have enough oxygen.



*So close...* I kept reaching for the bright ceiling above. *Just... a few more... feet...*



And then it happened. My body gave up. The regulator slipped from my mouth, and seawater rushed in. I felt it filling my lungs—burning, choking. My arms and legs jerked in chaotic spasms before going limp completely. Darkness swallowed me as my movements slowed, my vision tunneling to a tiny pinprick of light above.



The last thing I remembered, before everything went black, was the bitter irony of it all. I had come here seeking independence, trying to prove I didn't need anyone's help.



Now, as consciousness fled and my body began its inexorable sink back toward the bottom, I realized that sometimes needing help wasn't a weakness.



Sometimes, it was just being alive.

