My name is Marina Brookwater, and I've always been drawn to the water like a magnet pulls iron. Maybe it's something in my deer nature—the way we're naturally graceful, always seeking clear streams and peaceful lakes. Or maybe it's just who I am. My friends at college think I'm crazy, spending every free moment watching scuba diving videos instead of going to parties, but they don't understand the pull I feel toward the underwater world.

The problem is, scuba gear costs more than my entire semester's textbook budget. I've been working part-time at the campus bookstore for two years, saving every penny, but quality equipment seems impossibly out of reach. So I do what any determined deer would do—I study. Hours upon hours of YouTube tutorials, diving forums, equipment reviews. I know the theory backwards and forwards, even if I've never breathed through a regulator.

That's why finding the old diving gear in my dorm room felt like discovering buried treasure.

I had just returned from my afternoon shift at the bookstore, exhausted from restocking textbooks all day. Living alone in a single dorm room had its perks—no roommate drama, no sharing space—but it also meant the small room felt especially empty when I was tired. I kicked off my shoes and was about to collapse on my bed when I noticed something that made me freeze.

The door to my closet was slightly ajar, and there was definitely something large inside that hadn't been there when I'd grabbed my jacket that morning. My heart started racing—had someone broken in? But nothing else looked disturbed.

Cautiously, I approached the closet and pulled the door open wider. There, squeezed behind my hanging clothes and pushed against the back wall, was a large dusty trunk I'd never seen before. It was old, made of beaten metal with tarnished brass corners and a heavy lock that hung open. 

How had I never noticed this before? But as I thought about it, I realized I rarely used the deep back corner of my closet. Most of my clothes hung on the front rod, and I kept my shoes and storage boxes on the floor where they were easy to reach. This trunk was pushed so far back that it would have been completely hidden behind my winter coats and formal dresses—things I'd hung up at the beginning of the semester and barely touched since.

It must have been left by the previous student who lived in this room. During the rush of move-in day, with all the chaos of unpacking and settling in, I'd probably just hung my clothes in front of it without even realizing it was there.

My heart raced as I carefully pulled the trunk out into the room. It was heavier than I expected, and something inside shifted and clinked as I maneuvered it onto the floor. The anticipation was killing me as I lifted the heavy lid.

Inside, wrapped in yellowed plastic and foam padding, was a complete vintage scuba setup—mask, fins, wetsuit, regulator, and two steel tanks. Everything looked old but well-preserved, like it had been carefully stored away years ago. The wetsuit was exactly my size, designed for someone with a slender build like mine.

I stared at the equipment in disbelief. This had to have been left by whoever lived in this room before me—maybe someone who'd graduated and forgotten about their gear, or perhaps they'd been in such a rush to move out that they'd overlooked this hidden trunk. Either way, it was here now, in my room, and it felt like the universe was finally giving me a sign.

My hands trembled as I carefully lifted each piece from the trunk, examining everything with the knowledge I'd accumulated from countless hours of research. The regulator looked functional, though it was an older model without the modern safety features I'd seen in videos. The mask was simple but well-made. The fins were perfect for my hooves. 

But it was the tanks that really caught my attention—the gauges showed they were still full of compressed air. Whoever had stored this gear had left it ready to use.

I knew I should probably report the find to the residence hall office, ask around to see if anyone was missing diving equipment. But as I held the vintage mask in my hands, feeling its weight and imagining how it would feel underwater, rational thought began to slip away. This was my chance—maybe my only chance for years to come—to actually experience what I'd been dreaming about.

Unable to resist, I decided to try everything on right there in my dorm room. I stripped down and carefully worked my way into the vintage wetsuit. It fit like it had been tailored specifically for my deer form, hugging my body perfectly without being too tight. The material was thicker than modern suits I'd seen online, but it felt substantial and protective.

Next came the mask. I pulled it over my face and adjusted the strap, checking the seal around my muzzle. It fit surprisingly well, creating what felt like a good seal. Through the glass, my reflection in my small mirror looked like a real diver—exactly how I'd always pictured myself.

I strapped on the fins, which accommodated my hooves perfectly, then carefully lifted one of the steel tanks. It was heavier than I'd expected, but manageable. I worked my arms through the simple harness—this vintage gear didn't have the buoyancy control devices that modern equipment featured, just the basic setup that divers had used decades ago.

Standing in front of my small dorm room mirror with the full rig on, I looked like the diver I'd always dreamed of becoming. The weight of the tank on my back, the feel of the fins on my hooves, the mask over my face—it all felt so right, so natural. I practiced breathing through the regulator, marveling at the sound of air flowing through the system.

For several minutes, I stood there in my small room, fully suited up, going through mental checklists and practicing the procedures I'd memorized from videos. The regulator functioned smoothly, delivering air with each breath. Everything seemed to work perfectly.

The tanks were full. The equipment was functional. Cedar Lake was just fifteen minutes away—I'd swum there countless times growing up. The water was clear, not too deep near the shore, safe and familiar. This was fate, wasn't it? The universe finally giving me my chance to experience what I'd dreamed about for so long.

As I carefully removed the gear and packed it back into the trunk, my mind was already racing ahead to tomorrow. I could take the equipment to Cedar Lake, finally experience my first real dive, and have it back before anyone knew it was missing. No one would get hurt, and I'd finally live my dream.

What could go wrong?

*[The story continues with Marina's dive at Cedar Lake...]*

Cedar Lake, just fifteen minutes from campus, would be perfect for my first real dive. I'd swum there countless times growing up. The water was clear, not too deep near the shore—maybe twenty feet at most where I planned to explore. Safe and familiar.

I spent the morning going through every piece of equipment again, cross-referencing everything with the knowledge I'd accumulated from videos. The regulator seemed to function properly when I tested it. The fins fit snugly over my hooves. The vintage wetsuit fit like it was made for me, hugging my deer form perfectly. Everything seemed right.

Standing at the water's edge, fully suited up with the steel tank heavy on my back and the weight belt around my waist, I felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness that made my heart race. The vintage gear didn't have a modern BCD—just the basic equipment divers used decades ago. This was it—my first real dive. I ran through my mental checklist one more time, then waded into the cool lake water.

The descent was magical. Everything I'd imagined and more. The underwater world of Cedar Lake opened up before me—schools of perch gliding between submerged logs, sunlight filtering down in golden columns, the peaceful silence broken only by the reassuring sound of my own breathing through the regulator. I felt graceful, natural, like I'd been born for this.

For the first few minutes, everything was perfect. I explored a fallen tree, watched a bass hover near the bottom, marveled at the way my hooves looked so different underwater. The gauge showed I still had plenty of air. This was even better than I'd dreamed.

In the distance, I noticed two figures moving gracefully through the water without any gear—freedivers. One looked like a beaver, diving down with impressive breath-holding ability, while her partner stayed closer to the surface. They seemed focused on their own activities and didn't appear to notice me exploring the lake bottom with my vintage scuba setup.

Though I did notice the air tasted strange—metallic, almost bitter. But this was my first time breathing from a tank underwater, so I figured that was just how compressed air was supposed to taste. Nobody in the videos had mentioned anything about flavor.

After about five minutes, I started feeling slightly nauseous. A queasy sensation in my stomach that I attributed to nerves or maybe the excitement of finally living my dream. I tried to ignore it and continued exploring, but the feeling gradually got worse. My head began to feel heavy, like I was getting a mild headache.

The longer I stayed down, the more uncomfortable I became. The nausea was building, and I felt oddly lightheaded despite being surrounded by water. Something was wrong, but I couldn't pinpoint what. This wasn't how I'd imagined my first dive would feel.

Then something changed dramatically.

At first, I thought I was just excited, breathing a little faster than I should. But as I tried to slow my breathing down, I realized something was wrong. I was pulling air through the regulator, but it felt... empty. Like I was breathing, but not getting oxygen. My chest began to feel tight, starved.

The bitter metallic taste was overwhelming now, and suddenly I was choking underwater. My throat constricted as if rejecting the contaminated air, but I couldn't stop breathing it—it was all I had. I started coughing violently around the regulator, each cough sending harsh bursts of bubbles streaming upward. The coughing fits made everything worse, causing me to gasp for more of whatever was wrong with this air between spasms.

Panic crept in as I realized I was essentially suffocating while surrounded by air bubbles. The choking and coughing sensations grew worse with each breath. I tried to breathe deeper, but it only triggered more violent coughing fits that wracked my entire body and sent streams of bubbles racing to the surface. Something was terribly wrong with the air in these old tanks, but I couldn't understand what. My vision started to blur at the edges.

I kicked toward the surface, but panic makes you clumsy. My movements became erratic, desperate. The weight belt around my waist felt impossibly heavy now, dragging me down even as I fought to reach the surface. My fins kicked frantically but without the buoyancy control that modern divers rely on, every upward stroke was a battle against the weights pulling me toward the bottom. The surface seemed impossibly far away, though I knew I wasn't that deep. My lungs burned. My heart hammered against my ribs.

The world began to fade. The coughing stopped as consciousness slipped away from me. I never saw the beaver swimming toward me through the murky water on a single breath, freediving down to reach me. I never felt the strong paws that grabbed me. Everything just went black.

When consciousness slowly returned, I was lying on my back on the rocky beach, gasping and coughing up lake water. My diving gear was scattered around me—tank, regulator, mask, fins—all carefully removed. A beaver knelt beside me, her paws still positioned over my chest from what must have been CPR compressions just moments before.

"Easy, easy," she said, her voice calm but concerned. "You're okay now. Just breathe normally. You're safe."

I tried to speak but could only cough up more water. My throat burned, my chest ached, and I felt disoriented and weak.

"My friend went to call for an ambulance," the beaver continued, checking my pulse. "I'm Diana, by the way. You gave us quite a scare down there. You were completely unconscious when I pulled you up."

As my vision cleared and my heart rate slowly returned to normal, I managed to croak out a weak "Thank you."

Diana smiled, though I could see the concern still etched in her features. "Don't mention it. That's what we're here for. Are you feeling any better? Any chest pain or trouble breathing?"

I shook my head, though everything still ached. "Just... tired. Sore."

"That's normal after what you went through," she said, gathering up some of her own freediving equipment. "The paramedics should be here soon just to check you over, make sure everything's okay."

I looked at my vintage diving gear scattered on the beach, then back at Diana. "I'm really grateful you were here. I don't know what would have happened if..."

"Hey, no need to think about that," Diana interrupted gently. "You're safe now. That's what matters."

As we waited for the ambulance, Diana made small talk to keep me alert and calm. She told me about her freediving, how she and her friend came to Cedar Lake regularly to practice their breath-holding techniques. Then, glancing at my vintage diving gear scattered on the beach, her expression grew more serious.

"Marina, based on what I saw down there—the way you were choking and coughing—I think you might have been breathing contaminated air. It could be from a few different things."

I looked at her weakly, still trying to process what had happened. "Contaminated?"

"Sometimes dive shops use bad compressors or don't maintain their equipment properly, and carbon monoxide or other toxins get into the air they pump into tanks," Diana explained, her voice gentle but concerned. "Or if those are older tanks that have been sitting around for a long time, the steel could be corroding from the inside. When that happens, you get rust particles and other nasty stuff mixing with the air."

My blood ran cold as the pieces fell into place. "You mean... I was breathing poison?"

Diana nodded grimly. "That metallic taste you probably experienced? That's a classic sign of contaminated air—could be rust particles or worse. Your body was trying to reject it, which is why you were coughing and choking so violently. Tank pressure doesn't tell you anything about air quality."

I stared at the vintage gear with new understanding and horror. What I'd thought was my dream come true had nearly killed me. "I had no idea something like that could happen."

"It's more common than people think," Diana said, still checking on me frequently to make sure I wasn't getting worse. "That's why reputable shops test their air regularly and why you should never use tanks from questionable sources. Equipment needs proper maintenance and inspection."

When the paramedics arrived, they confirmed I was stable but insisted on taking me to the hospital for observation. As they loaded me into the ambulance, Diana handed me her business card.

"I run a dive shop in town," she said. "If you ever want to talk about diving or need any equipment checked out, feel free to stop by. Take care of yourself, Marina."

I clutched the card as the ambulance doors closed, my mind racing with questions I couldn't answer and a gratitude I couldn't fully express. Diana had saved my life, and she'd done it without judgment, without demanding explanations I wasn't ready to give.

My name is Marina Brookwater, and I almost died chasing my dreams. But thanks to a vigilant beaver named Diana, I'm still here to chase them. The question now was what I would do with this second chance, and whether I had the courage to face what had really gone wrong down there beneath the surface of Cedar Lake.