The Dive Into Devil’s Throat

I never expected that scuba diving would become a chapter in my life. I wasn’t raised around oceans. I didn’t grow up in a coastal town. I wasn’t the adventurous type when it came to deep water or tight spaces. In fact, claustrophobia, asthma, and not being a great swimmer would have put me solidly in the “probably shouldn’t scuba dive” category. But like so many things in life, this story didn’t begin with logic—it began with curiosity, a bit of brotherly jealousy, and eventually, love.

My first interest in scuba diving sparked in my early 50s. I remember hearing that my brothers Dave, Chuck and his wife Terry had gotten certified and had been out exploring the underwater world. They talked about their experiences with the excitement of kids describing a new amusement park. I felt a small sting of envy—not a negative kind, but the kind that awakens something inside you. I want to do that. That thought came up more than once. Scuba diving wasn’t something I had ever imagined myself doing, but hearing my brothers talk about it planted a seed.

Life, however, had other plans. Those were busy years filled with responsibilities, transitions, and the rhythms of daily living. The thought of diving never fully disappeared; it just sat quietly in the background. Every so often, I’d hear that Chuck or Dave had been out on another dive, and that twinge of jealousy would rise again. But years passed, and scuba remained a someday idea—one of those, Maybe one day, when life slows down, kind of dreams.

“Someday” finally got its invitation the day I met Pam.

It wasn’t long before I learned that her brother, Roger, was a master diver—one of those highly skilled, experienced divers who not only knows what he’s doing but can teach others. The kind of guy who seems born for the ocean. When Pam mentioned that we could get certified through him, something in me lit up. In fact, most of their extended family were certified and had taken vacations together just for that purpose.

And it lit up for her, too. Neither of us were certified, but both of us were interested. So we decided to take the plunge, literally and figuratively.

We started with the pool portion and the classroom work. Learning the equipment. Learning the hand signals. Learning the emergency procedures. Learning the science of pressure and buoyancy and how not to panic when something unexpected happens. It’s funny how diving, which seems so peaceful from the outside, is actually filled with technical detail behind the scenes.

Pam did great at first, she was a very good swimmer, but over time she realized that diving wasn’t something she felt called to do. It just didn’t feel right for her. And I respected that. It takes courage to say no to something once you’ve started, especially when you’re doing it together. So at that point, the journey became mine alone.

I finished the pool training, passed the written test, and prepared for the final step: completing my open-water certification in Cozumel on a trip we had planned—a trip originally meant for both of us, but now centered on my diving experience. We traveled with Roger’s group, The Land Sharks. It was a mix of experienced divers and a couple of rookies like me. My certification dives would be overseen by Little Eric.

And that’s where things got interesting.

I already knew I carried a handful of challenges into diving. I was claustrophobic. I was easily anxious around water. I had asthma. And I was not, by any measure, a strong swimmer. In hindsight, it’s almost comical. Who tries to become a scuba diver with those traits? But something in me wanted to do it anyway. I wanted to explore a world I’d never seen. I wanted to share the experience with Roger. I wanted to surprise myself.

But one test in particular kept me up at night: ascending from 20 feet without taking a breath. Just thinking about it made my heart pound. But I passed it—probably swimming faster than I’ve ever swum in my life. When that was behind me, my confidence rose. I was officially ready for the “big league” dive the next day.

But here’s the twist.

Most people do an easy, shallow dive for their first official dive as a certified diver.

Mine?

Devil’s Throat.

If you’re not familiar with Devil’s Throat, let me paint a picture. It involves descending roughly 80 -90 feet, entering tight caverns and tunnels, and navigating through spaces barely wider than your shoulders until you emerge through the throat at 130-135 feet. And I was about to do it as a brand-new diver.

Roger walked me through everything beforehand. Every detail. Every turn. Every temperature change. Every dark passage. He wanted me mentally prepared, and honestly, I hung on every word. I trusted him completely, and he was confident that I could do this dive. I wasn’t sure whether he was right or just overly optimistic, but his confidence helped calm me and I knew he would be right beside me.

Then came the moment. We descended.

At about 80 feet, the world grew darker. The sun no longer penetrated the water as strongly. The color faded. The shadows grew. And the temperature dropped. Everything sounded different. I felt the cold through my wetsuit, but I also felt the thrill. Everything Roger had described was happening exactly as he said.

Soon we reached the caverns—tight, twisting, narrow. Beautiful in a haunting way. We were at the tail end of the group, which meant I waited a long time before entering. Long enough to use up more air than I realized. When I finally entered the tunnel, the diver in front of me was stirring up sand and sediment, making visibility almost zero. I hadn’t brought a light—rookie mistake—so now I was in a dark, narrow tunnel, trying to stay calm while my tank pinged against the walls.

At one point, I hit a dead end. Couldn’t move forward. Couldn’t move sideways. Panic whispered, What are you doing here? But before it grew louder, Roger nudged me gently downward—into the real Devil’s Throat.

We descended through the final chute and then suddenly—

Light.

Color.

A cathedral of coral.

It was breathtaking. I’ll never forget that moment when everything opened up in front of me.

But then I looked at my gauge.

Red zone.

Almost out of air.

My inexperienced mind didn’t process this calmly. Instead, it shouted, "You’re going to die down here". I signaled to Roger. He gave the thumbs-up to ascend. But by then, my breathing had turned frantic. Hyperventilating underwater—nothing feels more unnatural. Panic took over. I remember thinking, Pam is going to be furious at her brother when she learns her fiancé died scuba diving.

Roger, to his eternal credit, stayed glued to me. I started breathing from his regulator and his air. He wrapped his legs around mine to slow me down—we couldn’t ascend too fast or I’d suffer decompression issues. Every second felt like an hour. I was fighting my body’s urge to kick wildly upward. He calmly kept us under control. When we finally reached the surface, air never tasted so sweet.

I thanked Roger for saving my life. The boat pulled us aboard. I sat quietly, letting my heartbeat settle, replaying everything that had happened. Within minutes, I was thinking clearly again.

And believe it or not, later that same day, I agreed to dive again.

Because here’s the truth: Roger never doubted me.

And deep down, I didn’t want fear to have the final word.

People later said Devil’s Throat wasn’t a dive a beginner should do. Maybe that’s true. Maybe not. But I did it. I reached the end. I saw the cathedral of coral. I pushed through fear, claustrophobia, inexperience, and low air.

And I lived to tell the story.

I like to think it’s one of the most defining moments in my life I’ve ever had. Not because it was dramatic—though it certainly was—but because it proved something to me: sometimes you don’t know what you’re capable of until you’re on the edge of panic, breathing borrowed air, trusting someone else to guide you upward.

Life has its own Devil’s Throats—tight, dark, stressful passages where fear whispers lies and air feels thin.

But with the right guide beside you,

with someone who believes in you,

and with a little courage,

you can rise to the surface again.

And that’s a story worth telling every time.

And I have the T-shirt to prove it.