When Your Plans Don’t, But You Still Do

Some dive trips you plan like a military operation. Then there are the ones that sneak up, laugh in your face, and drag you along anyway.

This was one of those.

It started with a throwaway line in the car. Someone said “diving,” and next thing we were signed up for a course. No ocean in sight. Just a training center tucked inland with a pool, some gear, and surprisingly awesome people.

The instructors were chilled, the vibe was right, and by the end of that first day I already knew. I was hooked.

Sure, I was the last one still kicking lengths across the pool trying to prove I was fit enough to dive. My mates had already climbed out, dry and smug. I’m not the strongest swimmer. But I was determined. And slightly waterlogged.

Mist, Speed, and Mango Snacks

We hit the road before sunrise. Gear packed to the roof. Flippers, wetsuits, regulators, and dried mango pieces (which, by the way, are a wildly underrated road trip snack). The bakkie was ready. We were ready. The fog? Not so much.

The convoy behind us included some clients from the dive center. Nice folks, not exactly our vibe. The kind who turns on their brights in heavy mist and think it’s helping. It was like driving behind a haunted spaceship. Visibility? Zero. Shame levels? Maximum.

We passed them just to save ourselves and our dignity.

Breakfast was next. Tiny town, potholes everywhere, nothing but a sad main road and a nationally famous restaurant that opened early. We were the first ones in. Full send on the greasy fry-up: bacon, toast, eggs, chips. And the kind of coffee that tastes like regret and courage at once.

I also needed to swing by the local GP. Motion sickness pills. Boats and I don’t get along. The doctor gave me one tablet and smiled like I was heading off to war.

Gozo Azul: Legends With Dive Gear

We dove with Gozo Azul Diving. Solid bunch of humans. Welcoming, professional, chill, basically, everything you want when you’re about to let compressed air keep you alive underwater.

Toby was our instructor. Calm, capable, and patient. Especially with nervy divers like me. The skipper? Unreal. The guy could probably parallel park a zodiac on a sandbank blindfolded.

Their vibe made everything feel possible even for someone who, moments earlier, was hallucinating fork duplicates.

20 Meters Down, One Deep Panic

The dive itself? Incredible. Or at least, it started that way.

The light on the ocean floor danced like scattered stardust. The water was warm, clear, and calm. I should’ve been amazed.

But I was busy trying not to die.

My mask started leaking. Just a trickle. But the salt hit my eyes and my chest clamped. Panic came out of nowhere. My lungs forgot how to breathe. My brain screamed, “UP!”

But you don’t bolt to the surface from 20 meters. Not unless you want a one-way ticket to the decompression chamber.

So I stayed.

I froze.

I focused.

And eventually, I convinced my lungs to listen again. One breath. Another. Then the kind of calm that feels like winning a personal war.

Nobody saw. I surfaced smiling like nothing happened.

Later, I told my mate. He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “Classic Jack,” he said. And maybe it was. But I was proud. That kind of fear rewires you.

Sand Roads and Bakkie Acrobatics

The town? Less “roads” and more “guesses.” Deep sand. Dodgy signage. And us. Confident, slightly overfed, driving a 4×2 like it was Dakar Rally day.

We were hyped. Cocky, even. The kind of mood that makes you believe your bakkie can do anything. Spoiler: it can’t.

Late one night, we ran into a problem, literally. A stuck minibus blocked our only path. The only other option? A steep, sandy hill.

So naturally, we floored it.

The wheels spun, the bakkie kicked sideways, and for a moment I saw my life flash before my headlights.

But somehow, we made it.

We didn’t crash. Didn’t flip. We didn’t even stop. We just laughed, white-knuckled, like lunatics.

Flats, Fixes, and MacGyver Mechanics

Next morning? Flat tire. No surprise.

The real shock was finding someone to fix it.

One filling station. One small toolshed. One man with a hammer, a pipe, and the confidence of someone who’s patched tires in worse situations.

We didn’t ask questions. He didn’t offer explanations. He just fixed it.

We paid. Nodded. Left quietly.

That tire’s probably still rolling somewhere today.

Reggae, R&R, and Found Friends

That night, we stumbled into The Beach Bar. Yes, that’s really what it’s called. Paint peeling, stools wobbling, floor half sand, half dance floor. Music? Reggae. Drink of choice? R&R (rum and raspberry, don’t ask, just try it).

The place was packed with tourists and divers. No one knew each other. Didn’t matter. We were all part of the same salty, slightly sunburnt tribe by midnight.

We drank, swapped stories, danced like jellyfish, and lost all sense of what time diving started the next morning.

And maybe that’s the real magic, those moments where everyone drops the act and just is.

The Morning After… Was Rough

We showed up. Hungover, waterlogged, and somehow still on time.

No one said it, but we all felt it. The silence of shared suffering. The unspoken agreement that last night was worth it, even if our wetsuits now smelled like regret and raspberry.

Why I Dive (Even When I Puke)

People always ask me: Why do you keep diving if you get sick every time?

Easy.

Because it fixes me.

Not the nausea, the me me. The tired, stressed, ashamed, overthinking, gotta-get-it-right version of me. That guy gets left at the surface.

Underwater, it’s just breath. Just stillness. Just quiet.

Yes, I throw up after every dive. Like clockwork. The second I hit fresh air. My mate doesn’t even blink anymore. “Not a real dive until Jack chums the ocean,” he says.

And honestly? He’s right.

Because that first breath under, when you’re totally alone and somehow completely okay. That’s everything.

What That Weekend Really Gave Me

This trip wasn’t about ticking a box. It wasn’t about the certification card. It was about proof.

Proof that I can panic and still keep going.

Proof that strangers can become part of your story for no reason other than timing and rum.

You definitely don’t need a 4×4 to conquer sand, just bad decisions and momentum.

Would I do it again?

In a heartbeat.

Because the best stories aren’t the ones that go to plan. They’re the ones that go sideways, upside down, and into places you never saw coming.

A Little Advice From Someone Who Should Know Better

• Take the motion sickness pills. But maybe after breakfast.
• Don’t follow people in fog with brights on. Seriously.
• Dried mango is elite. Trust me.
• Go with people who’ll laugh when things go wrong. You’ll need that more than gear.
• And always, always dive with a team like Gozo Azul. Legends.

Final Thought

The ocean doesn’t care who you are.

It doesn’t care about your job, your past, your mistakes. Down there, it’s just breath, buoyancy, and the beauty of being exactly where you are.

You don’t plan weekends like this. They just happen. They find you when you least expect them and leave you a little braver than you were before.