“Gillian…”

“It’s gonna overload your senses – sight, touch, sound – boom – blown like a giant speaker.”

“Maybe we should…”

“And the best part is, only the locals know about it. Forget the tourist parade gawking on South Beach – this is just for the homegrowns. Here, put this on.” She tosses me a wet suit, which hits me in the chest.

Even if I lose cool-points, it’s no time to hold back. “Gillian, I don’t know how to scuba-dive.”

“Don’t worry – you’ll be fine.”

“But isn’t it dangerou-”

She unzips her jeans and slides them down to her ankles. As she steps out of them, she unbuttons her shirt and tosses it aside. “Relax,” she says, standing there in her sheer bra and white cotton panties. “I’ll teach you.” Right above the thin waistband of her underwear is a tiny purple butterfly tattoo. I can’t take my eyes off it.

“Careful, you might go blind,” she teases, wiggling into her wet suit.

“Have I ever told you how much I love scuba-diving?” I ask, still staring at the butterfly.

Grinning, she motions to my pants. I strip down to my boxers and tug my way into my wet suit, which is more tight-fitting than I expected. Especially in the crotch.

“Don’t worry,” Gillian says, reading my expression. “It’ll loosen up when it gets wet.”

“Me or the suit?”

“Hopefully, both.”

Shoving my arms in, I practically run to catch up with her. In the back of the boat, she props up both scuba tanks and opens each with the twist of a knob. “This is your regulator,” she says as she points to the top of the tank, where she attaches a small black gizmo that has four hoses snaking out in every direction. “And here’s your mouthpiece,” she adds, handing me the short black hose on the right.

Following her lead, I put it in my mouth and take a long deep breath. There’s a slow Darth Vader hiss as a cold rush of air plows down my throat and fills my lungs.

“That’s it… there you go,” she says as I exhale and do it again. “Nice and slow – you’re a total natural.”

It’s easy praise, but as my breath wheezes through the tube, the testosterone starts wearing thin. “What’re all these other hoses for?” I ask nervously.

“Don’t get freaked by the minutiae,” she says as she zips the front of my wet suit and pats me on the chest. “When you scuba, there’s only one life-or-death rule: keep breathing.”

“But what about the regulator and these tubes-”

“All the equipment runs automatically. As long as you’re breathing, it keeps the air flowing and regulates the pressure. After that, it’s like driving a car – you don’t need to know how the engine and combustion and everything else works – you just need to know how to drive.”

“But I’ve never driven before…”

Ignoring my comment, she motions for me to raise my hands in the air, hooks a thick yellow belt around my waist, and buckles it with what looks like a plastic version of an airline seat belt. “How much do you weigh?” she adds as she loads the belt’s Velcro pouches with square lead weights.

“About one-sixty. Why?”

“Perfect,” she says, sealing the last pouch. “That’ll sink you like a mob stoolie.” Refusing to slow down, she cuts behind me. I spin around to follow, but the extra weight on my waist and the bobbing of the boat send me slightly off-balance.

“Don’t I need to be certified for this?” I ask.

“You love rules, don’t you?” she shoots back, putting on her own weight belt. “The only thing those classes teach you is how not to panic.” With that, she angles my arms into an inflatable red vest. Strapped to the back of the vest is the scuba tank and its tentacles of hoses. As I squat down, she lifts the vest onto my shoulders and I almost fall over backwards from the thirty pounds of extra weight. Gillian’s right there to catch me.

“I’m telling you,” she promises, making sure my vest is clipped in place. “I wouldn’t take you down there if it weren’t safe.”

“What about the bends? I don’t want to wind up in some sci-fi decompression chamber.”

“We’re only going down twenty feet. The bends aren’t a risk until you hit at least sixty.”

“And this is only twenty?”

“Only twenty,” she repeats. “Thirty at the most.” Squatting down, she hoists her own vest and scuba tank onto her shoulders. “Not much more than the length of this boat.” When she’s done adjusting her vest, she reaches for one of my four hoses and pushes a button on the end. There’s a sharp hiss. The vest fills with air and tightens around my ribs. “If all else fails, you even have a life jacket,” she points out, making it sound like I’m afraid of drowning in the kiddie pool.

Inflating her own vest, she grabs a mask and flashlight, slips into her flippers, and steps up on the cooler at the back of the boat.

“Gillian, wait…”

She doesn’t even turn around. There’s a splash and the boat rocks from the loss of weight. Off the back, she sinks out of sight, then bobs right back up again. “Ooooh, you gotta feel this!” she shouts.

“It’s warm?”

“It’s freezing! We’re talking iceberg in my pants!” She laughs out loud, like it’s the party of the year. And the more I watch her, the more I realize it is.

“C’mon,” she calls out. “You have to at least come in. If you hate it, you’ll float around up here.”

It’s not fair, but I try to imagine Beth in the same position. She hates the cold. And at this hour? She’d never even get in the boat.

“There you go!” Gillian shouts as I reach for a mask and flippers. “No whammies on this one – just stand up on the cooler and leap out!”

I pull the mask over my face and grip all the hoses in an anxious fist. “Are you sure this is the best way to get in?”

“Jacques Cousteau himself couldn’t do better – one giant step for all manki-”

Shutting my eyes, I leap out and plummet fast. The extra weight sends me straight under, but thanks to my vest, I bob right back up to the top. The temperature hits first. Without the sun on the water… even with my wet suit… iceberg in my pants is right.

“Cold enough for you?” Gillian asks.

“Naw, this is good – I like it when I absolutely, positively can’t feel my penis.”

It’s an easy joke, but she knows it’s not just the cold that’s got me shaking. The water’s dark and deserted, the mask is tight around my face, and all I hear is the Jaws theme.

“So you ready to go under?” she asks.

“Right now?”

Watching me carefully through her own mask, she kicks forward and grabs me by both shoulders. “You’re gonna be great – no doubt.”

“Are you-?”

“I’m positive,” she promises.

As she floats back, I reach over my right shoulder and grab the hose with the mouthpiece. “All I have to do is breathe through this?”

“That’s the entire instruction book. Breathe and breathe and breathe. In fact, why don’t you take a lap around the block…”

Like before, I slide the mouthpiece between my teeth, and Darth Vader returns. After three or four breaths, Gillian points down to the water. Biting hard on the rubber prongs that hold the mouthpiece in place, I bend over and put my face in the ocean.

There’s a slight pause before I take my next breath, but my brain flips right back to Gillian’s crash course. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Opening my lungs, I suck in a puff of air… and quickly blow it out. A burst of tiny bubbles shoots from the regulator. From there, each breath is short and tentative, but it still works.

Gillian taps me hard on the shoulder. Picking my head up, I take out the mouthpiece.

“Ready for the pop quiz?” she challenges.

I nod, hoping it’ll slow her down. It only speeds her up.

“Okay, here’s what I’d put on the cheat sheet. First, if you get disoriented, follow the bubbles – they’ll always lead you up to the surface.”

“Follow the bubbles. Check.”

“Second, as we go down, don’t forget to pop your ears – you don’t want to blow out an eardrum.”