Open Water Test, Circle Lake, Minnesota, November

I’d pictured us as seals but we were astronauts
instead, rigged-up creatures in danger
underwater. Our first time out of the pool,
no chlorine in our snorkels. No visible boundaries.
Can you breathe?

The instructor fed us pasta, then we rinsed
our suits with hot water. Stepped in. The lake
a solemn sibling to the sky. Under,
all silence and gestures. My mouth refused speech,
given gravity: Keep the mouthpiece in your teeth.

All I could picture: Let it go, all my air.
All my air, in a tank. Did I twirl
the regulator and not the valve? Did I calculate?
Tap the gauges. Trust the chart.

Safely paired we swam, tandem
through the dim. We shared gloved thumbs up,
grotesque rubber smiles, until blood
filled my partner’s mask and I watched
his wide open eyes disappear.

He could’ve died like that—seeing nothing,
saying nothing—even the pain he felt obscured from view.
But the instructor grabbed his neoprene mitt
and hauled him up.
Those that could see, followed.