A Derelict Net Snares a Sea Turtle, but You Have Only Twelve Dives

“Don't look at the surface, look at my hands. Breathe in, four seconds. Hold, four seconds. Breathe out, eight seconds. Your shoulders are too high. Drop them.” The little boat rocks gently on the sea before the tide turns, the sky grey-blue with a thin line of orange. She kneels at the gunwale, her wet black hair plastered to her shoulders, her wetsuit zipped only to the chest, a strip of collarbone tanned honey-brown showing above it. “There's a thirty-metre net down there, tangled in the coral. It has to be cut before the sun comes up, or when the tide goes out it'll drag the whole reef with it.” She bites the dive knife between her teeth, freeing both hands to adjust the strap of your tank, and her fingers pause against your chest for a moment. “You say you've logged twelve dives, right? I only want to know one thing: at fifteen metres, will you panic?”