One Breath

by Adam Skolnick

  Then her family home was demolished in a devastating landslide. Miraculously, everyone survived, but her father’s business was destroyed. All his boats and trucks, and the family house lost. Insurance wasn’t an option in Venezuela, so they started over. Where once there had been flamenco class after school, now there was work. The family’s last foothold was her grandmother’s tiny shop, where she sold cocadas, a sugary coconut drink. Iru’s mother began selling empanadas, and they expanded the space into a restaurant. Iru and her baby sister worked there after school. Their life was less glamorous, but the family became closer. You could even say happier. They couldn’t afford the tuition at their Catholic school any longer, but the nuns arranged a scholarship to keep the girls enrolled.

  During high school, Iru and her family lived in Caracas where the schools were better. Chavez was in charge of Venezuela. Crime was high, corruption evident, and the seeds of discontent were already filtering through the streets. But Iru was a kid, and she didn’t get caught up in any of that. She was focused on a dream she’d had since she was a little girl. She wanted to scuba dive.

  She reached out to Carlos Coste in 2001. He was on his way to becoming the best freediver alive, but at the time he still ran freediving and scuba courses in Caracas. He told Iru she could take a cheap course through the scuba club he founded, which would enable her to dive with the club wherever and whenever they organized a trip. But first she’d have to be accepted, and when she showed up there were ninety-five people to fill twenty-five spots. The organizers put them through an intense training program where they had to run and jump their way through a series of calisthenics, and only the best athletes qualified. Iru was just fourteen and she was small, but she had the strong legs of a gymnast and unlimited desire. She would not be denied.

  The scuba training wasn’t the typical weekend course either. It involved a physical training regimen and freediving lessons. Her whole life it had been scuba that Iru craved, but she loved the freedom and quiet of apnea even more. The club organized a small pool competition. She was fifteen by then, and being one of a few women and the youngest by far, most treated her like the team pet, but during the pool competition she swam 90 meters on one breath with only small fins. It wasn’t world record caliber, but it wasn’t far off the national record, and it impressed her coach, who realized she was a budding star.

  In 2005, Iru attended her first world championship in Nice. Although she’d competed in pools in Brazil and Cuba, this was her first depth competition and she was the youngest competitor at just eighteen years old. Her clean Constant Weight dive to 56 meters gave her the Venezuelan record and made her the eighth-best woman in the world.

  These were the salad days in Venezuelan freediving as athletes were government funded. Not only did the Chavez government cover the costs of their overseas trips to various competitions, but the best divers were given apartments in Caracas and a small stipend to support their training at home. The following year, Iru competed at the world championship again, this time in Egypt. She broke her own national record and placed sixth overall, but college beckoned. After graduation she began competing again, and during the 2013 Caribbean Cup she broke five national records in six days, easily winning the women’s draw. But 2014 was a different year. The competition was stiff, and her mind was on Nick—her friend, occasional training partner, and on-and-off crush—not on the podium.

  Distractions are the enemy in competitive freediving. It’s vital to remain calm, eat and sleep well, and feel peaceful. When focus strays, stress builds and an athlete can become less than whole underwater. That’s what happened to Iru. She attempted a 67-meter Constant Weight dive on day one, and perforated her eardrum due to poor equalization. The damage wasn’t too bad, but it held her out of day two, and with each lost dive, her hopes to repeat faded.

  In the meantime, she joined the cheering section. In ensuing days, Daniel Cordova from Chile, Alejandro Lemus from Mexico City, Carlos Coste, and Sofia Gómez Uribe, a civil engineering student from Medellin, Colombia, scored national records. Each time they did, Iru led the cheers from the bow of the dry boat.

  Carlos Coste was particularly popular among Latino divers. The first and only Latin American–born world champion, he won the 2004 world championship in Cyprus when he also became the first athlete to swim past 100 meters on one breath. He defended his world title in Nice in 2005 with a world record Constant Weight dive to 105 meters, but in 2006 tragedy struck, when he was injured during a No Limits training dive in Egypt.

  No Limits is dangerous because freedivers, like scuba divers, can get air bubbles in their bloodstream at extreme depths, and the only way to ensure the diver doesn’t get decompression sickness, or the bends, is to ascend slow enough for those bubbles to be reabsorbed. If the athlete ascends too quickly, the stray bubbles can become lodged in the ventricle, stopping the heart, or they can clog blood vessels in the brain, which leads to stroke. That’s what happened to Carlos.

  When he surfaced from 180 meters, his left side was paralyzed. He spent five weeks undergoing hyperbaric treatments in Egypt and Germany, as well as physical therapy which helped him recover some range of motion, but when he returned to Venezuela he had to relearn even basic swim strokes. One year later, in 2007, he placed third at the AIDA World Championships with a Constant Weight dive to 103 meters. In 2009 he won third again with a Constant Weight dive to 110 meters in Dean’s Blue Hole, and at the 2011 world championships in Kalamata he earned a silver medal with a Constant Weight dive to 116 meters. Those were remarkable achievements for anyone, regardless of medical history, and when he surfaced after a No Fins dive to 61 meters in Roatan, earning yet another national record, he was greeted by the entire Latin American contingent on the bow of the dry boat, standing and cheering before breaking into song to the tune of Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky.”

  Mi presidente es Maduro

  me gusta mucho freediving

  (translation: My president is Maduro, and I like freediving a lot)

  On May 31, the last day of competition, with the women’s title up for grabs, Ashley Chapman earned a song from Iru and the rest. As predicted, it had been a tight battle at the top between Sophie, Christina, and Ashley. The day before, it appeared that Christina gained an advantage. Ashley had to turn early on her 80-meter Constant Weight dive when she felt a slight squeeze in her left ear at 67 meters. She was having equalization problems and didn’t want to risk blowing out her eardrum, so she surfaced only to watch Christina nail her 80-meter Constant Weight dive, and extend her lead. Afterward, Ashley, wrapped in her American flag towel, sat beside Sophie and sloshed her feet in a clear and spectacular sea, feeling slightly dejected. “No matter who wins, we’ll all be drinking beer together,” she said to cheer herself up, “and cold beer, which is even better.”

  “And maybe smoke one cigarette,” replied the Frenchwoman with a smile. Sophie would soon dive to 75 meters, earning her second national record of the tournament and clinching at least bronze. Bronze satisfied Sophie. Ashley wanted to win.

  On the last day, she buzzed out to the competition zone on the small panga that ferried the athletes to and from the shore, wearing a stars-and-stripes bikini. She was loose and relaxed, prepared for a Free Immersion dive to 75 meters. According to her and Ren’s calculations, if she nailed it, she’d win the competition.

  The night before each dive, athletes must announce their target depth and projected dive time. This enables organizers to create a schedule and set the bottom plate, and gives the safety divers an idea of when to go down to meet them at 30 meters on their way back toward the surface. Near the end of the competition, the announcement game becomes a chess match. Numbers are crunched and scores tallied, and with the title in the balance, each athlete has to make an announcement that maximizes their chances to win while hedging against what they think their competitor might do.

  Coming into the final day, Christina had hit 80 meters in Constant Weight, 78 meters in Free Immersion, and 45 met
ers in Constant No Fins. Ashley was close behind in the first two categories, with dives to 75 meters and 70 meters in Constant Weight and Free Immersion, and she had a big lead in the difficult Constant No Fins category, with a dive to 57 meters.

  Top competitions are scored one of two ways. The AIDA scoring system awards one point per meter. By that calculation, Christina had the lead with a score of 203. Ashley was on her tail with 202 total points. The Vertical Blue scoring system is slightly different. Each category’s winner is awarded 100 points and the rest of the divers in that discipline are scored based on the percentage of the winning depth they’ve managed to achieve. For instance, in the women’s Constant No Fins category, Ashley would be in the lead with 100 points, and with her 45-meter dive, Christina would have earned 79 points. By this calculation, Christina had 279 points and Ashley was the leader with 284 going into the final day.

  The trouble was, nobody knew which system the judges were using. A formal announcement was never made at the precompetition meeting. Though one of the judges had mentioned to Christina and Eusebio that they were using the AIDA system. Ashley and Ren, on the other hand, assumed they were using the Vertical Blue system like they had the year before. As a result, both athletes crunched different numbers and both were certain that if they hit their dives, they would clinch victory.

  Christina was first up. She’d announced a dive of 50 meters in Constant No Fins, a five-point jump in the AIDA system if she could make it. As far as she was aware, even if Ashley made her 75-meter Free Immersion dive, those extra five points wouldn’t be enough to overtake her and Christina would win by a point. In other words, this was the clincher. Or was it?

  Christina held the line in her right hand as she breathed calmly, wearing fluid goggles and facing the open sea. Once again, Eusebio hovered close, his left hand on her right shoulder. With ten seconds to go, he backed away. The countdown hit zero, and still she sipped air. Athletes have an additional thirty seconds beyond zero to begin their dive, and within fifteen seconds she was gone.

  Everyone, including Ashley, assumed she’d nail it. She reached the bottom plate in just over a minute, grabbed a tag, stuffed it into her hood, and began breast stroking back toward daylight, her eyes closed. Soon she would feel the tropical sun penetrate pellagic blue in bolts and rays. She became buoyant, pierced the surface, and grabbed the line. One problem, she was facing the wrong direction. Where was Eusebio? Where were the judges? If she’d been too hypoxic, an additional stressor like that might have made a difference between a clean surface protocol and a disqualification. But Christina wasn’t depleted. Eusebio shouted instructions. She turned to face him, cleared her face of the nose clip and fluid goggles, made the okay sign, and said, “I am okay,” while flashing the tag.

  “Keep on breathing,” said Eusebio. “Keep on breathing, baby.” The white card came. The crowd cheered. Eusebio scooped her into his arms and twirled her in the water. They kissed slowly, celebrating Christina’s presumed Caribbean Cup championship.

  “Don’t pay any attention to that,” Ren told Ashley. “We’re gonna play our game.” Ashley nodded, donned her silver suit, and dipped into the drink.

  “Go Conehead, go Conehead!” Sofia Gómez Uribe, the Colombian diver, shouted from the bow of the dry boat. Because of her thick auburn hair, Ashley’s wetsuit hood did have a certain cone-like quality. She smiled and waved, and moved to the center of the competition zone. Ren met her there to share a few last words. For a moment they looked like they were about to kiss tenderly, but instead Ashley licked his face with one long, slobbery swipe. Call it a Conehead kiss. The gallery erupted in laughter. Ren smiled and shrugged. The Chapmans weren’t exactly Christina and Eusebio.

  Because it was the last day, a larger crowd than normal had joined the athletes in the middle of the sea, including several tourists who’d watched the athletes come and go for days, asking questions about their equipment, the competition, and the sport itself. More than fifty people were either on the dry boat or in the water surrounding Ashley as she relaxed on her back, her knees supported by a single foam noodle. Then came the countdown and the lung packing, and soon she was pulling herself down to depth, hoping she could equalize properly this time and claim her first Caribbean Cup championship.

  The announcer followed her progress on sonar. At 1:45 she touched down, and by 2:00 she was back at 60 meters, making good progress in what can often be a slow and painstaking pull toward the atmosphere. She reached 50 meters at 2:10; then her progress slowed, but only slightly. She was visible underwater at 2:45, but it took her an additional twenty-five long seconds to pierce the surface. Her work was almost done, and Carla Hanson would lead her the rest of the way.

  “Breathe, Ashley, breathe!” Carla yelled. “Nose clip! Signal! Say it!” Ashley followed orders, took her vital hook breaths, cleared her face of gear, made the okay sign, and said those three final words: “I am okay.” Her voice was breathy with exhaustion and relief. Iru led a wild cheer from the bow of the boat, as if she too thought Ashley had just won the competition. Iru began the “Get Lucky” chant, and soon everyone was singing.

  “Yo soy, North Carolina. Me gusta mucho freediving.”

  When Christina and Ashley met on the boat soon after, it became clear for the first time that both thought they’d won. There wasn’t any prize money at stake, but it was awkward and strange nonetheless. Both had invested time, effort, and competitive fire. When asked earlier in the week, even Kimmo, the lead judge and AIDA president, didn’t know how the cup would be scored. He said that would be up to Esteban, the tournament organizer, but if Esteban had made a decision, nobody knew for sure what it was. It would have been neat and tidy if both systems had produced the same winner, like they would in the men’s draw, but that was not the case. After some deliberation, there was an unofficial announcement that Ashley had won. Christina was disappointed as she and Ashley came together. “I didn’t know the proper scoring system, I guess,” she said. “If I had, I would have gone for more. But anyway, it doesn’t matter. Congratulations.”

  “It matters just a little bit,” Ashley replied.

  However, in a stunning reversal later that night, just before the awards ceremony, Christina was declared the champion, by a single agonizing point, and it was Ashley’s turn to mull the obvious. She could have gone for more on that last dive, too. She had plenty left in the tank. Earlier in the day, when she thought she’d won, she’d said, “It sucks because if you win, you want to win clean, not by default.” Now she’d lost that way.

  “It feels worse having won,” Christina said. “I actually feel worse.”

  “I’m a little sad,” Ashley admitted after the medal ceremony. She wanted to win, sure, but with the competition in the rearview, her grief over Nick’s death had come rushing back, as well. Barefoot on the beach, in an elegant gown, she sipped that cold beer she’d craved, and stared out to sea as stars spread across the inky night sky. Although Nick had died in Ren’s arms, it was Ashley who was having a harder time letting him go. “Sometimes I feel like I have this dark cloud over my head,” she said, “and whenever I want an espresso, I think about him.”

  Nick gazed over Williamsburg rooftops at sunrise as the prized espresso bubbler he’d smuggled from Cuba gurgled on the gas burner. It let out a last gasp, he poured himself a double shot and sipped caffeine and good fortune. Derek Jeter had hit a game-winning homer to knot the World Series at two games apiece the night before, he lived with the talented love of his life in dear, sweet Brooklyn, and he was just twenty years old. All seemed possible.

  As he sipped he counted the drunks and druggies—several of New York’s finest among them—staggering out of Kokie’s bar on the sidewalk below. Some had burned hours, others days in curtained-off vinyl booths snorting coke cut with powdery additives—baking soda, sugar, creatine, baby laxatives—delivered to them by the waitstaff on the ground floor of his building. He always steered clear of Kokie’s but he loved Williamsburg.


  It was a neighborhood in the best way. Ethnic and working class, the kind of place his grandparents grew up in. In the early morning he’d bump shoulders with fresh-off-the-boat bubbes—Polish and Chinese—shuffling toward the Tribeca bakery, or perhaps the bagel shop. His bagel shop. Nick was now the apprentice of one, Johnny Bag o’ Donuts, who owned the only bagel joint in Williamsburg.

  Nick and Esther lived in the North End among Polish immigrants who had moved into the antiquated brick row houses in the early 1990s. South of Broadway, Williamsburg still looked like a war had swept through and wiped away a once thriving industrial city within a city. Antiquated shells of period buildings had long since been gutted and boarded up. When Esther arrived in the mid-1990s, the few open doors were fronts for biker gangs and drug dealers. It was marginally better by the time Nick showed up, and the second wave of the hipster flood was under way, but serviceable cafés, bars, and restaurants could still be counted on one hand. Rents were cheap. Two-bedroom apartments went for $950 a month, lofts for just $1,200.

  Cue the steady stream of artists, writers, and slackers. Most would stop by the bagel shop in the morning, before heading into Manhattan for work, and see Nick sweating among boiling vats of dough, shuffling trays of thick, crusty bagels in and out of the oven. He also attended to customers at the counter while Johnny held court by the cash register, often dressed in tight gym shorts and a tank top, surfing Internet porn. If an attractive artsy girl came in for breakfast—and back then the second-wave Williamsburg girls were all artsy and often attractive—Johnny wouldn’t let it pass without commentary.

  “Hey, Nick, she’s checking me out,” he’d whisper, in his best Brooklyn patois, channeling his inner Howard Stern. This time he was talking about a tall, long-legged German with golden hair braided into pigtails, dressed like Annie Hall. “Oh man, she’s really hot. Ask her if she wants some cream cheese with that bagel, eh, Nick. We have the best cream cheese in town. Tell her, Nick.” Whether she heard Johnny or not, she’d be back. There was literally nowhere else in the neighborhood to get a decent bagel.