One Breath

by Adam Skolnick

  It was a warm night and they walked themselves dry deep into the hills, where they found a candlelit Italian bistro. He had a thousand chances to kiss her, before dinner, during, and after, but he never tried. Neither did she. Everything had felt so perfect, the energy so full of magnetic calm, she didn’t want to do anything to ruin what had been one of the best days of her life. She got her magic carpet ride, after all. They wound up back at the Team USA condo, each taking up position on the L-shaped couch, where they slept with their foreheads touching.

  When she woke up the next morning, he was gone.

  It was November, on Long Island, when they saw each other next. Vertical Blue 2012 was on and it was a special year for Will Trubridge’s signature tournament. Alexey Molchanov threw down a world record dive of 127 meters in Constant Weight, Will did the same with a Free Immersion dive to 121 meters, and he won the tournament with an impressive Constant No Fins dive to 97 meters, while Alexey managed just 80 meters without fins. Still only twenty-five, he knew then that he’d have to do better than that to be considered the best diver on earth.

  Ashley got her world record back too, when she dove to 67 meters in Constant No Fins, and came in second overall. Rob King took third among the men behind Alexey and Will when he grabbed his national record back from Nick with a clean 94-meter Constant Weight dive.

  Nick was reduced to a spectator early on. He’d heard his record was in danger and attempted 95 meters on his first dive of the competition, hoping to extend it beyond Rob’s reach. When he got to 90 meters he ran out of his mouthfill and couldn’t equalize any deeper, but instead of turning early, he pushed to the plate. At 92 meters his eardrum ruptured. The pain was excruciating and the anxiety of vertigo finally caused him to turn around. He came up and unleashed one of his classic tantrums. By then, few paid him any mind when he exploded. They knew the routine and gave him space. Besides, this time he had a reason to be pissed at himself. One bad decision ended his tournament.

  In his blog post from the previous May, “How I Got to 91 Meters,” he’d written:

  The most important tool in this sport, and the hardest part to train, is your brain. Emotions can be a great detriment to a freediver and one has to learn how to control and focus them into a positive energy.

  Water is acceptance of the unknown, of demons, of emotions, of letting go and allowing your self to flow freely with it. Never lie to the water because you are only lying to yourself.

  It had been six months since his first squeeze, and he was still pushing past where his body wanted to go. He was still lying to the water.

  Iru did well. She hit 70 meters in Constant Weight, set a new national record, and placed sixth overall, but she and many of Nick’s dive buddies were upset that he sulked, then disappeared from the herd after he got injured. They saw it as selfish and didn’t understand why he couldn’t hang and support his friends. When he did venture to the hole, it was during off hours, to test his ear, gently trying to equalize, hoping to get one more dive in before the competition was done. It didn’t happen, but contrary to popular freediver opinion, he hadn’t let his disappointment in the water overwhelm him. He loved being on Long Island. In many ways he’d never felt more free.

  He stayed at the rectory of the St. Peter and St. Paul Catholic Church in Clarence Town to save money. Set on a hilltop, the white plaster church is a stunner. From either of the two double-barrel bell towers Nick could see the vast estuary to the southwest, the Clarence Town harbor, and the barrier islands, which shelter the island’s east coast from the Atlantic. Inside, the church stayed cool, thanks to thick walls. The sanctuary had an arced ceiling, polished cement floors, and a bare-bones altar. It was a pure, simple, healing hall.

  Nick had been to services there with Ashley when they prepared for the world championship, and befriended the priest, Father Doug Grant. Before they left for Nice, Father Doug told him should he ever return, he could stay in the rectory: a prim, tiled house with wood-paneled ceilings and a shaded front porch blessed with the same sweeping views as the church. When he wasn’t busy mopping the floor of the church or helping repair the roof of the bazaar grounds, damaged by a recent hurricane, he’d spend his time on that porch, discussing world peace, religion, love, and the meaning of obscure Beatles lyrics with the American priest, and marveling at the island’s beauty.

  Set in the Bermuda Triangle and intersected by the Tropic of Cancer, Long Island has a homesteader history. Its various hamlets are named after founding families, like the Deans, Hamiltons, and Cartwrights. The island’s tiny museum in Deadman’s Cay, which also has the main airport, offers mockups of old settlers’ houses, along with the glass buoys, basketry, and fishing nets integral for their survival. Older residents fondly recall the gravy train days when Diamond Crystal—the famous salt company—sourced a fair chunk of its sea salt from Long Island. From 1962 to 1984, Diamond Crystal turned the island into a company town. A generation of parents raised their children on those paychecks, but after the company left the island with a gaping economic hole, nothing and nobody filled the void.

  Some folks started their own businesses. Young people headed for Nassau, where they could still find work. Others spiraled into poverty and resorted to subsistence living. Families on the Caribbean side chopped sponges from the sandy bottom and dried them on laundry lines, then exported them to Nassau with their children. Many hunted pigeon and crabs in the mangroves. In other words, the hard homestead times were back, and it was especially difficult for the elderly. That’s where Father Doug stepped in.

  Dispatched to the Bahamas from Providence, New Hampshire, by the archdiocese, Father Doug didn’t care much for church rules or standard protocol. He’d spend most of his hours in the community, passing out cigars, chewing the fat, and getting to know families. The local people had a term for Father Doug’s smoke sessions. They called them Puffing with Padre, and when the padre came across a family that needed a few dollars to make ends meet, he’d hand them money from his own pocket. If they needed help repairing their house, he’d roll up his sleeves and swing a hammer.

  “He was real,” Sean Cartwright said. A lifelong resident of the island, Sean sells conch salad for a living and he and his wife, Lauryn, are the main food vendors at Vertical Blue. “He was always cool with us. He connected so well with everybody.”

  So did Nick, and the islanders felt that too. They’d often see him driving the church’s brown pickup truck to the island’s poorer southern reaches, where he would fetch seniors, and take them to the bank so they could cash their pension checks and go grocery shopping. On Thursdays, he’d take them to Denmore’s for a family-style lunch that the church covered. He adored the long drives, which gave him time to examine the island’s beauty at close range. He stopped to glimpse flamingo flocks in sunrise salt ponds, and explored countless empty white-sand beaches and offshore keys. On calm days he’d drive to the Caribbean side and watch the water and sky blend into one magnificent color over a rippled blanket of white sand.

  He took note of property lines defined by stone pile fences, older homes with collapsed roofs in the midst of a wild bush reclamation process, and newer cinder block constructs framed up and waiting for a phase two that would never come. He saw wild pigs scramble in the bush and hardscrabble goats graze weeds in vacant lots, while their goatherders contemplated in the shade. Mesemerized, he’d watch storms blow in from nowhere on blue-sky mornings, drench the island with a nourishing gale, then fade away. Good thing. Most residents relied on captured rainwater to cook, clean, and live.

  Nick loved everything about Long Island—the pastel-brushed clapboard houses, the tiny stucco abodes, the way drivers would raise a finger in salute as you passed them on the ribbon road. He adored the islanders’ melodic singsong patois and the countless churches, at least two for every persuasion. There were Baptists, Anglicans, Greek Orthodox, and Seventh-Day Adventists. But his favorite was on that hill in Clarence Town—the perfect place to while away an afternoon and l
et his dust settle, his heart open, and his consciousness expand.

  The year 2012 had started with promise and achievement. Nick had emerged from obscurity and nabbed an American record. He’d represented his country, made new friends, and traveled the world. He was disappointed in the way it ended. He would have liked to compete to his full potential in Nice and at Vertical Blue, but within days of his injury another medical emergency helped put Nick’s in perspective. A Spanish diver, Antonio Garcia Abilleira, suffered a pneumothorax, or collapsed lung, while stretching and packing his lungs, preparing for his dive.

  In the medical response to both Nick’s and Abilleira’s injuries, it was revealed that the competition doctor had arrived on remote and rural Long Island without much medical gear. Nick messaged with Meir about it on November 22 in a thread that would prove prophetic:

  Nick: Medical team had good doctors but no equipment! Kinda bullshit. They didn’t even have a blood ox monitor, I have one of those. The guy came with a stethoscope.

  Meir: They should have at a minimum intubation kit, O2, pulseox, aed…

  Nick: That is the problem with this comp. I guess you just have to stay healthy.

  Seeing another athlete airlifted to Nassau with a collapsed lung made an impression on Nick, and he also understood that, were it not for his broken eardrum, his Long Island experience wouldn’t have felt so rich. He’d lost an opportunity to compete, but gained a chance to contribute. On December 2, the morning he flew away, he left a note in the church’s visitors log:

  God has blessed this land, for sure. Thank you to all the people of Long Island. You have opened my heart and set it free in ways I never thought possible….

  Nick Mevoli, Brooklyn, NY, USA

  Soon, a new year would dawn. Nick would allow his body to heal, then rededicate himself to training. He wrote down his goals and shared them with precious few. By year’s end he hoped to break every national depth record on the books, hit 100 meters, and grab one or two pool records too: 2013 was a fresh slate. All dreams were possible.

  Gray storm clouds huddled on the horizon as the sun dawned on Alexey Molchanov, who waited on the small pier for his ride. His head freshly shaved, he rolled into plow pose, his feet kicked overhead toward his outstretched arms, hoping to get loose. Always a hard worker, Alexey is no early riser. At home in Moscow, he wakes when he pleases, then eats and works nonstop—in the gym, the pool, the classroom, and finally on his computer until the wee hours. Days off don’t hold much appeal, but a good night’s sleep is essential. Still, he seemed to relish that September morning light as he readied his body and mind to go deep once more. This time he was headed to 120 meters, hoping to move Mother Russia into contention for a gold medal at the AIDA Team World Championship.

  When the speedboat arrived, Alexey hopped in along with Mike Board. The competition zone was five miles away from Hotel Setar in Cagliari, where the majority of athletes were staying, and two miles offshore. Upon arrival they’d find a flotilla of six boats—some sleek and fast, others lumbering and built for a cruise, along with two buoys stretched out in blue water for about 100 meters from end to end. There would be two competition lines running simultaneously, a vast safety team—including divers on underwater scooters and an ER doc, two teams of judges, several photographers, dozens of athletes, and team coaches. Worlds, whether a team competition like this one, which was held on even years, or individual worlds, held on odd years, were always the biggest competitions of the year.

  Alexey yawned, as if it were just an ordinary workday, and this, his standard commute. Mike had a bit more on his mind. He’d follow Alexey with a dive to 98 meters. The next deepest man in the competition and the leader of the UK team, his dive wouldn’t affect the standings much. That wasn’t his concern. The UK wasn’t a contender for the podium. He was worried about something much more fundamental—his lungs.

  Nearly a month earlier, on August 30, he had a squeeze while competing in a small competition in Kalamata, and after arriving in Sardinia he suffered another small squeeze during training. Now it was competition day, and he wondered how his body would respond. None of his squeezes were major events, like Nick’s or Walid’s. There were only specks of blood in his saliva, and he didn’t feel injured, congested, or constricted. But by the time the athletes gathered on Sardinia, nobody knew how dangerous it was to dive with a squeeze. Athletes like Mike were still waiting to hear what exactly had happened to Nick, and were left to wonder if they were in danger of suffering a similar fate.

  Sardegna, or Sardinia as most know it, is rugged and parched. Its vast plains are brown, its valleys in need of a good rain, but the olive orchards and vineyards never disappoint and neither does its spectacular coastline, best viewed from the open water. As Mike and Alexey disembarked onto one of two dry boats dedicated to the athletes, they glimpsed layers of mountains to the south—some steep and peaked as suddenly as shark fins, others gently sloped. Those up close looked veined and detailed, and it appeared that the Mediterranean had taken bites out of the crumbling cliffs, forming secluded bays fringed with white sand. To the west the island arced along a slender sandbar backed by a maze of estuaries and salt flats until the landmass bunched together again in yet another jigsaw of purple mountains tucked beneath a blanket of cottony clouds.

  In Sardinia, the day began with the deepest diver, and about twenty-five people surrounded Alexey, dressed in a black wetsuit with red sleeves, as he hung off the line in the purpling blue. On his feet was a Molchanova monofin, which he designed and sells to freedivers all over the world, and his wetsuit was a Molchanova too. In freediving, most elite athletes hope to be sponsored. Others buy their gear. Alexey and his mother, Natalia Molchanova, built a brand. The surface rippled with current, and the wind had blown away any threat of rain as he moved toward peak inhalation. It took him over half a minute to sip and pack the air he’d need, before he slipped below.

  Diving in thermal waters offers unique challenges, and at 21 meters the divers would have to penetrate a thermocline, when warmer surface currents comingle with a colder upwelling. Thermoclines are the boundary line, and there was a twenty-degree difference between the surface side and depth. When the athletes passed through, it felt as if they’d stuffed their head into an icy cooler. It was enough to shock their system and temporarily blur their vision. Think of watching a car move through steam rising from a tarmac. That same blurred effect occurs with underwater thermoclines. The cold penetrated their bones, tempted their minds to race and bodies to tense just in time for the freefall, when staying loose was critical.

  Alexey shouldn’t have had a problem. He and the rest of the Russian team had been training in the Mediterranean, off the coast of Croatia, for weeks. His announced dive time was 3:40, and he was on schedule all the way down, hitting 60 meters at one minute. That’s when he faded from sonar. The seconds and minutes ticked by and nobody knew where he was. He was still off the grid as two minutes became three. At three and a half minutes he was still blank, which was disconcerting because it was clear enough to see down to the thermocline, and yet he was still invisible. The safety divers had been deployed, and were waiting for Alexey at 30 meters. They were trained to shake the line and signal the surface safety to deploy the counterbalance if Alexey was in trouble, and each passing second increased the likelihood of such an outcome.

  Even if he did make it back on his own, a dive that stretches into overtime only increases the likelihood of hypoxia and the chance of blackout. One more blackout would doom the Russian men. On the first day of the tournament, during the Static comp, Russia’s very first diver, Aleksandr “Sasha” Kostyshen received a red card when he muffed the surface protocol, giving the okay sign twice, after a Static dive of 6:37.

  Coming into the competition the Russian men figured to battle it out with the defending champs from Croatia for the title, but in team events, one red card can doom even a team as gifted as Russia. Especially since two of the Croatians went over seven minutes in Stati
c and their leader, the world’s best pool diver, Goran Colak, clocked 9:13. Unless Croatia slipped up, Russia was in trouble, and they were finished if Alexey blacked out. If he nailed the 120-meter dive, on the other hand, Russia would still be in position for a medal, and it would at least put some pressure on Croatia to keep diving clean.

  At 3:40 Alexey came into view. His elegant dolphin kicks effortlessly carved the water as he rose up, and at 3:57 he pierced the surface with a smile. He aced the surface protocol, fished the tag from his hood, and elicited several “bravos” from the gallery, including one from the only boat captain in a bikini who happened to be in command of the slickest boat at sea. Everybody loves a winner, but this was a team event. Alexey couldn’t win gold by himself.

  Set amid a rocky notch of peninsulas and hills east of the tidal flats that lead to Cagliari, the Hotel Setar is a brutalist construct of a three-star resort that won’t be winning any design awards. But hosting competitions like this is generally a money loser, and Setar had the price point. It also had a 25-meter pool, which would host the pool disciplines, and a nearby marina where divers could be shuttled to the open water competition zone.

  Plus, the design of a hotel doesn’t much matter when the Mediterranean sun is shining and freedivers from fourteen countries are mingling and competing against one another. The opening ceremony found teams decked out in custom gear. The Croatians and Russians wore bespoke red polo shirts. Team Japan had slick track suits with that blood-red sun on the back. The Danish team took group photos holding their flag. Because there are more competitive freedivers in Europe than on any other continent, AIDA’s world championship events are almost always held in the EU, which makes it difficult for teams from Latin America to attend. Ditto for the Australians and Kiwis. There would be no Team Venezuela or Will Trubridge’s Team New Zealand this time around.