My name is Marina Brookwater, and I've always been drawn to the water like a magnet pulls iron. Maybe it's simply what deer are. We're graceful by nature and always look for clear streams and serene lakes. Or maybe it's just who I am. My college friends think I'm crazy for spending all of my free time watching scuba diving videos instead of going to parties, but they don't get how much I want to be in the water.
The problem is that the cost of scuba gear exceeds my entire semester's book budget. I've been a part-time employee at the campus bookstore for four years, starting in high school and keeping the job through college. Even with all of my savings, I can't afford even the most basic diving equipment, much less a proper course. So I do what any clever deer would do when she can't pay for lessons: I teach myself. I've spent countless hours watching YouTube videos, reading diving forums, and studying gear reviews. I've memorized safety procedures, studied decompression tables, and learned to identify every piece of equipment. I've never worked with a regulator, but I'm probably more theoretically knowledgeable than some certified divers.
Of course, all that research just made me want the gear even more. That's why finding the diving gear in my dorm room felt like discovering buried treasure—especially on what had started as just another ordinary Tuesday.
I had just finished a tiring afternoon shift at the bookstore, spending the entire day restocking heavy textbooks. I dragged myself back to my dorm room and was about to kick off my shoes and collapse on my bed when I saw something that stopped me cold. There was a large wooden shipping crate sitting on my desk that definitely hadn't been there when I left for work. My heart started racing—had someone broken in? But my door had been locked, and nothing else looked disturbed. Then I noticed a text from my RA, Sarah from a few hours ago: "Delivery came for you while you were out - I signed for it and put it in your room. Hope that's okay!"
Sarah must have opened the door for them. She helps with deliveries every time. But there was something strange about the crate. It didn't appear to have been shipped recently; rather, it was worn and old. It looked as though several shipping labels were stacked on top of one another, and the wood was darkened and scuffed with age, giving the impression that the package had been on its way to my room for a very long time.
Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the crate had faded shipping labels and address stickers stacked on top of one another, giving the impression that it had been sitting for a very long time. Though much of it was smudged beyond recognition, I could make out pieces of some of the labels that were too worn to read, including what appeared to be "A...tic Ad..." and an otter's name, "D. Ottermere," which appeared to be the address of my dorm.
I carefully pried open the crate out of curiosity. Inside was an almost brand-new scuba diving setup, carefully wrapped in plastic and protective foam. I was instantly drawn to the wetsuit - it was a jacket without pants made of pristine black neoprene in the classic beaver tail design I had seen in vintage diving magazines. The surface was as smooth as rubber skin, just like old-fashioned wetsuits used to be. The mask and fins looked pristine, and I could see a weight belt with lead weights tucked alongside them. The regulator was a classic double-hose design, and the tanks had those vintage J-valves I'd seen in old diving photos. But modern air gauges were attached - the original 1950s equipment never had those. Someone had clearly modernized vintage-style gear to make it actually functional. Two steel tanks sat at the bottom, and despite the vintage styling, everything was obviously brand new.
I looked incredulously at the equipment. This was high-quality gear that appeared to have been expertly maintained, not some cheap knockoff. But who would ship me vintage diving gear worth thousands of dollars? I hadn't placed an order, and I most certainly couldn't afford equipment like this.
I took out my phone and looked at Sarah's text again, then examined the crate more closely. That's when I realized the shipping labels weren't just old - they were layered and faded, as if this package had been sitting somewhere for years. Some of the text was completely unreadable, but I could make out fragments: what appeared to be "A...tic Ad..." and a name that might have been "D. Ottermere."
The more I examined it, the more convinced I became that this delivery was a mistake. It looked like the crate had been lost in shipping for years, maybe even decades, before finally making its way to my dorm room. But if it wasn't meant for me, who was D. Ottermere? And why did I have their vintage diving equipment?
With trembling hands, I carefully removed each piece from the crate and examined it all using the knowledge I had gathered over countless hours of research. The regulator looked pristine, with every component gleaming and perfectly assembled. The mask was well-made and modern. The fins fit my hooves perfectly. Everything appeared brand new, as if it had just come from a specialized manufacturer who created vintage-style equipment.
The most striking thing was that the tanks were actually filled with air and ready to use. The air gauges showed full pressure, and everything looked like it had been carefully prepared for diving. This wasn't just display equipment - someone had made sure this vintage-style gear was completely functional and dive-ready.
I couldn't help but try everything on in my dorm room. With my heart pounding with excitement, I undressed and carefully slipped into the wetsuit. It hugged my body snugly without being overly tight, fitting me like it had been made especially for my deer form. The material was thick and substantial, obviously high-quality neoprene that made me feel like a real diver immediately.
Next came the mask. Barely able to contain my excitement, I pulled it over my face, adjusted the strap, and checked the seal around my muzzle. It fit surprisingly well, creating what felt like a perfect seal. Through the clear glass, I couldn't help but grin at my reflection in the mirror - I looked like a real diver, exactly how I'd always imagined myself.
I strapped on the fins, which fit my hooves perfectly, then secured the weight belt around my waist. The lead weights felt substantial but balanced. Next, I carefully assembled the regulator to one of the steel tanks and connected the air gauge. My hands trembled slightly with excitement as I made sure everything was properly connected. I worked my arms through the tank harness and hefted the complete system onto my back. It was heavier than I'd anticipated, but manageable.
Standing in front of my mirror with the full rig on, I felt absolutely ecstatic. I looked like the diver I had always dreamed of becoming. The weight of the tank on my back, the feel of the fins on my hooves, the mask over my face - everything felt so right, so natural. I practiced breathing through the regulator, marveling at the smooth flow of air from the tank through the system, each breath filling me with more excitement.
For several minutes, I stood there in my small room, fully suited up, going through mental checklists and practicing the procedures I'd memorized from videos. The regulator functioned flawlessly, delivering clean air with each breath. Everything seemed to work perfectly, just as if it had been professionally serviced.
The tanks were full. The equipment was functional. Cedar Lake was just fifteen minutes away—I'd swum there countless times growing up. The water was clear, not too deep near the shore, safe and familiar. This was fate, wasn't it? The universe finally giving me my chance to experience what I'd dreamed about for so long.
As I carefully removed the equipment and put it back in the crate, my mind was already racing to tomorrow. Then I paused. This wasn't actually mine - D. Ottermere was mentioned on those faded labels. Wouldn't it be wrong to take it? But it had been delivered to my room, to my address. The package had clearly been lost in shipping for years before ending up here. Maybe D. Ottermere was whoever lived in this room before me - I could probably find out from the housing office. The university kept records of previous residents.
Torn between my conscience and my desperate desire to finally try diving, I stared at the crate. Four years of saving every penny, four years of dreaming, and here was a complete setup sitting in my room. Sure, I could track down the previous resident, but that might take days of paperwork and phone calls. What if D. Ottermere had graduated years ago and moved away? What if they'd really given up on this lost package?
Maybe I could test the gear first - just one dive at Cedar Lake - then do the responsible thing and find its owner. That way, if D. Ottermere was long gone, at least the equipment wouldn't go to waste. And if I found them, I could return it knowing I'd finally gotten to experience what I'd dreamed about for so long.
After all, it was delivered to my address. One dive first, then I'd do the right thing. Nobody would be harmed. What could go wrong?
She Thought She Was Ready Because She Trained in Theory
The next morning, I strapped the tank securely to my motorcycle and packed the diving equipment into my backpack. I'd bought the used scooter during my sophomore year - nothing fancy, but it beat walking everywhere and was all I could afford. The fifteen-minute ride to Cedar Lake felt like an eternity as I carefully maneuvered with the extra weight.
Cedar Lake had once been an abandoned limestone quarry before it filled with water. I'd been swimming in the shallow parts since I was a child. The limestone walls made the water incredibly clear—almost like glass. Near the shore, it was safe and familiar territory, only twenty feet deep at most, with fish darting between the underwater plants. But somewhere in the deeper areas, I'd heard stories of old cars and mining equipment where the bottom dropped away into the original quarry pit.
I spent some time at the water's edge going over each piece of equipment, my hands trembling with excitement as I double-checked everything against my mental knowledge. The regulator worked flawlessly when I tested it. The fins fit snugly over my hooves. The vintage-style wetsuit fit my deer form perfectly. Despite my eagerness, I forced myself to be methodical - I'd studied safety procedures too long to rush now. Standing at the water's edge, fully suited up with the steel tank heavy on my back and the weight belt around my waist, I felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness that made my heart race. I glanced at my air gauge—full pressure, perfect. This is it—my first real dive. I waded into the cool lake water.
It was a descent of magic. More than I could ever imagine. The underwater world of Cedar Lake was revealed to me, complete with golden columns of sunlight, schools of perch gliding between submerged logs, and the steady hiss of my breathing through the regulator. Silver bubbles danced upward toward the surface with each exhale, their soft burbling adding to the symphony of this quiet world.
As though I had been meant for this, I felt graceful and comfortable. As I took in every aspect of this underwater paradise, time seemed to slow down. Everything felt so different in this weightless world, and I was amazed at how easy and fluid my movements seemed. I could feel the faint current stroking my fins as the cool water pressed softly against my wetsuit. A bass hovered near the bottom, its gills fluttering rhythmically as I ran my bare hands along the smooth, waterlogged bark of a fallen tree.
The steady whisper of air flowing through the vintage regulator reminded me to check my gauge - plenty left. This exceeded my expectations.
Two figures caught my attention in the distance - freedivers, a pair of otters moving gracefully through the water without any equipment. With remarkable breath-holding ability, the female dove down while the male stayed close to the surface. She swam closer to me, then looked at me and appeared to pause for a moment, curious about the deer with all the scuba gear. She even waved at me, as though to say hello, before she had to surface for air.
I chose to go farther into the lake after giving the otter a friendly wave in return. I was left alone in my underwater paradise as the otters vanished toward the surface. I was curious to see what might be hiding among a group of submerged rocks that I had seen in the distance, so I swam toward them.
But after about ten minutes, I began to realize something wasn't quite right. The air had an odd flavor, not quite metallic, but not quite right. Like pennies melting on my tongue, a bitter layer stuck to the back of my throat. I initially thought it was just normal. Maybe that was just the way compressed air was supposed to taste because I had never breathed from a tank underwater before. There had never been any reference to flavor in the videos.
I started to feel a little queasy as the odd taste grew stronger over time. A stomach ache that I first thought was caused by excitement or nerves. I ignored it and kept on exploring, but the sensation grew worse over time. My head started to sag, and I became aware that I was struggling to focus on my surroundings. It took more concentration than it should have to even focus on the fish swimming nearby.
The longer I was down, the more uneasy I felt. The nausea was getting worse, and I felt oddly lightheaded yet strangely disconnected, as if I were floating outside myself. My vision was a little blurry around the edges, and I could feel an odd fatigue creeping over me. My gauge still showed plenty of air, but for a moment I considered coming to the surface. Something was obviously wrong, but I was unable to pinpoint it. I didn't think my first dive would feel like this.
Then suddenly my legs felt like lead, and the regulator seemed to be working harder to deliver air to my lungs. My fingers traced the regulator hose unconsciously, as if I could diagnose the problem by touch.
At first, I thought I was just excited, breathing a little faster than I should. But as I tried to slow my breathing down, I realized something was seriously wrong. I was pulling air through the regulator, but it felt... inadequate. Each breath came with a raspy wheeze through the mouthpiece, like sucking air through wet fabric. Like I was breathing, but not getting enough oxygen. My chest began to feel tight, starved. The overwhelming taste made me feel like I was drowning underwater. My throat tightened as though rejecting the contaminated air, but I couldn't stop breathing it—it was all I had. I began coughing violently around the regulator, each spasm sending sharp bursts of bubbles shooting upward. Between the coughing fits, I had to gasp for more of the tainted air, which only made everything worse. Panic crept in as I realized I was essentially suffocating while surrounded by my own air bubbles. With every breath, the coughing and choking intensified. I tried to take a deeper breath, but it only triggered more violent spasms that wracked my entire body. Something was seriously wrong with the air in this tank, but I couldn't identify what. My vision started to blur at the edges.
I kicked toward the surface, but panic makes you clumsy. My movements became desperate and erratic. The weight belt around my waist felt impossibly heavy, pulling me downward with every stroke. I knew I wasn't that deep, but the surface seemed so far away. My heart pounded so forcefully I could hear it pulsing in my ears. The light filtering down from above appeared strange—swimming and fractured. My lungs burned with each inadequate breath.
The world began to fade. When the poisoned air finally overtook my system entirely, my desperate thrashing slowed. The violent coughing that had been tearing through my body grew weaker and eventually stopped. I caught a glimpse of strong strokes slicing through the water above me—the otter swimming toward me on a single breath—before everything went dark. I never felt the powerful paws that seized me.
A Second Chance Comes with a Heavy Debt
When consciousness slowly returned, I was lying on my back on the rocky beach, gasping and coughing up lake water. All of my diving equipment, including my mask, fins, tank, and regulator, was carefully taken off and strewn all over me. An otter was kneeling next to me, her paws still resting on my chest from what must have been CPR compressions a few seconds earlier.
"Easy, easy," she said, her voice calm but concerned. "You're okay now. Just breathe normally. You're safe."
I coughed up more water when I tried to speak. I felt weak and confused, and my chest hurt and my throat burned.
The otter quickly reached for a small emergency kit beside her and pulled out a portable oxygen mask connected to a compact tank. "Here, this will help," she said gently, positioning the clear plastic mask over my muzzle. "Just breathe normally. It'll help you breathe better."
I felt instant relief as the cool, pure oxygen entered my lungs. Compared to the polluted air I'd been fighting with underwater, every breath felt clearer and cleaner. The burning sensation in my chest started to subside, and my heart's rapid beat slowed.
The otter went on to check my pulse. "My dad went to call for an ambulance. You really frightened us down there. I pulled you up while you were totally unconscious."
I managed to croak out a feeble "Thank you."
The otter grinned, but I could still see the worry in her eyes. "Don't mention it. That's why we're here. Do you feel better now? Any chest pain or trouble breathing?"
I shook my head, though everything still ached. "Just... tired. Sore."
"That's normal after what you went through," she said. "The paramedics should arrive shortly to check you over and make sure everything's alright."
I gazed at my scattered diving equipment before turning back to her. "I truly appreciate you being here. I'm not sure what might have happened if..."
"Hey, no need to think about that," She interrupted gently. "You're safe now. That's what matters."
While we waited for the ambulance, she engaged in small talk to keep me alert and calm. She introduced herself as Diana and shared her experiences with freediving—how she and her father often came to Cedar Lake to practice breath-holding techniques. She reminded me that she was the freediver who had swum closer to get a better look at me underwater, and that we had waved at each other. Looking at my scattered diving equipment on the shore, her expression became more intrigued.
After a few minutes, her gaze drifted to my diving equipment scattered around us, and her expression grew more serious. "I think you may have been breathing contaminated air, based on what I saw down there—the way you were coughing and choking. It's more common than people realize."
I looked at her weakly, still trying to process what had happened. "Contaminated?"
"Sometimes when gear sits unused for a long time, or if there's a problem with the compressor that filled the tanks, you can get toxins mixed in with the air," Diana explained, her voice gentle but concerned. "The fact that you were coughing and choking so violently suggests your body was trying to reject whatever you were breathing."
As the pieces came together, my blood grew cold. "You mean... I was breathing poison?" Diana nodded grimly. "The equipment itself looks fine, but that doesn't tell you anything about what's in the tank."
I stared at the beautiful gear with fresh understanding and horror. What I had believed to be my dream come true had almost killed me. "I had no idea something like that could happen."
"It's exactly why reputable dive shops test their air regularly and why you should never use tanks from unknown sources," Diana said, continuing to watch me closely. "Equipment needs proper maintenance and inspection, but most importantly, you need to know the source of your air supply."
Diana turned to look at the road as the sirens grew louder. "Looks like they're almost here."
When the paramedics arrived, they confirmed I was stable but insisted on taking me to the hospital for observation. As they loaded me into the ambulance, Diana handed me her business card.
"I run a dive shop in town," she said. "If you ever want to talk about diving or need any equipment properly checked out, feel free to stop by. What's your name, by the way? After all of this, I want to make sure you're alright. You can't bring all of this equipment to the hospital, so would you mind if I kept it in my shop? Before you use it again, I can thoroughly inspect it to ensure everything is secure."
"Marina," I managed to say weakly, accepting the card without really looking at it. "Marina Brookwater. And thank you... for everything. Yes, please keep the equipment - I'd really appreciate that." I tried to think through my foggy mind. "Is it okay if I leave my scooter and bag near the trail entrance for the time being?"
"Of course, don't worry about any of that. Your things should be perfectly safe there. Just focus on getting better."
With genuine concern, Diana said, "Well, Marina, take care of yourself."
My mind still hazy from the experience, I gripped the card as the ambulance doors closed. I found myself trying to concentrate my still-clouded thoughts as we pulled away from the lake, looking down at the business card in my shaking paws. The letters initially appeared to be swimming in front of my eyes, but eventually they became clear: "Diana Ottermere - Aquatic Adventures."
DIANA OTTERMERE. It's HER!, She is the D. Ottermere.
The realization struck me like a physical blow, and my blood went cold. The crate's faded shipping labels read "D. Ottermere" with shards of "A...tic Ad....." The equipment I had discovered, the equipment that had almost killed me, had always been intended for her. I had stolen diving gear from the same woman who had just saved my life.
I'm Marina Brookwater, and I nearly lost my life pursuing my dreams with equipment that appeared flawless but carried a fatal flaw. I'm only here to properly chase those dreams because of a watchful otter named Diana. My chest tightened again as the crushing weight of gratitude and guilt settled over me, mixed with the realization that the equipment belonged to my rescuer. The fact that I had stolen from the person who put her life in danger to save mine was like being drowned again.
The question now wasn't just what I would do with this second chance, but whether I had the courage to return what was rightfully Diana's and how I could possibly face her again after what I'd done. Sometimes the opportunities that appear to be exactly what you've been hoping for can be the most dangerous traps. And sometimes the truths that force you to confront who you really are can be the most difficult to accept.
