500 Dives and Still at the Surface
I went diving again today. Nothing unusual about that—I’ve been diving a lot lately. In fact, I’ve been diving a lot for a long time. But today was different in one small, almost imperceptible way. You see, SCUBA divers (in case you haven’t had the pleasure of being trapped in a car with one for several hours) are a bit of a nerdy bunch. We love numbers. We track depth, time, gas consumption, ascent rates, and decompression obligations with the obsessive rigor of someone filing a tax return during an audit.
Naturally, I keep a dive log. A detailed one. Not just “Nice dive. Saw a fish.” but one complete with downloaded data from my dive computer: second-by-second records of my undersea dawdling. And that log—bless its little digital heart—told me that today was not just any dive. It was my 500th dive.
Five hundred! That’s a large number, especially if you’re counting, say, paperclips or Nobel prizes. In diving, it’s a milestone—albeit a very relative one. My friend Heather, for example, quit logging at 500. That was approximately a thousand dives ago. So it’s not exactly Everest, but still, it’s a peak of sorts.
We marked the occasion with a dive at one of our favorite haunts: the Breakwall. Initially, we were planning for the more sheltered Burlington Bay—Lake Superior was under gale warnings, and discretion, as they say, is the better part of not getting pounded by surf. But when we arrived, the wind was fierce but blowing from the northwest, keeping the Breakwall oddly calm. Or, rather, the water was calm. The wind itself was doing its level best to shear the top layers of skin from our faces. It was one of those classic North Shore days—rain, sleet, sun, and something that might’ve been snow or possibly existential despair—all within the same five minutes.
The quite side of the breakwall.
That’s one of the unsung pleasures of cold-water diving. Once you descend, the chaos of surface weather becomes irrelevant. You could be in the middle of a horizontal snowstorm up top and never know it once you’re ten feet down. The underwater world is its own domain—quiet, indifferent, and deliciously consistent in temperature.
The dive itself was unremarkable, which is to say it was wonderful. Water temperature: 35°F. Surge: mild. Visibility: surprisingly decent. Life: almost nonexistent. Not a single fish, barely a plant, and nary a shrimp. Lake Superior often feels like diving through a forgotten cathedral—vast, echoing, and largely empty. But the rocks were gorgeous, the sense of space enormous, and there’s something about floating through those underwater canyons that feels deeply soothing.
We spent about an hour poking around the rock formations to the north, then turned the dive at the 30-minute mark—a practical compromise between the spirit of exploration and the need to retain enough finger function to operate zippers. Once back on shore, we sipped hot tea, nibbled sweet treats from 3rd Street Bakery (who are, in my professional opinion, wizards of the sugar-gluten arts), and talked about the dive. And about the number. And what it means—and doesn’t mean—to have 500 dives under your belt.
You see, when you first start diving, you assume—quite reasonably—that 500 dives would turn you into Jacques Cousteau with a GoPro.
You see, when you first start diving, you assume—quite reasonably—that 500 dives would turn you into Jacques Cousteau with a GoPro. That you’d glide effortlessly through the depths, in full possession of arcane knowledge, razor-sharp skills, and the calm wisdom of someone who has truly mastered their craft. But here’s the strange truth: after 500 dives, I feel less like a master than I did at 100.
Back then, ignorance was bliss. I thought I had a handle on things. I could descend, stay off the bottom, keep my air consumption reasonable, and not die. That seemed sufficient. But experience is a sneaky thing. As you accumulate it, it starts to peel back layers you didn’t even know were there. You talk to more divers. You read more. You try new gear. You fumble. You ask questions. And suddenly, you realize that the lake is bigger—much bigger—than you ever imagined.
It’s not just the physics or the physiology or the seemingly endless acronyms (DSMB, SAC, MOD, PO2, WTF). It’s the feeling that every dive opens a door to a room you didn’t know existed. And each of those rooms has more doors. The deeper you go—not just literally, but metaphorically—the more you realize how little you really know.
In recent years, I transitioned to closed-circuit rebreather (CCR) diving. It’s a technological marvel, and also a slightly terrifying one. These machines are brilliant and complicated and demanding. They’re like owning a vintage sports car that also occasionally tries to kill you if you’re inattentive. I’ve got maybe 150–200 hours on mine now, and I’m still very much in the “talk to it nicely and hope it behaves” phase. The CCR world has taught me more about humility than any course or certification ever could. There’s no faking it here—only patience, attention, and slow, steady growth.
No caves for a thousand miles, but Heather—ever the optimist—makes do with a toaster-sized gap in Lake Superior bedrock. Cave spirit, Superior style.
It’s tempting to chase the illusion of mastery. I certainly have. For a while, I thought I was getting pretty slick. My buoyancy was dialed in, my trim decent, my gas management efficient. But the more I dove, the more I realized I was just scratching the surface. Mastery, it turns out, isn’t a finish line—it’s a mirage. You walk toward it, but it always moves farther away. And weirdly, that’s the fun part.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to be “done” with diving. I don’t want to have seen it all, done it all, checked every box. The joy is in the learning. In the quiet “a-ha” moments. In realizing that your previous assumptions were quaint, if not downright hilarious. In that sense, 500 dives isn’t a badge—it’s a doorway. The first big marker on a journey that, with any luck, will stretch on for many more dives to come.
And let’s be honest: it’s also just a whole lot of fun. Diving Lake Superior in winter might sound like an extreme sport invented by people with poor impulse control, but it’s surprisingly accessible and, dare I say, comfortable (as long as you enjoy dressing like a small submarine). Plus, it comes with the bonus of social mystique. Tell people you dive in 33°F water for fun, and they’ll look at you like you’re part Viking, part lunatic.
So yes, 500 dives is a lot. And also, not very much. I’ve logged them in oceans and lakes, warm and cold, solo and with buddies, open circuit and closed. Some were thrilling. Some were downright boring. Many were just solidly okay. But all of them—every last one—taught me something. Even if that something was just how to enjoy a slightly soggy peanut butter and jelly on a windy shoreline.
I’m already thinking about dive 501. Because the lake is still out there. Vast. Mysterious. Waiting.
And so am I.