Solo, Submerged, and Slightly Bemused
For reasons that defy logic, and the American weekend ideal, I spend most Saturdays and Sundays cloistered inside a hospital. There are perks, of course—extra pay, a blissful absence of meetings, and no chance of being recruited for an impromptu morale committee. But it also means that family events must be extracted from my vacation hours like teeth from a crocodile—grudgingly and with lasting regret.
This year, however, the Fourth of July had the good sense to fall on a Friday, gifting me with an entire weekend of freedom. The girls were pursuing their admirable habit of wandering the world: Grace communing with friends at the world-famous Whitefish chain of lakes, and Isabel sailing the Connecticut waters on a whim with her boyfriend’s sister aboard a vessel so well-appointed that she had her own bedroom.
Shari and I managed a bit of civilized revelry—music, friends for dinner, and the opportunity to prepare two of life’s great pleasures: BBQ pulled pork and Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill potato salad, which is essentially potatoes dressed in mayonnaise, elevated by cilantro and spices into something approaching the sublime.
By Saturday, Grace returned under skies that had adopted their default Duluth setting—gray and drizzly. She was promptly dispatched to the airport the next morning, chauffeured by Shari, who possesses both the patience and the playlists for such missions. I was left, miraculously, with a full day to myself. No obligations. No errands. No social compromise.
So naturally, I went diving.
Now, diving is not an unusual choice for me. But this time, my usual dive buddy had absconded to Canada, leaving me to engage in that most misunderstood of underwater indulgences: the solo dive.
To mention solo diving in polite scuba company is to invite the same reaction you might get announcing that put pineapple of your pizza. The buddy system has been the bedrock of scuba since Jacques Cousteau first strapped on tanks, and questioning it is tantamount to heresy. But as any technical diver worth their O-rings will tell you, properly trained solo diving—redundant gear, self-reliant planning, grim awareness of your own fallibility—is not reckless. It’s mindful. It’s meticulous. It’s meditation with depth gauges.
And I love it.
I drove to Cuyuna Country State Recreation Area, a name that sounds like a rejected Looney Tunes character but is, in fact, a glorious example of Minnesota’s ability to turn old mining disasters into recreational nirvana. Huntington Pit was my destination—a former iron quarry now flooded with spring water, clarity, loads of fish, and the occasional relic of industrial ambition.
Driving alone with only my thoughts and a pile of dive gear clinking quietly in the back.
I arrived just after 8 AM. The Miner’s Mountain Rally Center, empty but impressive, welcomed me with 800 acres of mountain bike trails, bathrooms, changing room, a handful of bikers, but not a single other person interested in submerging themselves, voluntarily. Perfect.
I spread my gear across a picnic table like a rebreather-obsessed octopus. If you’ve never seen a technical diver prepare for a dive, imagine someone packing for a moon mission while muttering about D-rings and bailout bottles. After a quick systems check and a photo of the gloriously empty beach, I entered the water.
An empty shore, and enough dive gear to alarm a passing park ranger. Silence makes the best dive buddy.
The surface layer was pleasantly warm—mid-60s Fahrenheit. Below the thermocline, it plunged into the 40s, a temperature differential that will clear your sinuses whether you want them clear or not. Visibility was a respectable 15 feet. Not quite the crystalline perfection of my last dive here with Heather, but enough that I might manage a few good photos.
For two hours, I wandered. No objectives. No distractions. Just me, the camera, and whatever fish hadn’t yet developed an exit strategy. I passed several majestic pike—long, toothy beasts with an uncanny talent for exiting the frame a half-second before the shutter clicks. I admired schools of panfish glowing in slats of refracted sunlight and took entirely too long perfecting a self-portrait setup involving a full tripod, three-second timer, and underwater choreography that made me feel like a mermaid auditioning for America’s Got Talent.
No crowd, no chatter—just bluegill, and the sort of light that makes you forget the world above entirely.
When I finally decided to ascend I aimed for my original exit point, only to discover it had been overrun. Legs. Dozens of legs. Adults, children, dogs, all milling waist-deep in what had been my private lake. Not wishing to breach beneath a stranger’s Speedo, I kicked sideways, scanning for an emptier patch of shoreline. It was futile.
When I surfaced, it was as if I’d emerged through time. My quiet sanctuary had transformed into a Norman Rockwell beach scene: squawking toddlers, sunscreen-slicked inflatable rafts, people grilling things. A teenager shouted “Whoa!” as I rose from the deep, trailing hoses and looking like a minor Marvel villain.
From solitude to a sunscreen-slicked Sunday in 120 minutes flat. Welcome to summer, population: everyone.
I became an instant curiosity. A Duluth woman, once a diver herself, asked about getting her kids involved. We chatted about programs and fish and why diving should be a family sport. Her six-year-old interrogated me on depth, species, and line placement with the intensity of a young Jacques Cousteau. It was charming. Also exhausting.
I peeled off my gear in three trips, then savored a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and a podcast about something I can no longer recall. Somewhere between Crosby and Aitkin, I broke my vow not to stop and treated myself to a Blizzard at Dairy Queen. Because some days deserve dessert.
And that was it—a dive with no plan, no pressure, and no partner. Just me, the water, the fish, and the reminder that, sometimes, doing the thing you’re not supposed to do is exactly what makes you feel most alive.