It began with all the trappings of a lovely dive day: sun shining gallantly overhead, a cheerful breeze from the north, and an optimistic forecast. You’d think this would be a green light for calm waters and smooth diving. You’d be wrong.

As it happens, Lake Superior had decided to host its own private tantrum. The waves at Two Harbors, normally a safe harbor (hence the name), were rolling in like they’d read Moby Dick and were feeling inspired. Burlington Beach, our backup site, proved to be equally disagreeable, offering a less dramatic entrance but with the added bonus of a quarter-mile slog through waist-deep water. Delightful.

Still, the waves were coming in sets—there was, allegedly, a rhythm to the chaos—so we figured if we timed it just right, we might sneak in between the watery haymakers. We spent several minutes on the beach squinting at the surf like a couple of overly cautious meerkats, muttering things like “that one wasn’t too bad” and “if we go now, maybe…”

So off we went. Suited up and weighed down with enough equipment to stage a small lunar expedition (roughly 130 pounds in my case), I made a mad dash for the water, clambering over rocks with the grace of a very determined walrus. Miraculously, I reached chest-deep water without falling flat on my face. I allowed myself a brief moment of triumph.

Heather, alas, was not so lucky. One moment she was upright, the next she was being fully flattened by a wall of water. She popped up, fought for balance, and was immediately body-slammed by another wave. It was like watching someone try to wrestle a bed sheet in a hurricane. Eventually, she managed to crawl and swim her way into deeper, calmer water, but she looked—how shall I put this—thoroughly displeased with the experience.

I suggested we abort the dive. Heather, usually the tougher of the two of us and not easily rattled, nodded at once. This alone was enough to make me slightly alarmed.