The parking lot was still blanketed in snow, with only a single plowed path looping through it. The lake had calmed somewhat, though occasional rollers still crashed into the shore. We waded in and dropped down, greeted immediately by the underwater equivalent of a washing machine: a swirling mess of sand and sediment. Deeper down, though, the water cleared—somewhat.

Oddly, despite having dived this site at least twenty times, I was immediately disoriented. My compass was behaving like it had personal issues, offering directions that made no sense. Later, Heather informed me that her geologist husband explained the breakwall is rich in magnetite, a naturally occurring iron oxide that, fun fact, is quite magnetic. At the time, though, I simply felt lost.

We swam along what we assumed was a westerly route, until we found ourselves amid some massive boulders—landmarks neither of us recalled seeing before. I tried to ignore my creeping suspicion that we were way off course and paused to take a photo. Fumbling with thick dry gloves and tiny camera buttons, I managed a shot that I actually liked. We continued on, convinced we were heading north, away from the breakwall. Then we encountered an endless flat expanse of sand—another feature we had absolutely no memory of. I signaled to Heather, gesturing in two directions and shrugging in universal diver-speak for “Where the heck are we?” She shrugged back. Not exactly reassuring.

We decided to swim south, hoping to reconnect with the breakwall. Strangely, just a few minutes later, we emerged exactly where we needed to be, suddenly recognizing the rock formations around us. It’s remarkable how easy it is to get turned around underwater. We were, in fact, lost—but not in a distressing, “we-may-never-surface” kind of way. If all else failed, we could always just ascend, look around, and course-correct. Problem solved.

We continued along the breakwall, the visibility decent but the sights unremarkable. At least, that was my assessment. Heather, meanwhile, was battling a frozen regulator, which periodically erupted into a volcano of bubbles. She had to shut it down, switch to her backup, and wait for the frozen one to thaw. She repeated this process multiple times like it was just another Thursday morning dive.

After 35 or 40 minutes, we turned back. The return swim was, again, oddly disorienting. Navigation at this site should be easy—just follow the breakwall—but somehow, we still veered off course. Heather, typically our lead navigator, continued northward more than I thought necessary. Eventually, in about 15 feet of water, she ascended. I assumed she was just popping up for a quick look so we could swim directly back to our exit point, but she motioned for me to join her.

Turns out, her primary regulator had frozen entirely. She had been breathing off a single tank the whole dive and was down to 400 psi—not ideal. Descending again was out of the question. Instead, we swam back on the surface, which wasn’t the preferred option but also wasn’t a big deal.

By the time we emerged, we had been in 33°F water for nearly an hour and a half. We were cold, but the sun was shining, the snow was melting, and a bewildered out-of-town tourist approached us. “Are you guys filming a documentary?” he asked.

A documentary? Me? I wanted to laugh but also couldn’t help feeling just a little bit cool. A documentary filmmaker—now there’s a title I’ll take.

In the end, I managed a photo I liked, had a solid adventure, and got an unexpected ego boost. And to think—I almost stayed home. Which reminds me of my new favorite quote: “The danger of adventure is worth a thousand days of ease and comfort.”

Adventure it is!