Lost in the Depths

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When I worked with scientists on Barataria Bay during the Deepwater Horizon well blowout, our bay boats would launch before sunrise every day. During one of those missions, a biologist dropped a valuable pair of digital binoculars into the water which promptly sank to the bottom of the bay. The location was marked with GPS, and I volunteered to dive for them the next day. With temps soaring up to 100° every day, I considered myself lucky to be the one on the boat that got to jump in the water.

The next morning was already sweltering, so once we arrived, I wasted no time and jumped in, anticipating an energizing splash into cool water. Instead, I was immersed in bathtub-like warmth that offered no such relief from the heat. I adjusted my goggles and started my dive but immediately felt disoriented. The water was so murky with muddy sediment that I could not even see my own hand in front of my face. As I started a completely blind dive, I wondered how I’d find those binoculars once I got to the bottom. I was warned that the oyster shells lining the floor of the bay were razor sharp, so feeling around for the binoculars would be a limited option at best. I contemplated how, on my way back up, I would avoid knocking myself unconscious on the hull of the boat, being neither able to see it nor gauge my vertical velocity. Suddenly I was in a claustrophobic world of hidden dangers on a doubtful mission, clawing through a blind murk, limited to the oxygen within my lungs and whatever sense of up and down I had. I could not tell if the water surface was as close as a foot above me or as far as ten. And all of those doubts threatened to bring into play the worst variable of all—panic.

When situations get dicey, I am generally blessed with the ability to maintain a level head. But I also know when my needle is dancing close to the red zone, and despite having been in more dangerous situations in my life, I don’t think I have ever come as close to the fear I felt that day. Once I broke the surface—having failed to reach the bottom on my first blind dive—I knew I wasn’t going to try for a second.

If you have read this far, you are probably wondering why I am relating this seeming random event from my past. The answer is a name: Saman Kunan. He was the former Thai Navy Seal who lost his life trying to save the lives of others trapped in a cave in Thailand. It is hard to describe the kind of courage it takes to venture deep into one of the most inhospitable environments in the world, squeezing through tight underwater passages with limited oxygen and no visibility. My fear was getting lost underwater in a huge bay where the surface was never more than ten feet away, with nothing between me and life-saving oxygen except perhaps the hull of a boat. To cave dive, however—to squeeze through twisted, narrow, underwater passages with full commitment, knowing there was no turning back and no guarantee of being able to surface if oxygen is needed—amplifies many-fold upon the fear I could not handle.

I am talking about fear and courage in situations that promise the former and demand the latter. And this informs how striking to me are the parallels between what is happening at the US-Mexico border and that watery cave in Thailand. In both cases, parents and children are separated. The parents understand their children are alive, yet they cannot find them or reach them. The analogy, however, falls apart at an unsettling truth. In Thailand, we are seeing courage exercised at the highest levels to remedy a situation nobody planned on. Here at our border, however, we are seeing cowardice exercised at the lowest level, perpetuated by a situation of our own creation.

The convergence of these events with Independence Day is notable. It is the one day that we remember who we are as a country, a chance to connect once again with our national identity of which independence is the most intrinsic piece. It was won for us by 56 courageous men who pledged to each other their lives, fortunes, and honor. Generations since then have carried the banner they set, proving truth to our anthem that the land of the free can only exist if it is also the home of the brave. But I question the bravery of those who would follow the xenophobic rants of a would-be strongman with promises of keeping us safe. It is cowardice to build a wall where a golden door once stood. And when that cowardice grows to the point of hurting children—as we are doing at our border—it is particularly disturbing and should dig deeply at the conscience of every American.

History teaches us that cowards never remain free for long. They are ruled by their fears, and then by the tyrants who step in with promises of deliverance. Bravery is requisite to freedom. And it is essential to character. Nations define who they are to the world by the way they treat the children. That message echoes loudly today, from caging kids in detention centers on the borders of an ailing democracy to braving the murky depths of a flooded cave in Southeast Asia to save them.
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Photo credit: Getty Images
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