Ever since I can remember, I have been irrationally terrified of exactly two things: peering over a ledge even if the drop isn’t too far, and being submerged in the ocean. I’m not sure where the ledge thing comes from – I’m not afraid of heights, per say. I’ve ridden roller coasters and helicopters and even gone hang gliding, but I cannot bear to look over the railing from the second floor of my house to the first. Similarly, my fear of the ocean doesn’t seem justified. I learned to swim with no complications. I always used to have competitions with my swim team friends to see who could stay at the bottom of the deep end the longest. So I’m not afraid of water.

But something about the ocean is different. Unlike the neighborhood pool, I can’t see the bottom for all of the shifting sand and murkiness. Even in the clearest waters of the British Virgin Islands, I found that I couldn’t wade past my chest without the fear creeping in. Every beach vacation my family has taken, I remained on the beach with a good book, stopping every once in a while only to let the waves tickle my shins.

My dad has tried to take me snorkeling numerous times, only to find himself dragging a flailing, hyperventilating psycho back to shore minutes later. He insists that once I overcome my fear, I’ll love the ocean. Once he realized that snorkeling was more like the fifth step, he tried a new approach. He started with yachts, asking if I’d like to at least spend the day on the water fishing and relaxing. The first time, I got seasick. But he persisted and before long, I was the one suggesting day trips to the other side of the resort. After I learned to love being on the water, my dad decided that I was ready for the next step.

Last fall break, during a relaxing week in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, my dad decided that the four of us would go jet skiing. My sister hopped on the set my mom was steering, which left me with my dad. I shut my eyes and held on tight as we raced out to sea. My dad pushed the skis as fast as they would go; I barely felt the water beneath us as we bobbed up and down in rhythm with the waves. I opened my eyes and thrust an arm into the air, whooping and laughing as the salty spray flirted with my cheeks. I looked back; my mom and sister were catching up. I urged my dad to go faster. In a split second that played out like it was in slow motion, my dad made a sharp left turn at full speed. The momentum threw us from the skis, and I could feel my stomach plummeting as I fell into the deep, dark abyss miles from the shore.

The first emotion that registered was anger. I broke the surface, spitting out salt water and screaming, “What the hell Dad?!” My anger soon gave way to crippling fear as I realized exactly where I was. My head and shoulders were above water, but the rest of my body was submerged. The water was a deep blue this far out; it looked like a great expanse of navy velvet that could easily engulf me forever. My breathing quickened as I looked around for our set of skis, which lay about 20 yards to the left. It felt like 20 miles. With my dad’s help, I managed to make it back onto the skis, still breathing, but barely. We sat there for a few moments, catching our breath and swaying rhythmically with the natural movement of the ocean. Dripping wet and full of fear, I started to laugh. I was alive. True, it wasn’t a near-death experience, but I was out of the water and alive just the same. My dad joined in. Father and daughter became one salty, laughing mess as the Mexican sun beat down on our tan backs, drying the water before I was even cold.