Scuba Sanctuary
"Dive instructor Hana teaches SCUBA in the Red Sea. When burnt-out executive Patrick seeks escape underwater, she shows him depths beyond the ocean. 'Taht al ma' ninsa' (تحت الماء ننسى) - Underwater we forget."
"Breathe."
Patrick couldn't. The weight of water, of life, of everything pressed down.
"Look at me." Hana's eyes through her mask were calm. "Breathe with me."
Somehow, underwater, he found air.
Patrick O'Brien had run corporations for twenty years. A panic attack at forty-eight sent him to the Red Sea seeking something doctors couldn't prescribe.
"Why diving?" Hana asked during surface interval.
"Because everyone said I'd fail at it." He looked at the waves. "I'm very good at succeeding. Terrible at failing."
"Taht al ma' ninsa'." Underwater we forget. "Maybe that's what you need."
She'd taught thousands to dive—businessmen, celebrities, royalty. None had fought harder against their own fear.
"Why do you want this so badly?" she asked.
"Because nothing up there works anymore." He gestured at the shore. "Maybe down there, something will."
Weeks of lessons. Patrick progressed from panic to competence.
"You're better," Hana observed.
"I have a good teacher."
"You have a stubborn one."
"Dive with me," he requested one sunset. "Not as instructor. As... companion."
"Patrick—"
"I know it's inappropriate. I know you're professional." He met her eyes. "I also know I've never breathed easier than with you."
The first kiss happened at the surface—masks off, pretenses dissolving.
"This is complicated," Hana breathed.
"Complicated is my specialty."
They made love in her beachside quarters, sea audible through every window.
"You're incredible," Patrick murmured.
"I'm a dive instructor."
"You're a healer." He kissed her curves. "You taught me to breathe."
His mouth traced paths down her body like descent into depth—controlled, exploratory. When he reached her center, Hana arched like surfacing.
"Aktar," she gasped. "Patrick, aktar!"
"Equalizing pressure."
"Terrible metaphor."
"Best I have."
She came with waves audible, pleasure washing over her. Patrick rose, grinning.
"Passing the course?"
"Preliminary certification." She pulled him close. "Advanced training required."
He filled her with a groan, both moving in ocean rhythms.
"Tá grá agam duit," he gasped in Irish.
"Translation?"
"I love you."
They moved together like synchronized divers—trusting, coordinating.
"I'm close," he warned.
"Sawa." She held him tight. "Ma'aya."
They crested together, pleasure surfacing explosively. Patrick held her as heartbeats normalized.
"I'm not going back," he said.
"To Ireland?"
"To that life." He kissed her forehead. "I want this one. With you."
He sold his company, became a dive guide, found purpose beyond profit.
"How did you change so completely?" former colleagues asked.
"I learned to breathe," he answered simply.
Their wedding was held underwater—friends and family certified, vows written on waterproof slates.
"Taht al ma' ninsa'," Hana repeated.
"I don't want to forget," Patrick countered. "I want to remember this forever."
Some escapes, they'd learned, weren't about running away. They were about diving deep—into water, into self, into love that taught you to breathe.