The Dive I Left Unfilmed
On Sunday, aboard the boat bound for Sivriada, I had four introductory-dive students with me. One of them was still genuinely afraid of going underwater, yet kept returning every weekend despite it. This was their third attempt. And before every dive, the same question came first:
"You’ll film me, won’t you? You’ll take photos, won’t you?"
Before we had even entered the water, their mind was already somewhere beyond it — on how they would look, who would see them, which image they would share. The dive had not begun, and already it belonged to someone else.
That morning, without saying a word to anyone on the boat, I made a decision. I left the camera behind.
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At the Edge of the Platform
Our first test came at the boat’s platform: the moment of stepping into the water. For this student, it was no small step — it was a meeting with a fear that had been gathering for months. I did not rush them. I gave them time.
"Don’t listen to anyone," I said. "Close your eyes. When you are ready, take a deep breath, and before you let it out, let yourself fall into the water."
We waited a long time. But eventually, they jumped.
With that jump, something inside them broke open that I could not see — because the next step, descending underwater, was easier than it had ever been. Those few seconds of courage on the platform carried them all the way below.
The Moment the Eyes Open
It was a beautiful dive. Their awareness was sharp — for the first time, they were truly looking around. They saw the fish. They saw the colours. They noticed the quiet movement between the rocks.
Then, all at once, the old habit returned.
Their hand reached out, searching for the camera. They turned to me and asked.
"There is no camera," I said.
Behind the mask, I saw disappointment in their eyes — small, but real. They had expected something and did not find it. But they did not dwell on it. They carried on with the dive.
"Why Didn’t You Bring the Camera?"
When we surfaced, their first words were: "It was a wonderful dive. I’m so happy I did it."
Their second were: "But why didn’t you bring the camera?"
"Today, we needed to do something," I said. "You needed to be alone with yourself underwater. You needed to make this dive not for other people, but for yourself. And you did. You did it for yourself.
If we had brought the camera, your focus would have gone back to showing something to others. And perhaps you would not have had a dive this beautiful, this enjoyable."
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What the Small Screen Does to Us
The lesson I took from that Sunday was simple, but it stayed with me for a long time:
Sometimes we live for other people. We dive to show others. And while an endless ocean lies before us, we fix our eyes on the tiny screen of a camera — trying to fit the world’s widest, quietest, deepest view into a frame no larger than the palm of a hand.
Every second we spend looking at that frame is a second taken from the place itself. The sea was there. The fish was there. The moment was there. But while we were looking at the screen, we were in none of them.
When we founded Rubelis Beyond, the question we kept asking was this: *What happens after the certificate?* But sometimes the question arrives in a simpler form — what happens after the camera? What remains after the sharing?
That day, I saw an answer in my student’s eyes: what remains is the moment you live without showing it to anyone. The school of fish that no one likes, no one comments on, that only you have seen.
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I Want to Ask You Something
On your next dive, would you try leaving the camera behind?
Perhaps there is something in you, too, that needs to break open underwater — a moment when the urge to show has come before the desire to see. And perhaps leaving the camera behind just once will take you back there: to the part of the sea that is truly yours.
The next time I dive with that student, I will not bring the camera with me. At least not before they ask for it once more, for themselves.