Contemplating Zeno’s Paradox on the way down

It is hard to describe the feeling in the moments just before the dive. You withdraw from the twenty or so other divers in the boat into a self-absorbed ritual. To others you look focused, going over the plan in your head, while you rig your gear:

The truth is you are afraid, afraid not of the things that could go wrong and whether or not you will know how to recover but of failure to succeed in whatever it is that brought you here on the boat before the things that could go wrong do.

Then, none too soon, it's too late, your trained muscle memory wrestles the decision away from you. You lean out over the bulwark, A slight tilt backward, gravity and the weight of your tank takes you to the edge of the point of no return. It's too late to abandon your courage and climb back in the boat with your dignity untarnished.

Within moments it matters not. Having no time to contemplate Zeno’s Paradox that the other diver's seem occupied with in the race to the bottom, you find yourself venting your BCD. The bare feet of the boat captain standing on the bulwark that you just left is the last thing you see of the surface before your weight drags you down towards the deep. As the light from the shimmering canopy above slowly fades, you can tell how deep you are. White is red. Red is grey, Blue is bluer still. You don't need a depth gauge.

Technology is the now the only thing that distinguishes you from the fish that you see on the way down. They leave you in no doubt that it is now you who is the ξένος.