Week Five — When Technique, Ego, and Exhaustion Collide
Day One — Pool Day (Dynamic No Fins)
Because of the holidays, we only trained one official day this week. I decided to add a pool session on my own.
That decision came with a reality check.
I need to learn Dynamic No Fins (DNF). Not refine it—learn it. I had never done it before, and it showed.
DNF is considered the most technical discipline in freediving. It requires multiple movements to happen in perfect sync. Timing, relaxation, body position, glide—everything matters. And so far, I’m starting to get it… but only because I’m putting in the reps.
The very first day I tried it, I felt like I was doing karate instead of swimming.
I was supposed to push off the wall, but I felt like I was going to float. My body didn’t cooperate. I’d sink to the bottom of a four-foot-deep pool, try to lift my feet onto the wall, wave my hands to submerge—all of it sounded good in theory.
Then I tried it.
That’s when the karate lessons started.
Swinging. Kicking. Flailing. It looked more like wax on, wax off than swimming. My mind could visualize the movements, but my body had zero interest in cooperating.
I struggled badly.
Day Two — Boat Day (Open Ocean)
It was time for open water. Around here, we just call it Boat Day.
This is where things started falling into place.
I learned that the first two to three dives are “warm-up” dives—meant to activate the mammalian reflex. By the third dive, your body is fully online. You descend and ascend slowly, letting your body feel the pressure while CO₂ builds. That’s when the reflex really kicks in.
So I went down…
And voilà.
I felt like a fucken champ.
This week, Kiril—the owner of the school—was taking us out instead of Dimas. I’ll be honest: the change rattled me. Yeah, that word—change. It surprised me how much it affected me. There was still something I needed to release internally.
Earlier, Kiril had jokingly challenged Dimas about inviting his “friends” to a CO₂ challenge. He was referring to me. I didn’t take offense, but I also didn’t feel the need to explain myself. Machismo energy? Maybe. Either way—not my problem.
Turns out, he’s a pretty fucken cool dude.
He was impressed with my progress. Like most people at the school, he knows my situation: older, retired, diving for fulfillment—not ego, not competition.
That doesn’t fit neatly into society’s boxes.
And yet—we surprise motherfuckers.
I dropped to 15 meters, grabbed the stopper, turned clean, arms stacked one over the other, and calmly climbed the line to about 3 meters before letting go and floating to the surface.
He said, “You look pretty comfortable down there.”
He even dove to 15 meters himself—he wanted to feel how I moved in the water.
Impressed. High five. Compliment.
The next dives went the same way.
My struggle? Constant Weight.
Duck dives. Swimming down upside-down.
I’m a scuba diver. You don’t do that shit in scuba. My body straight-up said:
“Hell fucken no.”
I’m tense. I need to let go. I need to be straight, relaxed, clean on descent.
And I need to go deeper.
I’ve been hanging out at 20–21 meters for two weeks. To pass Wave Two, I need 24–30 meters. And 15 meters No Fins.
Work to do.
Day Three — Pool Day (Again)
Another student joined me for pool training. I thought she was way more advanced than she actually was.
Funny how that works.
She attempted Wave Two performance and failed Dynamic No Fins. By the end of the session, I was doing better than her.
That was a huge relief.
Something clicked.
I started gliding.
My body finally relaxed enough through repetition that things began coming together. Twenty-five meters at a time. Focusing on one component per lap. Not mastering—assembling.
But compared to my karate-lesson beginnings, this was massive progress.
I was gliding.
The Aftermath — Knowing When to Stop
After Day Three, I hit a wall.
I’ve been here over a month, and all I’ve been doing is living freediving.
No fucken way.
I was supposed to go out after lunch, but I felt too full. You can’t eat anything substantial before ocean dives—the pressure makes sure of that. I didn’t want to risk it.
So I told Dimas:
I need a break. A few days. Maybe a week. Maybe longer.
I was done—for now.
I need time to absorb everything that’s happened. To understand where I’m heading. Because while I’m genuinely impressed with what I’ve accomplished, I’m also exhausted.
And here’s the truth:
I don’t have to do this.
The moment it stops being fun, it’s over.
For now.