When the cold water started seeping into my dry suit, I momentarily thought this would be the dive that pushed me over the edge. This was my biggest fear playing out in real-time, with no easy escape. But, we were out in calm waters on the search for something so spectacular that even a flooded drysuit couldn’t stop the quest—not for anyone, and certainly not for me. I was using new gear and frankly hadn’t even had a proper opportunity to test my suit in cold water yet before heading out on the expedition trail. To top it off, my drysuit training happened over a year and a half ago. It turns out just reading materials to refresh skills wasn’t quite enough to prepare me for the experience I was in store for.
We were in Halifax, Nova Scotia, about an hour and a half north of the city, diving in the shallows around the 1,000 Islands Archipelago—a remote, pristine area of the province. There were rumors that a rare Greenland shark had been spotted just a day before, and our on-site partner, the brilliant Professor Boris Worm of Dalhousie University, was eager to show us the wild side of his home waters. With Boris at the helm of a brand new electric car (one that he was very proud of might I add) we sped through the stunning northeastern landscapes, our excitement building as he shared facts about Halifax, the highs and lows of life there, the significance of this shark sighting, and tales from his own career as a world-renowned ecologist.
He reminisced about his years living in the woods, a time when he embraced a lifestyle that could easily be mistaken for that of a mad scientist, and somewhat reminiscent of “Walden Pond.” Isolated from humanity, Boris set up his makeshift lab in a small cabin with hardly any electricity, relying on the bare essentials to conduct his experiments. His neighbors, intrigued by his reclusive ways and curious about his unconventional work, would often check in on him to make sure he was surviving and had a nice meal from time to time.
The solitude allowed him to fully immerse himself in his research, free from distractions, and connect with nature in a profound way. It was a period of his life that he clearly looked back on with deep fondness—he shared details of this former chapter of his life with a profound sense of nostalgia. Interestingly enough though, his former reclusive state contrasts sharply with the more public-facing, academic role he occupies today. But after getting to know Boris a bit more, the life he described to us so vividly seemed more and more like a perfect fit for this deep intellectual.
When we finally arrived at a small waterside community in what certainly was the middle of nowhere Nova Scotia, we kitted up and hopped onto a lobster fisherman’s boat, accompanied by his wife and another couple from the neighborhood—people Boris only knew through the grapevine who clued him into the sighting only a day prior. And off we went, on a quest to find the elusive Greenland shark in these calm, clear, and visibly chilling waters.
Exploring a rarely frequented part of the ocean, where only a handful of divers had likely ever ventured, and searching for a Greenland shark so far south of its usual range was wild enough. But the aforementioned flooding in my suit only heightened the stakes. Despite my discomfort, I was determined to push through. There was a mission at hand, and the chance to search for a Greenland shark with Boris was enough to keep me in the game. After all, Greenland sharks are some of the oldest creatures on earth, living typically for 250 years, with some said to live up to 500 years in the Atlantic depths down to 2,000 meters.
The thing about crushed neoprene drysuits is that they retain some heat even when wet, unlike their trilaminate counterparts, which leave you out in the cold once they spring a leak. Although it didn’t feel like it at the moment, I kept reminding myself that the suit was at least somewhat insulating. When it came to mastering drysuit diving, I knew there would be a learning curve, I knew there would be flooding, and I knew I’d have to live through the discomfort on our cold-water expedition legs at some point in time. But I didn’t expect it to happen like this, in the presence of an industry legend, on a dive with so much at stake. Diving teaches you early on that there’s no shame in admitting your mistakes. We’ve all made them, we’ve all had to navigate the learning curve, and owning up to them is a mark of respect in the diving community. If you hide your mistakes, you put yourself and others at risk. But by sharing your struggles, and expressing your vulnerabilities, you’ll often be pleasantly surprised to be met with camaraderie.
After what felt like an eternity diving, and burning through my air due to the shivering and clenching of every single muscle in my body, we surfaced from our first dive. Boris was convinced the shark was nearby, even if we hadn’t spotted it yet. His optimism was contagious, fueling the sense that we were on the verge of some remarkable breakthrough. He went on to share fact-after-fact about this shark—that they eat anything that comes their way, from moose to fish; they are usually blinded by parasites that attach themselves to the sharks’ eyes; they swim remarkably slowly—the list went on. And all Boris wanted to do was find this animal, in his waters, on his turf, and in this every moment.
Boris’s enthusiasm, coupled with his deep knowledge, made this feel like a treasure hunt—an experience even worthy of celebration by this famed scientist who has seen so much in his career. This alone was keeping the cold pain at bay—at least mentally. Physically, I couldn’t hide it as my body shook violently. Aside from Boris, we were also in the company of a local divemaster from a dive shop called Torpedo Rays, Alana Canaran. She was working with us to chart out the site and report back to the dive shop what was happening further up north on sites they hardly visit, if ever. When we surfaced from our first dive, Alana was in full pro-mode, helping me troubleshoot the issues with my suit and figuring out how to address them even on the spot.
The experience was in fact quite surreal—flooded, freezing, and fumbling through, yet somehow completely exhilarating all the while. After a second dive, equally challenging and my drysuit now pooling cold water at the feet on the inside, we returned to the dock where more neighbors greeted us with towels, cookies, cheese, and crackers—total strangers who welcomed us as if we were their distant relatives from out of town. They didn’t know who we were or why we were there, but they embraced us all the same, asking us question after question and admiring our matching, brand new suits.
What struck me most about Halifax and Canada in general, was how genuinely welcoming people were. The conversations were endless—with each newfound friend sharing stories of how they ended up here, why they stayed, and what they’d witnessed in these waters over the years. In particular, they were all very keen to share that JFK’s family had a house nearby, although they’d never seen anyone step foot in it. They told us about changes in marine life, with warmer waters bringing unexpected species further north. Today, however, the cold had returned, and with it, the possibility of encountering a Greenland shark in these Canadian seas that had the neighborhood buzzing.
We never found the Greenland shark, but we did uncover something equally significant—evidence of its presence, marked by imprints on the seafloor that hinted at the massive creature’s recent visit. Whether it had moved on or would return, we couldn’t say. What I did find myself, however, was a deepened resolve to push through, even in one of the most uncomfortable ocean experiences I’ve faced to date. That day, I embraced the reality of the long, challenging journey ahead—a journey that demanded patience, perseverance, and a willingness to confront my own limitations head-on.
These dives marked the true beginning of our cold-water expedition—a chapter that would take us from the frigid waters of Canada to the icy glaciers of Alaska, the fissures of Iceland, and the Atlantic chill of Scotland. It would test our dedication to the sport of diving and our commitment to exploring the ocean’s best kept secrets. The discomfort I felt on that day was a glimpse into the trials that lay ahead. But even in those moments of doubt, the thought of encountering an ancient behemoth, one that has survived for centuries against all odds, made the struggle so worth it. This journey was going to be about learning to accept discomfort and finding a way to come out stronger on the other side. This wasn’t the last time we’d have gear issues. But I trusted that in time, drysuit diving would become second nature, all of course with patience and practice. As we emerged from the cold water, I couldn’t help but think how eager I was to be there right now, when this second nature had taken hold.
It brought together people from all walks of life—scientists, divers, writers, content creators, fishermen, retirees—all united by a shared passion for discovery who would have never crossed paths otherwise. The ocean has a unique way of connecting us, forging bonds between those who might otherwise have little in common but who can come together around a shared ground in their love for our natural world.
As I stood there, feeling ridiculous while showering in my flooded drysuit to rinse out the saltwater, I realized that this was the start of something truly special. Despite the challenges—the flooding, the cold, the humbling reality of my own limited knowledge—I knew I had stepped into a new stage of my diving career. It was a chapter where I would have to work harder than ever before, but where the rewards would be as profound as the challenges. The discoveries we would make, the obstacles we would overcome, and the lessons we would learn would shape not just our expedition, but who we are as divers and as individuals. This was just the beginning.
To be continued …
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