SCUBA is an acronym as opposed to an intialism. You can pronounce it, and that, apparently, makes all the difference. The first time Gene passed his SCUBA class, the hardest part was when the instructor took him down to the bottom of the fourteen foot deep diving area and then he had to slowly let our air until he reaches the surface. Slowly let the air out. Much deeper and much faster and you get the bends. Gene’s not exactly sure what that is, but he doesn’t want it. The ascent at the bottom of the pool starts “normally” enough. With breathing apparatus, Gene is at the bottom of the pool—breathing, no less. Then the blue shadow of the instructor reaches out for the mouth piece. At this point, Gene takes a big deep breath off of the tank and hands it all over to the instructor. Looking up, Gene can see the fluorescent lights from the top of the University’s pool facility; shimmering. The very idea of taking a breath rests just above him. It’s clear in patches, a space between the water and the ceiling where there is nothing but air. He launches himself from the floor of the pool, beginning to count down from 10. With each number arises a desire to get the countdown over with and arise from the surface, but the instructor is counting too, and so this must be timed accurately. Slowly, he rises close to the air, holding what he has in his lungs until just the number two comes up and he knows he is one second away from gulping air. The sound of coming up has a reverb bounced from the rails and beams and wavy steel of the Natatorium. He takes a breath. Done. Ten seconds from 14 feet down. Now he can SCUBA.

Read the whole thread: A Field Guide to the Socially Inept