First comes disbelief: If we look long enough, surely we will see something. But there was nothing. After my partner and I surface following the second boat dive off Miami, we figure we have simply veered off-course. We stay calm, and I suggest we start swimming to shore. We exhaust ourselves after several minutes, finding a threadbare rope attached to a 6-inch Styrofoam sphere. It’s attached to a lobster pot and barely supports us.

Thirty minutes in, you rationalize. Surely there was an emergency. No boat captain would leave divers in the water. They must be coming back.

I recall my recent trip to Hawaii. On the dive boat, a crew member disclosed that they had recently left a guest, but I assumed a mistake had been made. I’ve been diving for 10 years; I know there’s a procedure for tracking who’s on board.

Today, it seemed procedure had been followed — the crew checked our names off a list after the first dive. They’ll notice any minute that they forgot us.

Now it’s been an hour, and the fear surfaces. The dive boat should have reached the dock and had time to come back. They’re not coming.

My buddy and I keep chatting to maintain composure as best we can. Every few minutes, one of us leaps from the water in surprise. We’re churning our legs to fight the current and keep accidentally kicking each other. We can’t help but think shark. I’m freaking out.

A motor whir catches our attention, but the boat has almost passed us. We wave our arms wildly in distress.

From the back deck, a little girl waves back. Oh no. I imagine her telling her parents that she saw some nice guys in the ocean. They won’t believe her.

She disappears. But just before the boat slips from view, she returns. This time an adult is at her side, and the boat circles toward us.

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